Hello again, my dears! Hope you're still enjoying this storyline—things are about to get interesting! By the way, the note about the doll's faces is a bit of Senecan (Native American tribe) culture. Artie's not NA, but I thought it was pretty interesting, so I incorporated it.

FYI: Peppermint is great for you. Awesome hiccup cure. As for what Mattie has exactly, well, maybe you'll be able to piece it together by the end of this chapter. And in the original version of Snow White, the princess gets raped by seven men and dies. O_O Really, really creepy and sad stuff! Some of the original fairy tales are seriously messed up!

The lovely and Prussia Hyperkaoru made a fanart for this story! *Squeals* Thank you so much, darling. Check out the link on my page if you have time!

Sorry for the rant-fest. Reviewers forever must face my huggles, so beware.

~*oOo*~


Much to Ivan's disappointment, it was a few days before Alfred came to see him again. He supposed he couldn't blame the boy—after all, he'd figured it was only a matter of time before Alfred dismissed Ivan as a lifeless bag of straw. But the idea of never seeing the boy again, of being thrown into a dusty storage room with several other cold, lifeless scarecrows cut into him like a rusty scapel. Not when he'd finally tasted company that actually acknowledged his existence or his consciousness.

He was therefore delighted when one sunny Sunday afternoon Alfred trudged through the fields towards him, smiling ruefully. Much to Ivan's surprise (and admitted displeasure), Arthur Kirkland was trailing after him in his dusty old cloak.

"Hi-hi," the blue-eyed boy chimed as he approached Ivan. Ivan stared down at him, mute as always. "Sorry I haven't been ta visit, Mistah Scarecrow. Mattie's…." He fidgeted and gulped, turning his shiny eyes to the ground. For an absolutely awful moment, Ivan wondered whether the boy was going to cry, but soon Alfred was looking back up at him with a small smile. "Mattie's been in bed for da last couple days, so I've been lookin' afta him. I got in trouble fer bringin' him out here though," he added, lifting his shirt and turning around. Ivan mentally cringed when he saw three fading but still prominent pink lashes on his back. "Papa gave me a hidin' cause I brought Mattie out here when I shouldn't have. Den he stopped coz Mama asked him to. Mattie's gonna be fine, though," he added quickly. "The doctah said that he'll be right as rain very soon."

I'm sorry. Why was Ivan apologizing? He had done nothing. Of course you didn't, you hapless idiot, he snarled to himself. You can't DO anything but look on when Alfred's brother can't breathe. Unnerving as Arthur Kirkland looked or however Ivan might dislike him, at least he could be of some help.

Arthur had been scrutinizing the scarecrow. Now, he scowled. "You should never put a face on a doll."

Face still frozen, Ivan nonetheless seethed and Alfred huffed comically. "Hey Mistah Scarecrow, this is Arthur," he said unnecessarily, clapping the grudging-looking boy on the shoulder. "He's a sourpuss but he means well I think even if he's a jerk sometimes. He knows where ta find peppahmint leaves which Mama makes inta tea for Mattie and makes him cough less." He turned to the woebegone child, hands on his hips. "And Mistah Scarecrow's not a doll."

Arthur looked slightly pacified, but only by a little bit. "Same difference. Where I come from, putting a face on anything that looks like a human is very unlucky. If you lived in my old village, your little sister would never be able to have a doll like hers."

"Wha? Why not?"

Arthur's brow wrinkled. "Because that's an old ritual. If you put a face on a humanlike figurine of any sort—even on a snowman—you are basically inviting a spirit to come live inside it. And if you ever dropped the figure or pulled on its hair, you would hurt the ghost too and it would be angry. And then, they would bring bad luck to you and your house. So the dolls and scarecrows back home never had any faces."

Alfred raised an eyebrow and uneasily took a step back behind Arthur. "Are ya saying there's a ghost inside Mistah Scarecrow?" he squeaked, and Ivan recoiled in his mind, white hot panic dancing inside like sparks. Oh, God, don't be scared of me.

Arthur shrugged, still staring intently at Ivan.

