Newest chappy is here! Thank you to all reviewers. hope you enjoy!


A fire burned in the small, well-crafted hearth, casting an eery glow over the large bedroom, the shadows flickering across the unmade bed. The room was quiet except for the crackling of burning wood and the occasional tinkling of ice on glass as the chamber's sole occupant sipped his scotch lightly, trying to soothe his tight wrought nerves.

The boy was young, only recently seventeen, though he was already considered a man. He sat, slouched slightly, on the small, plush couch by the fire place. It was not uncommon to find him in this same position, in the early hours of the morning when not even the servants were up yet, trying to warm his chilled soul. The days were getting warmer as August came to an end, but the nights were still somewhat chilly. In just a few hours, the fire would become intolerable. But he did not mind; it was the cold that bothered him.

Ethan Roberts sighed heavily, settling deeper into the soft cushions. He leaned his head back, closing his deep blue eyes, only to open them again when images flashed, unbidden, beneath his heavy lids.

It was the same dream. He dreamed the same dream every night, over and over again. One would think he would be used to it by now. That the years of repetition would desensitize him to the horror that he witnessed in these late night hours. But he still felt the same dizzying fear, the same prickling chill that rattled his spine with every recurring nightmare. After all, how could one possibly get used to witnessing his own sister's murder?

Marduke, he thought. It was an odd name, for sure. One to match its owner; sinister and foreboding. He dared not think it again, as if prevented by some unspoken taboo. Though he hated to admit it, the name alone sent stirrings of fear through his tired body. It was hard to believe that the hideous monster had a name. Such creatures were much better referred to as it. Vague and undefined; the less you know the better.

Ethan sighed again and got up, using his free hand to rub the remaining sleep from his eyes. He placed the glass, still half full, back on the small table by the pitcher. He stretched out, his cramped back emitting a loud crack.

He walked out into the small hallway, not bothering to turn on the lights. It would not matter; the house would remain as morbid as the shadowy corners of the neighborhood haunt even if the sun decided to take up residence in one of it's unused rooms.

Ethan felt along the wall until he came to the door just across from his; the bathroom. He entered, locking the door behind him, though the action was pointless; it would be hours still before anyone would even consider waking and he would be long finished by then.

He turned the faucet on the large bathtub, adjusting the temperature to just the way he liked it; scorching hot. The sound of cascading water filled the overly large washroom, breaking the deafening silence.

Ethan stripped of his night clothes, relieved at the removal of the sticky, sweaty material. Reaching out blindly, he grabbed a soap bar from one of the many his mother kept on the wide marble counter, not caring for what particular scent he would smell of today. He walked back to the large tub and turned the water off, his eyes beginning to adjust to the dark.

He climbed into the steaming water, wincing slightly as it burned his skin. But it served it's purpose; as soon as the initial sting wore off, his muscles began to unwind, his body relaxing. It woke him up some, but in the dark of the misty room, it was easy to pretend he was still asleep. Lord knows he was more relaxed now than his dreams would ever allow him to be. It was times like these that he truly appreciated being able to afford keeping the heaters on all night.

He scrubbed himself down thoroughly, the citrus-y sweet scent of lemons replacing his manly stench. At least it wasn't anything too feminine, like vanilla or roses. Ethan had had his manhood questioned for smelling like a dandy all too many times.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back and evened out his breathing. He stayed that way for a long time, simply existing. It was in this time that he got more rest than he did in his sleep.

Ethan quited the bath when the water began to cool and his skin pruned. He dried himself with a towel before donning the fresh clothes he always had ready in a cabinet. Some plain brown leggings and a white puffy shirt.

He walked quietly back to his room, his light footsteps making no noise at all on the Persian silk carpets.

The sun had begun to creep through the thin white drapes, giving a dull gray light to the room, no longer illuminated by the dying fire. The chill had resettled itself in the absence of warmth, prickling at Ethan's heated skin.

The room was neat - other than the tumbled sheets of the bed - and clean; everything recently dusted and polished and put away in its proper place - something Ethan's skill helped quiet a lot with. His orderly ways was something he picked up from his otherworldly mentor. And after practically living with the tidy ancient for twelve years, Ethan found the chaotic mess of his teenage peers somewhat disorienting, especially with his profound connection to inanimate objects.

He found his boots tucked away in the corner where he last put them. He laced them on and made his bed. Usually, it was a task reserved for the maids, but his room was the only one they were forbidden to enter - except for the monthly cleaning his mother insisted on - and he could not stand the sight long enough for them to wake up and get around to it. It gave him something to do while the dawn arrived in all its golden glory.

