A/N Here I am again ,my adoring fans….just thought I'd type that in to see how it sounds and looks. I hope that I don't sound pretentious! Slap me upside the head if you think that I am.

Disclaimer: Yaddah, yaddah, you've heard it all before, see Chapter 1

Many thanks to: Kali47, Brenny, gretchless, namedone, Spritz494, heather03nmg, dean'sdreamingangel, Tarplion and to others that I'm sure are reading and chose not to review. You are thanked as well.

High five to my beta xoleanderx for trying to keep me on the on the straight and narrow.

Chapter 4

Couldn't Be Much More from the Heart

It was well past sunset now.

The moon was high in the cold night sky; its silver orb shimmering, occasionally being covered by an errant cloud breaking the slivers of light and plunging the earth into darkness. The stars shone brightly like diamonds on black velvet and everything was still.

Except for the occupant in the cabin.

The interior lights were blazing and a strong plume of smoke was issuing from the chimney. The occasional sound was heard of something large being moved, a thumping and then a muttered curse. He'd been busy since sunset, his concentration only broken by his bodily functions of hunger and relief. Once that was seen to, he applied himself once again to the task at hand.

The lounge room floor had been cleared. All the furniture had been pushed against the walls. On the bare wooden floor was a huge pentagram encased in a double ring. Symbols and words from many ancient languages had been written between the rings and within the four points. It was partnered by another copy on the ceiling, both points of which were directly aligned with the solid river rock flagstones of the fireplace. The space in the middle was left vacant and clear. It was large enough to contain a human body comfortably within its confines.

Sam had drawn the pentagram earlier that evening and it now shimmered in the light cast by the fire. Glowing. Incandescent. Small particles within its configuration came to life, then died as the light they reflected from the burning logs waxed and waned. The pentagram was taking on a life of its own, mirroring the ever changing hues of gold and red. It had been drawn with a mixture of iron filings, human saliva and cremation ashes. The iron filings were the reason why it shimmered, the mix of human ashes and Sam's saliva binding it all together and giving it an eerie sheen.

Partially naked and wearing only his boxers; Sam entered the room. In his hand he held an old oak bowl, the steaming contents of which he was stirring with a holly stick. His eyes now centred on his creation in front of the fireplace. Having turned off all the lights, his body now glowed eerily with the fire's reflective light and the soft flames of the candles at strategic points in the room, caressing his nakedness. Coming closer to the pentagram, he stopped a few metres short, then kneeled Indian-like in front, still mixing the contents of the bowl. The stench of the brew was overpowering, making his eyes water. Focusing his thoughts, he tried not to gag whenever he breathed.

Inhaling long and deep, he composed himself and let his breath out slowly. In through the nose and out through the mouth, in and out, in and out, marking time with the rhythmic beating of his heart and clearing his mind of random thoughts.

With the holly stick in his right hand and the bowl in his left, he drew a circle around himself. Satisfied that it was complete, he began to draw on his naked body. Symbols, runes and markings from civilisations and of languages that were long since dead, forgotten by all but those seeking answers, but combined together in one place they would make a powerful incantation.

Nearing the end of his inscriptions, he began to murmur. Murmurings that were faint at first, under his breath, between breaths, then increasing in volume. To the uninitiated they would sound like the guttural noises of wild animals. To him it was a song of life, of love, of reunion. An alchemy of words and intonations that he had accessed and stolen from all manner of sources. Used them and usurped them to meet his ends - to make this happen.

He continued on in this vein for hours, continually stirring his infusion and re-marking his body. The fire began to die down; the large blocks of wood that he had piled on earlier that evening were now beginning to smoulder. Their embers were barely giving off enough light for him to see in the darkened room. A few of the candles had fluttered out, the remainder were even now faltering as their wick burnt what little wax remained. His voice was becoming hoarse. The floor beneath his boxers was ice cold. The markings on his body were now dry, stinking and starting to come away. He was numb. He was tired. He was cold. And he was losing concentration.

The clatter of the stirrer on the floor as it dropped from his cold fingers startled him into wakefulness. With his blood pounding in his ears, he turned his gaze to the room around him, anxiously looking for any sign of movement, then coming to rest on the pentagram.

It was empty. The dying embers of the fire showed him that.

He had failed.

All his hard work. His research, his rehabilitation, all the money and time that he had spent to get to here. To this point. And he had failed. He had failed his brother.

It was five years. Exactly five years to this day that he had been taken from him. Torn from his arms to a place that Sam promised not to follow.

This was the only chance that he would ever get to bring him back.

And he had failed him.

Failed a brother that he had always looked up to, had secretly wanted to be like, had worshipped the ground that he walked upon. Idolised him. A brother who had always been there for him. Had never let him down. His best friend, his confidant, whom he loved with all his heart. And now he would never, ever get to see him again. Except in his memories.

Sam's head dropped in abject defeat. He was demoralised. The fight had gone out of him.

The bowl hit the empty space between his legs, its contents partially spilling around him. His hands came up to cradle a weary head, a heavy soul, a broken heart.

Sam hung his head and silently cried, each tear splashing into the bowl between his legs. He cried tears of rage, frustration, failure, sorrow and then remembrances of love. These tears were the most painful. Wracking his body with their intensity, their raw unbridled power; his already overstressed body cowering under their force, shivering him into numbness. The only solace that he had now.

There was nothing left for him to do now but leave the scene of his defeat and surrender himself to an oblivion that he knew was waiting for him. For he knew now that he could not live this way anymore.

Not bothering to wipe the tears off his face, he reached down to move the bowl. One last tear escaped to murder itself on the wooden floor, bulls-eyeing an ancient symbol for life.

The room was suddenly pitched into blackness. Cursing, Sam slowly rose, his back and legs protesting at their sudden use, and fumbled his way, arms outstretched like a blind man, searching for the fireplace mantel that he knew held some matches. In his blindness, he stumbled over something soft that gave way under his forward momentum. Hitting the mantel, he groped for the matches, quickly lit one and turned to investigate what he had tripped over.

There in the centre of the pentagram was a figure.

A human shape.

Naked, filthy and bleeding, a long haired, bearded figure who stared at him with hazel eyes.

TBC