"I…don't know," he said uncertainly. "I was never sure if I believed in that or not, but this one…." He shook his head. "I feel something here, and it's…" The boy shook his head like a dog trying to rid itself of water. "Strange. And I don't think I like it."

Alfred blinked. "Ya feel somethin' too? Den I'm not alone!" he crowed, turning a shining face to Ivan. The scarecrow wondered how Alfred's hair seemed to match the waving seas of grain off in the distance. "Ya see, Mistah Scarecrow, someone else thinks you're in dere too! 'm not nuts!"

"I never said it was a good thing."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "But it is. He can listen ta me, and I'm happy 'round Mistah Scarecrow. When I first met him, it was like…." The boy threw his head back and thought carefully. "Uh….it was like bein' 'round someone I knew. It felt friendly and happy, like when Mama is cookin' or puttin' bandages on or singin' late at night when da fire's goin' and Papa's playin' fiddle."

The other boy looked at him for a moment. "My Papa used to play a wooden flute. It sounded nice. He carved one for me one Noel and told me he would teach me how to play, but he never did."

"Don't he play no more?"

"Doesn't he play anymore,'" Arthur corrected, getting down on his knees and drawing strange shapes in the dirt. "No."

Alfred squat down beside him. "How come?"

The other boy shrugged. Then, because Alfred showed signs of wanting to ask why, he said quickly:

"Do you want to try something neat?"

~*oOo*~

"Are ya SURE dis is gonna work?"

"Trust me."

Alfred and Arthur had run off to gather a bundle of strange items, and with a great deal of difficulty had pulled Ivan from his post. Now he was lying flat on his back against the ground, staring at a V of geese soaring overhead in the sky. Autumn's coming, he mused to himself as his gaze flickered back to the two boys kneeling next to him.

Stick in hand, Arthur was drawing what appeared to be a messy circle around Ivan. Every so often he would drop what appeared to be a toadstool or a herb of some kind at a certain point, though Ivan could only partially see what was going on. Alfred was at Ivan's feet, staring into his face hopefully.

"So, this will really make him come alive?"

Ivan's faint musings died immediately. Arthur approached the other boy, took a look at his tracing job, and nodded approvingly.

"I think so. The spell I know goes something like this: 'A bit of lavender, a sprig of Rue, a bolt from the heavens, from the stormy blue.' I think the last line means that we have to wait for lightning to strike the scarecrow."

Alfred scrunched up his nose. "Ouch. Won't that hurt him?"

"Maybe. I'm not really sure. I've never tried this before. A lot of the old magicians used to use a lot of lightning whenever they could get it."

Alfred looked at Ivan for a long time before he sank down to the ground again, hugging his knees. He glanced up at the sky again.

"Look like rain yet?"

"Not yet. Give it a few seconds."

They waited, staring up at the cloudless blue sky. Hope diluted, Ivan's thought pattern returned and he went back to gazing at Alfred, who was kicking his feet back and forth. "Ya know lots n lots about dis kinda stuff, dontcha? And ya talk all fancy. Like Basch did, before he went away." Alfred smiled sadly. Arthur glanced at him.

"Who's Basch?"

"My big brother. He were s'posed to be next village headman, but he said he didn't wanna spend his life here no more one day." Alfred reached out for Ivan's large hand and turned it over in his own. "He listened to da traders dat come ev'ry year 'bout life in da city, so he went off one year to be a soldier and nevah came back. He and Papa yelled at each other a lot 'fore he said goodbye, and so now I'm gonna be next village headman." He sighed. "Mama misses him a lot, but Basch doesn't like Papa, so he writes letters steada visitin'. Now he's a money lender in the big cities, near da capitol far far away. But now ya have ta tell me somethin' 'bout you, if dat's okay. Where's yer Mama?"

Arthur shrugged, looking for the first time a little uncomfortable.

"…I suppose. Mother was a healer and a schoolteacher back in our village. Father was a bard at the tavern. Mama…." His voice cracked and he looked away. Looking worried, Alfred made to get up.

"Artie?"

"Sod off, I'm fine!" The little boy snapped, turning around to give Alfred an angry look. Forgotten Ivan would have loved to kick him for that. "She died a few years ago giving birth to my little brother, who died too."