This was the usual ritual, the same boring cycle he went through every single day. His father would be up by now, and off to work within the hour - probably not to return home until late. Ethan would check in on his mother before leaving the house. On a good day, she would still be fast asleep, though restless - can no one get enough sleep in this house? - and he could leave her to her dreams, knowing someone would be there to care for her when she does wake up. And on the bad days she would be up, too disturbed to sleep, tears streaking down her pale, chalky cheeks - his father already gone to work earlier than usual. Ethan would make her tea and sit with her until she is strong enough to move about.

Today was a good day. It seemed to brighten his mood, but only fractionally. He knew better than to harbour false hopes.

Ethan closed the door to her bedroom quietly behind him, making his way through the parlour to the kitchen. It was a rather big surprise when he found his father still there, sipping his coffee absently. Even more surprising was the fact that he was still in his night clothes, a robe tied loosely around him.

There was a moment of shocked silence, where Shaun continued to sip idly, staring unseeingly at the table in front of him.

"Good morning," Ethan said finally, dragging his jaw off the floor enough to remember his manners.

Shaun looked up from the table, nodding minutely at his son before returning to his musings. There was no greeting, no recognition. Nothing.

Anger rose in Ethan at his father's stoic indifference, rearing it's massive head and lashing out. "Why aren't you at work?" He spat.

"Your mother requested I escort her to some art gala she wished to see," Shaun replied coolly, his posture relaxed; the epitome of calm. Evidently, Ethan's anger was wasted on him. "And since it is Saturday, I decided to oblige."

Of course, Ethan thought. It was not uncommon for Shaun Roberts to be at work on Saturday, even though he was the owner of the small, yet incredibly lucrative, leather company that was his employment. And though his position secured less work and more pay, Shaun worked twice as hard as his own employees, taking on order after order - anything to keep himself busy and away from the house, from his family.

In fact, if Ethan remembers correctly, this was the first Saturday he has taken off in months, the last one being on the Easter ball they'd been invited to. Never has he taken time off for his family. Work came first to him. And now they have more money than they know how to spend.

"You're going to have to take the car today. We need the horses." Shaun continues, his tone impassive.

"All of them?" Ethan asked incredulously. He preferred carriages, or even horse back, to cars. They were obnoxiously loud and hard to maneuver, not to mention they started vibrating uncontrollably if they idle for even a minute.

To his knowledge, they had five good, strong, well-bred horses - including his very own mare, Julia, which he adored - all very well taken care of in their own private stables, located on this very estate. It took two horses at most to drive a carriage. Unless, of course, they decided to arrive separately - Ethan wouldn't put it past them - and even then there would be one spare.

"It's their six month check up. Caleb will be arriving around noon, and I doubt you will be back by then."

Ahh.

"Did she sleep well?" They both knew who he was talking about.

"It doesn't matter, does it? There doesn't need to be a reason to set her off nowadays."

Ethan's anger rose once more at his father's nonchalant tone. How could he watch his own wife, whom he claims to love, suffer so miserably and not care?

He doesn't love her, Ethan thought bitterly, He feels nothing at all. Bloody zombie is what he is.

Ethan stalked out of the room without another word, grabbing an apple before exiting through the kitchen door into the garden.

He ignored the car parked in the large drive, preferring to walk, and took a bite out of his apple.

He knew how unstable his mother's condition was. She could seem fine one day, acting as a mother should, worrying and fussing over Ethan's creased shirt, and the next she would be cold and distant, her beautiful hazel gray eyes dull and withdrawn, barely noticing Ethan at all. There were times when she would happily complement her friends about how wonderful their daughters are, and others where the slightest thing could set her off into streams of tears.

Ethan had long ago given up hope that she would ever heal, that his father would ever come home in time to have dinner with them. They would never be the family they used to be twelve years ago, the family they were supposed to be. Like they were before she died.

Beautiful little Sera. Ten years old and already the little beauty, and will forever remain thus.

Despite the effect his sister's death had had on him, despite the pain and loss Ethan's heart would forever harbour for his deceased sister, he could not help the feeling of resentment and envy that rose in him.

His parents had deteriorated rapidly after Sera's rare disease took her life, and it was like they had no son. Too wrapped up in their own grief, they barely noticed their distressed four year old. He couldn't understand his parents rejection, why they neglected him so, sending him to therapist after therapist after he told them about his dreams. They didn't want to listen to him and his fables. Seeking attention, they said. He learned to hold his tongue after that.

It was as if they had all died with her. She was their favorite; their pride and joy. He would never be enough for them, never be worth moving on to because he wasn't her. And he hated her for it. Wasn't it enough that she haunted his dreams?

Sometimes, he couldn't help but think that they wished hehad died instead. He'd made the mistake of thinking it around Arkarian once - and earned a hard smack on the back of his small head.