He took a good look at Alfred and started, anger giving way to astonishment. "You're not crying, are you?"

Alfred swallowed. "N-no! Heroes nevah cry! I'm real sorry though," he said miserably, burying his face in his tiny hands. Arthur continued to gawk at him as if he'd never seen anything quite like Alfred before. "Do you miss her much?"

"I don't remember much about her other than the fact that she taught me my letters and had soft hands," hr said quietly, almost to himself. "Papa just sort of…went away after Mama died. He didn't abandon me!" he added angrily. "No. He just drank a lot and his stories weren't so good and finally our village had enough and told Father to settle down and get a real trade or to get out. We've been traveling ever since. I do the cooking," he added proudly, pulling something out of a bundle of rags that sat next to Alfred's. He pulled out a tiny rock and presented it to Alfred, and it took Ivan a moment to realize that it wasn't a stone, but a biscuit. Alfred gulped.

"Um…is this…."

"Yes!" said Arthur merrily. "I made it this morning. Would you like to try it?"

"I…."

Alfred looked around him for a brief second, as if looking for someone to help. At last, he sighed and took a tiny nibble. Judging by the wince, it must have tasted nearly as badly as it looked, but Alfred kept chewing. It sounded like he had a mouthful of granite in his mouth.

"How is it?" Arthur asked anxiously. Alfred forced a smile.

"G-good! Really good!" Placing the half-eaten chunk of what once might have been food in his lap, Alfred reached for his own lunch and pulled out a biscuit that looked significantly tastier than Arthur's and placed it in Arthur's dirty hands. "Here. Mama made this. It's got jam on da inside."

The child stared at the food, gave it a suspicious sniff, and cautiously bit into it. A second later, the boy was wolfing it down with a gusto Ivan had normally only ever seen come from Alfred. His green eyes were glittering with tears.

Alfred awkwardly cleared his throat and looked away.

"Artie…"

Wiping his messy mouth, the green-eyed boy gave him a puzzled look, lifting a heavy eyebrow.

"My name's Arthur."

"But I wanna call you Artie."

"That's a stupid name. My name's Arthur."

"Matthew doesn't care if I call 'im Mattie."

The smallest hint of a smile. "….okay. You can call me Artie." He turned his gaze back to Ivan. "I don't know if it will rain anytime soon. Maybe we should just put him back up for right now. I don't really want to bring him to life anyway."

Alfred looked bitterly disappointed.

"Isn't dere any other way?" he asked, wringing his hands and reluctantly finishing off his badly burned food. "In Snow White, Mama said dat da Princess came back ta life when—"

"—that never really happened," said Arthur firmly. "My Papa likes to tell the original story, and that's when—"

Alfred squealed and planted his hands over his head. "Lalalalalalala, I can't hear ya, I can't hear ya, lalalala!" he sang. "Fine then, da princess that made a witch mad and took a nap fer a hundred years—she woke up!"

"Only after she was kissed by a Prince. And your scarecrow might be alive, but maybe he's not asleep. Or maybe he just doesn't want to move around us and doesn't like you because you disturb his peace."

Think again, bush-brows. Just when he'd been feeling sorry for the boy, too.

Alfred's little brow furrowed.

"No. I dun think dat's it at all. Uh, 'm not a prince, Mistah Scarecrow, but I'm a hero, so dat might do the trick." He bent down and kissed Ivan's sunbleached, straw forehead and pulled back, eager expression falling to disillusionment. "Aww. Didn't work."

Ivan just lay in the dirt, his still threadbare heart feeling dangerously close to soaring out of his body into the sky and over the great mountains that bordered the village in the distance, into the mist and lost forever.

But his attention was rudely re-accosted when Alfred squawked and yanked around, hands flying to his head. A small stone bounced to the ground, and the joy booming in Ivan's heart abruptly gave way for a still dread. Oh, no. Not them again.

But sure enough, atall, stocky boy with dark hair stepped out from behind the stalks, smirking considerably. "Well, now. You wooing scarecrows as well as talkin' to them now?"

Several other boys started sidling around them, looking smug. Many were giggling. Arthur uneasily inched over to Alfred's side, face stretched in a prominent frown. Alfred scowled at the boy who stood in front of them, his arms crossed.

"Isamel, I am not!" he protested. "We're tryin' to bring Mr. Scarecrow to life."

Arthur groaned and buried his faces in his hands as all at once the boys started roaring with laughter. "Wow. Yer a witch as well a crazy person as well as a headman's brat. And here I thought you were just serenading old Bushy Brows out here."

More laughter. Arthur's face burned and he looked down, his tiny fists shaking.

"I bet they're planning on gettin' married," one of them crowed. "Like the sinners you are. My Papa says dat talkin' to scarecrows is scary, unnatural stuff. He says dat if ya keep it up, people'll start thinkin' yer involved in witchcraft instead of just stupid."

"Aaah, I say he's just stupid, like his Pa," Ismael boasted. Face red, Alfred leapt forward with a shriek of rage, and Arthur seized him by the wrists, trying to hold the struggling boy back. Judging by the way the smaller boy's feet dragged in the dust, the effort was taking all he had. "Say that again, ya big ugly creep, I dare ya!"

Ivan felt his heart constrict with helplessness. Oh, God, why do people have to treat each other this way?

It…whatever it was…grew to an energy, the energy to a burn, and soon enough Ivan swore that the sun was glaring down into his straw chest where his heart nestled, becoming so warm it threatened to burn him away. He pleaded his usual wish for his limbs to move, but as always, nothing.

He was worse than nothing.

Some of the boys were giving the tanned boy a surprised look, but Ismael just shrugged. "What? It's true, ain't it? Pa says dat Matthew's gonna die any day now and it's all the fault of your big stupid Pa."

The burn was unbearable. How good would it be to shake him, shake him hard until Ismael was just a terrified, sorry mass of twigs? On Ivan's face there remained a blank look, but his mind danced with murderous intent like a flames in a bonfire.

"I'll kill ya!" Alfred screamed, so loudly that several birds in the field startled and took off. Arthur threw his arms around Alfred's waist and tried to hold him fast, but the boy just dragged his way over to Ismael, fist soaring towards the boy's big nose. Ismael lazily caught it and sent both Arthur and Alfred flying to the ground in a cloud of dust.

"Owww!"

"Ackk!"

Breathing heavily, Alfred staggered to his feet and made to strike out at Ismael again, but the boy sent him sprawling back with a well-aimed kick. Ivan smiled and imagined the rats and snakes farmers would sometimes discover in the fields and swiftly decapitate with their instruments. "Matthew was a tiny blue baby and if yer Pa had any decency in 'im, why, he would have taken 'im out back and shot 'im. Everyone says so, even if they don't say it 'round yer Pa. My Pa shoulda been headman."

Tiny chest heaving, Alfred flew at Ismael with a sea of fists, but again he was knocked down, this time hard. Arthur immediately grabbed his stunned-looking companion by the shoulders, face white as death.

"Alfred! Let's get out of—"

"At least my Papa don't look like you, like a horse kicked him in da face!" Alfred cried out, his dirty, tearstained face trembling with rage. All the pride drained out of Ismael's face, replaced by a very ugly look. He cracked one of his knuckles, and a few of the other boys hastily followed suit.

"Ya know, I think you have a few teeth you could do without," he growled. Alfred scoffed.

"Artie and I can take you guys!" he retorted angrily. Arthur just groaned, his expression not nearly so promising.

"You got you," Ismael drawled. "A skinny chicken in rags, and a scarecrow. Yeah. I'm real scared."

Arthur swallowed, looked around, and grabbed the stick he'd been playing with earlier. "Go away," he warned, extending the stick in Ismael's direction. "Or I'll complete my magic ritual and call my pets down on you."

"He's just makin' up trash," one of the boys barked. "I say we take out one of dose ugly green eyes and—"

"Oh, but you wouldn't want to do that," Arthur said lightly, as if he didn't have a care in the world. "You see, just now, I put a magic spell on Alfred, and if you touch him again, why, my familiar will come and you'll be cursed."

Still clutching at his injured side, Alfred sent a flabbergasted look in Arthur's direction. Ismael snickered, although he sounded a little less sure of himself.