If I evercatch you thinking like that again, I don't care if you're seven feet tall, I will beat the thought right out of your head, He'd said, his violet eyes hard and angry, betraying no hint of deception - there was no doubt he would do it. He was five years old at the time.

It was later on, when he was older and understood the concept of life and death better that the guilt came. How could he blame her, his beloved sister, for the things that were happening to him? It was certainly not her fault she died, and killed them all with her. She'd had her life, her future, all of it taken away, and he had the audacity to resent her for it?

But he did not wallow in self pity - or self hatred. No - he would not become his father. He gave himself a cause - the cause of the Guard - and threw his life and soul into it. And his days have been brighter ever since. The Guard - a secret organisation hell bent on protecting the past from any and all enemies, namely the Order of Chaos - was his sanctuary. More of a home to him than his own house has been in years.

It was ironic in a way. The future looked bleak to him, and the present was downright morbid - the past was all he had; all he will ever have. Protecting it was the only thing keeping him sane.

It was thus that he made his way through the near empty streets, through the low buzz of the market where shops were just beginning to open, out into an open trail, deeper into the woods and up the mountain. It was path he had walked almost everyday for the last twelve years, leading him deep into the thick underbrush before opening out to a small clearing as the mountain became too steep for growth.

The mountain face disappeared, creating an opening in the shape of a door. A hallway is revealed, lit by evenly spaced candles placed in such a way to give an air of mystery. There are secrets hidden behind these walls; you can feel it. They invite you in; they want to be discovered.

But you resist. You must. You can easily get lost in searching. There are too many; too many hallways, too many doors that must forever remain closed. Here, in these cavernous chambers, curiosity will kill you.

Ethan walks through the opening, the candle flames flickering with the light breeze comming through the doorway. He seems perfectly at ease in the small space; the echoing of his footsteps does not bother him. He takes a straight path through the maountain, ignoring the passing doors and branching hallways. He remembers his trainers warning the first time he was brought here.

Do not stray, Ethan, for as long as you stay on the path I have shown you, you will be perfectly safe. The second your toe breaches a threshold you were not meant to cross, your life is forfeit.

Ethan heeded his master's words, deciding it was not worth the risk. He stayed on the path he was shown and using only the few rooms he was allowed to train in. Though he still felt the burning need to know what lies beyond, he was accustomed to ignoring it.

"In here, Ethan," Arkarian's voice rings out from a room to Ethan's left.

The room is large and perfectly circular. The walls are lined with paintings, the multitude of swirling colors somewhat dizzying. They are everywhere; hanging from the walls, leaning against it, laying flat against the ground. The pictures vary from landscape to abstract and even a portrait of Ethan's six year old self. There are faces he does not recognise, done in such detail and skill that he half expects one of them walk right out and start a conversation with them.

His eyes skim across the room, taking in the various art works before finally resting on Arkarian. He was standing on a thin plastic sheet - probably set there to protect the floor - his electric blue hair tied neatly at the base of his head, enhancing the color of his vivid violet eyes, a small smile on his youthful lips. Two of his ancient stools sat next to him and in front of that was an easel supporting an empty canvas. One of the stools held a paint pad and bucket with various brushes of different sizes, filled half way with water.

Ethan raised an eyebrow questioningly at the scene before him. But his thoughts were answered before he could voice them.

"I thought I'd teach you to draw," came the simple reply.

Ethan walked forward, the plastic crackling beneath his feet, his expression incredulous. "How is that supposed to help me during a mission?"

"You would be surprised."

Ethan scoffed. "You realize I don't even have to lift a finger? I don't need to know how to draw Arkarian, I know everything I need to know to survive. I thought you had a mission for me or something along those lines."

Arkarian's expression turns serious. "What you know is a grain of sand in a mighty see, Ethan. There is always something to learn. How do you expect to earn your wings if you think otherwise?" His voice rings with knowledge, "When you can control the brush with your hand as you can with your mind, only then can you say you have mastered it."

"But that's impossible!" Ethan protests.

Arkarian's eyes glint with humour, the edges of his lips turning up in a knowing smirk. "Exactly."

"Now, think of what you want to draw," Arkarian continues, ignoring Ethan's huff of indignation, "I don't care what it is; it can be a garden scene or a portrait of your toes, it's all the same. I want you to hold the image in your head, and then let your hand recreate it. I want to feel what you feel when I look at it. I expect perfection and I will accept nothing less. You may begin."

Ethan grudgingly sits down, realizing it would be pointless to argue. "And I used to wonder why you don't have a wife," he mumbles, agitated.

Arkarian's face remains a stoic mask of seriousness, seeing no humour in the jumbled words. Ethan sighs heavily and strives to think of what to draw.

What is worth preserving? He questioned.


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