"Witchcraft. Ain't no witches 'round here, round good and decent folk."

"Oh, really?" Arthur sang, chuckling to himself. "Do you think a decent witch is going to let herself be caught by a bunch of big, dumb, smelly farmers?"

Ismael growled and the ring of boys stepped closer, but out of nowhere a small black cat darted into the clearing, racing off into the threshes. Ivan saw the village cats here every now and again.

Arthur looked slightly taken aback, but he chuckled. "You see? A warning."

One of the fellows lost his head completely. "It's a sign!" he shrieked before running off. "Black cats are bad luck—everyone knows that!"

"Stoppit," growled one of the boys, sidling "Shut up right now, or we'll feed you to—"

"If you harm a hair on my or Alfred's head, a great, terrible thing will happen to you. You will never find a wife with a pretty face or a pure heart," Arthur sang, and Ivan wondered at how such a small boy could manage to smile in such a horrible and frightening manner. "Your toenails will all start to turn green," he hissed, with all the skill of a well-trained storyteller. "Greener than my eyes. Then, they'll ooze pus and start to turn black. Then, they will all fall off, one by one." He laughed. "And then, the curse really gets fun."

"W-why, what happens next?" asked one small boy. Ismael sent him a withering look. Arthur snickered.

"After that, your hair will turn white and you'll go bald. Then, the beasts will come to get you. They will claw themselves out of the last circle of hell and burst through the ground and come to drag you back with them. But some are like St. Nicholas, and come down your chimney, covered with ashes. Only they don't leave toys or sweetmeats. They leave your family members drowned in the cooking pot.

"They'll eat your old," he insisted. "Because they're bony and crunchy. They'll eat your young, because they're tender. Do you know how much a monster would love to eat one of you? Young, soft, sweet flesh—they would enjoy eating you the way you enjoy eating a young steer. And out of your skin, they'll cover their dark bibles…."

"Stop it!" cried a boy, "Shut da hell up, you freak!"

But Arthur was not done goading them. "They eat your eyes, and they eat your nose…"

Ismael looked about ready to be sick. He turned abruptly. "C'mon, fellows, let's go back. I ain't gonna stay here with some insane freaks and catch their sickness." Then, he ran like a deer back towards the huts, the boys flocking after him like a swarm of birds.

Arthur nodded importantly and turned to give his friend an encouraging smile, but much to his surprise found Alfred shaking with what looked like terror. "Alfred, I'm not really going to do those things," he tried to assure him. "I can't."

Crying out in panic, Alfred tore off and Arthur raced after him, wailing "Waaaiiiiitttt!" Ivan lay alone and forgotten on the ground, long until afternoon passed into evening, and spent the night staring at the stars.

~*oOo*~

He couldn't stop marveling over the miracle of it, wished so badly that he could touch his straw cheek where the precious thing still lay, almost tingling, like magic.

A kiss. For me.

As Ivan watched the farmers at work the next day, he kept marveling over the moment, turning it over and over again in his head. Although Ivan didn't have eyes he could open and close, had to see the world as it was every single second, he was only looking today, not truly seeing at all….

Over the years, he had seen many sorts of kisses, and now had a faint inkling that they were something good. Women kissed men as they handed them their lunches and told them not to work too hard. Beaming boys took blushing maidens into the fields during Harvest Moon to kiss. It was a tender caress, something that indicated 'I'm glad you're here,' or 'You are dear to me.'

You are dear to me.

Ivan wished he could cry. He couldn't quite understand it, but he'd heard children cry before and the sound seemed a perfect manifestation of what he felt: a horrible, piercing sadness. Except he was happy. He felt like crying, but with joy? The scarecrow was certain he had something wrong, mixed up in his concept of emotion. Humans did not cry when they were happy. Humans laughed. Alfred laughed. He cried when he was sad and Ivan never, ever wanted him to be sad, never wanted to see tears ooze down his face. He would wipe away every one.

If he could move, and if Alfred asked him for his heart or his scarf, Ivan would gladly hand them over, if only to have the boy smile at him, hold his hand and say, 'You're important to me.'

That must be what love was. Over the years, Ivan had wondered at the many songs people sang about it, how they gossiped and told stories about it, laughed and sighed and wept over it. Now he believed he could understand.

He felt like flying. I am dear to someone. Someone is glad I exist. Again, he wanted to cry. A sweet sadness stole over him, and again he felt like laughter-crying, though the pain was a little more prominent over the joy heralding itself in his fabricated heart.

Even if he could never know the joys of being with Alfred, walking and talking with him under the sun, he was important to someone. That ought to make him happy, right? Perhaps he ought to avoid attempting to move altogether now; so many attempts led to failure and downright misery. It was just a recurring lesson in futility.

He was not meant to move and likely never would, not under his own power.

I am worthless, Ivan thought wearily as Alfred waved goodbye for the day and headed back to his house with Arthur at his side. I can do nothing for the one that is important to me. But I can be happy, because someone is kind enough to love me.

~*oOo*~

Weeks went by. Alfred visited a little less during the mornings and evenings, more so during work. He seemed distracted and lacked his usual cheer. Ivan fretted about it at night, wondered why.

Then, one day, something seemed different in the fields.

The farmers were normally full of good cheer and bawdy jokes while they labored, but today everyone was rather quiet. Beyond the usual sounds of hoes scraping the earth or people tossing away weeds, no one said much of anything.

As the sun rose higher and higher into the sky, Ivan waited expectantly for Alfred to come bid him hello the way he did every day. But as the day grew longer, Ivan's hopes were being plagued with doubt and dread. He's….he's not ill, is he?

One of the farmers nearby stood up and wiped his shining brow.

"I can't believe this has happened," Toris said sadly, halfheartedly patting some fertilizer down against some wheat stalks with a shovel. "The poor headman. Katyusha must be hysterical."

His blond companion leaned on his hoe and shrugged helplessly. "Forget Katyusha, Alfred's the one who's probably making a scene. And the little girl's probably crying her eyes out."

What?

Ivan strained to listen from where he stood. The blond man was going on: "It isn't like we didn't know this would happen someday," he said airily. "Boy's just too small and sickly. They summoned a doctor and Father Xavier, but it looks pretty hopeless at this point. Matthew's got too much fluid in his lungs. Can't breathe."

Ivan's heart cracked with pain. Oh, no. He'd seen somber funeral processions pass through the fields before, sometimes with pitifully small coffins.

But he never thought that—someone he'd actually sort of met—A sickening depression. No wonder Alfred had been acting so down as of late, his shoulders sagged as if bearing the weight of the world and eyes meant to be bright were dull, his footstep labored.

Was Matthew at death's door? Oh, God.

Poor, poor Matthew.

The rest of the day, Ivan prayed, though he did not know to whom.

~*oOo*~

Later that night, everyone began to head home. Much to Ivan's relief, the iron bell wasn't ringing yet, so Matthew was still alive….

….for now.

He inwardly sighed. Oh, to be able to go and see them both….He could only sit in the distance and pray that the bell did not toll, marking a death….

"Alfred!" Someone called in the distance. "ALFRED!"

Feeling as though someone had just dumped an ice bucket of water over him, the scarecrow looked out of the corner of his button eyes to see a number of torches starting to glow like tiny matchsticks in the distance. Panic struck him. Surely Matthew wasn't already…..

"Alfred!" cried out a distressed-sounding woman. It was Katyusha! "ALFRED!"

"Alfred!"

"Alfred!"

"Alfred, where are you?!"

Out of habit, Ivan strained with all his mental might to turn his head, though of course he remained plastered against his pole.

He heard some more shouting, and a small band of people rushed to the fields, scattering and calling out Alfred's name. Arthur Kirkland was among them, his skin as pale as a fish's belly in the firelight, his green eyes ripe with fear.

Ivan longed to scream, to shake at them and roar and demand answers. What the hell was going on?

"Any luck?" asked an anxious-looking woman with a flower in her light brown hair and green eyes to a dark-haired young man. The man sighed.

"No. You don't think he would have been so foolish as to go to the mountains, do you?" He shivered, and the woman with a flower in her hair stepped closer to him, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. "It's so cold already this time of year…he'll catch his death!"

"If the wolves don't catch him first," the man said dully. "When Berwald and Tino went trapping the other day, they said they saw plenty of tracks. Lousy beasts are probably feeding up as much as they can before winter comes…they see a snack like Alfred stumbling around in the dark like a moron, and they'll swallow him up like a drop of honey."

A wolf let out a moaning howl somewhere in the distance. Normally, Ivan liked to listen to the wolves howling, seemed as if they were making music, but this sound belted in him all the despair and dismay the iron bell would have.

No.

His heart slipped out of his chest.

NO!

"Don't say such horrible things!" The woman cried as a man caught up to them, shaking his head, dragging something along behind him. It took the stupefied Ivan several seconds to realize that it was a struggling Arthur Kirkland, whom he was dragging along by the hair.

"It's true though, isn't it! Stupid son of a bitch is gonna die out there looking for some stupid fake cure-all, and his brother's on his way out! That means there isn't gonna be any new headman, less you think it's gonna be Lilli…" He shook Arthur, who winced and pulled at the man's large hand. "And it's all your fault, you little rat!"

"Please," Arthur cried out, cowering. "Please, I only wanted to help, I never thought…"

"No, you didn't think, did you?" one of the villagers hissed, gathering back to regroup. "If he's not here babbling lunatic nonsense to that stupid scarecrow, he's taken your tale for truth and gone off into the mountains."

"That's not true," one of the younger men spoke up, frowning. "I think that jijiya stuff's real. My granddad had some of it once when he had consumption. Saved the old bastard's life; he swore by it."

The man holding Arthur by the hair swore and sent him flying with a kick. "Ain't gonna be any of that stuff left—if it's real, den the merchants probably swooped down and stole all they could like the swindling beasts they are. Or it's impossible to get, considering it's supposed to grow on the unsurpassable mountain pass, where if ya make so much as a peep an avalanche of rocks will mark yer grave." He shook his head. "With a chatterbox like that stupid kid, we got two bodies to bury in the next few hours."

~*oOo*~

The men left, and a small team of horses thundered off into the darkness. Ivan cursed, his mind throbbing chaos.

How very like him, how very like Alfred, to chase after a herb which may or not exist in an attempt to save his brother. Ivan's heart froze over on the ground. How very like the little hero, out there alone in the wilderness, in the darkness, surrounded by beasts with red, mad eyes and gleaming teeth…

The idea of the men bringing Alfred back pale and lifeless made him sick with horror, made him want to tear at himself until only scraps remained. Ivan wanted to hurt; he wanted comfort, he wanted to hurt someone, he wanted to run, run, run, run, crash through the forests for as many hours or nights as it took.

Oh, sweet one…

Alfred was going to die out there.

I have to move. Now.

But nothing. He'd seen the way people shuddered, how their breath had made puffs in the air. The season of the white death was coming very soon, and Alfred wasn't found immediately

I have to move!

The cry, cracked with pain filled his senses until it surmounted everything, every fiber of himself:

I HAVE TO MOVE!

Please! I'll do anything—what do you want from me? Why do you give me awareness if you're only going to seal me inside of this hell?

And then, an anguished wailing.

ALFRED!

And then, the wind abruptly died down before picking up, whistling shrilly.

The cornstalks shivered all around Ivan, and all of a sudden, the healthy green leaves started to change shade, fading to a lighter, dustier green before withering away to a sickish hue before becoming brown, black—gone away. The corn dropped out of their protective cases and started to rot away, bright yellow kernels becoming the color of dust.

Condensation appeared on the falling stalks, slowly crystallizing into frost, which eagerly shot upward and started encasing the dying leaves. Astonished, Ivan watched what normally took weeks to start happen within mere seconds.

Thick white flakes started tumbling from the sky, and as the biting winds picked up, his scarf started flying wildly behind him. Vision blurred, bewildered and lost and frightened, the scarecrow could only sit as winter overtook the world and ask—

What is all of this?

To his shock, a deep, husky, yet perfectly elegant and rich voice answered his own thoughts:

"I can help you."

~*oOo*~


Noooo, Ivan, don't do it! D: Well, nothing ventured nothing gained, but still!