Disclaimer: I do not own anything Nickelodeon owns.

Claimer: This story is mine, though. I'm the one thinking it up and writing it down.

Chapter Six
Mom

2013.12—Maddie Fenton

Cujo, like any other dog, has found an interest in shoes. Unlike any other dog, he doesn't leave saliva traces on them—it's ectoplasm.

Annoying as that may be, Danny prefers his own shoes dripping green, rather than his parents', because that'd be really inconvenient right now. He and Jazz just explained everything else that had gone unexplained to his parents. Well, almost everything. The focus of today's conversation was just the stuff going on recently. When he mentioned the week's attacks, though, he strayed far from the topic of Vlad.

That can wait. It's not like he's not going to tell them… he's just waiting for the right time. Bad enough your son is a liar—now your best friend is a fruitloop? No, thank-you.

They handle things better this time around, a little more responsive and a little less scrutinizing. At least Dad does; he even asks some questions, however half-hearted they sound: "Who is this Clockwork, anyway?" "Are these Historian people going to follow me around?"

He tires of the questions quickly, though, so he reminds Danny that, if he needs it, his dad is always willing to help, to talk. Then there's a pause and eventually Dad says, tired: "I think I'll just go digest this one—and my breakfast; thanks, Maddie—in the lab."

Danny figures he's about to go pull another ecto-gun apart, and he's tempted to stop him, but then what would he say? He doesn't really want a repeat of last night's conversation, but he doesn't want his dad to bottle things up and hide them from him either.

Then he realizes how stupid that sounds, because he did that same thing for three years and now his parents get to cope with that knowledge. So he just watches Dad descend the stairs to the basement and turns to face his mom and Jazz.

Mom is staring down at her coffee cup, and the sight is familiar—she was seated in the exact same position when he got in from the Ghost Zone the other night. Just like that, with a coffee cup in her hands, untouched and no longer steaming.

His mom never uses the machine to make coffee—years of strange experiences have taught her to avoid most appliances. But… his eyes quickly flicker green, and he studies the trashcan's contents. Packets of coffee mix.

Jazz asks him a silent question with her eyes, and he nods, so she leaves her plate in the sink, picks Cujo up, and heads up to her room. Now it's just the two of them, but Mom is still staring down at her coffee cup.

"Mom?"

She looks startled. "Sorry, sweetie." She looks around, notices everyone has left. Notices his empty plate and her full cup. He wonders: has she been listening at all? "Are you still hungry?"

He shakes his head, leaves his plate in the sink. He takes Dad's chair, right next to her, pays close attention to see if she flinches. She doesn't. "I just wanted to know if you're alright."

"I'm fine, just a little…" she trails off. "Are we being watched right now? By these history ghosts you talked about?"

So she did pay attention. "No, they haven't returned from the Ghost Zone, which is kind of weird, but just fine by me." He figured that the ghosts of history should be all about punctuality but… apparently not.

"Ah," Mom says. "Alright then." She takes a sip from her coffee and says nothing else.

He tries again: "Mom, you okay?"

She looks at him, thoughtful, as if he's asking for the meaning of life. Or maybe she's not thinking at all, though that's kind of hard to believe because—well, it's his mom. Finally: "Are you?"

He furrows his brow. "Sorry?"

"Are you okay?" Mom asks. "Honey, you have bags under your eyes. You're on vacation! Why don't you go get some sleep?" She probably doesn't notice, but she mumbles sleep under hear breath once before taking another sip from her coffee.

"I'm fine, Mom," he says, even though her words bothered him. Sleep. She knows about the sleep thing now, and they're both thinking about it. He doesn't want to think about it. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

Maybe it's the way he says it, a little worried, a tad hesitant, something in his voice that alerts a maternal instinct—there's something, at any rate, that makes Mom look up from her coffee with a tired smile. "Oh, sweetie. I'm perfectly alright." Her chair scrapes against the ground as she stands up, arms outstretched. "Come here."

He does. He lets his Mom hug him, tries to convince himself that the stinging sensation is just something stuck in his eye while she says: "I'm just worried about you. It bothers me that I wasn't there to help, honey. But now I'm here and I want you to know that I'm here for you. It's just… I have lots of things to make peace with, plenty to think about."

She pauses but hasn't let go of him. He says: "You can ask me stuff, you know? Or Jazz—she has notes."

Mom chuckles. "Yes, that she does. Don't worry about me, alright? You have plenty to deal with already. Take care of yourself, make smart decisions, listen to your sister and your friends. And your heart."

He snorts. "You're so cheesy, Mom." It sounds a little weak because there's a knot in his throat.

Mom notices. She pulls away, strokes his cheek while studying his face. "You're so grown up," she says. "Even though you shouldn't have to be. I'm very proud of you, Danny, please don't misunderstand me. I'm just… worried, as any mother would be in a situation like this."

He nods, swallows thickly. "I'll be alright."

"Then so will I."

His conversation with Mom ended with a portal sprouting in the middle of the kitchen. History and Anne walked out and, after a few quick and awkward introductions, Mom decided to go join Dad in the basement.

Now it's just them. "We are sorry for the delay," History says. "We were in a meeting."

"Clockwork is such a meanie," Anne says. "He won't let us watch you through a portal, even though you're so boring when we're around!"

Watch him through a… "What?"

"He usually allows us to, you see," History says. "Recording history tends to be difficult—so many things happening at once. We thought, seeing as you are just one person, we could follow you around and be done with it."

"But that didn't work," Anne grumbles.

He resents that. He couldn't exactly concentrate on doing much of anything with those two breathing down his back. He spent the entirety of yesterday afternoon alternating between talking with them (getting ghost history lessons from those two is fairly interesting) and stressing quietly, inside his own head, while flying around Amity. The only highlight was a brief conversation with Jazz, when they agreed that Mom and Dad had the right to know everything else that's going on.

Anne probably didn't find that conversation interesting enough to make history.

"We asked for a portal," History explains, "but Clockwork said you would not appreciate it. That conversation detained us, sorry."

Relieved, he makes a mental note to thank Clockwork later. "We'll figure something out," he says, though what he really wants is for them to back off. "I would appreciate it if you could just… keep a distance."

History nods. "We'll do our best to keep from intruding. Like we said yesterday, you won't even know we're here!"

"Please pretend you don't know we're here." Anne pauses. Her voice changes to that older one: "Well, on other days. Today you can pay us all the attention you want, cutie, 'cause we're going on a field trip!"

It bothers him a lot to hear a little girl sound like that, and Anne notices. She laughs, back to her childish tone, and he takes that moment to process what she said. "Field trip?"

"Clockwork gave us a task for this morning, it'll only take an hour. We're just going to show you the location for tonight."

Tonight. Oh shit.

He nods. Impulsively, he asks: "Is it alright if my friends tag along?"

History doesn't look particularly fazed by the question and says it's alright. So he calls Sam and Tucker, explains what's going on, and twenty minutes later they're done with the awkward introductions and waving goodbye to his parents while they start up the engine on the Specter Speeder.

He can't believe his parents let them use the Specter Speeder.

When they enter the Ghost Zone, he realizes that it has been a long time since he last properly roamed around here. It's stupid (he'll be seeing it for twelve hours, every day, for the rest of his life) but it's a perspective thing, and suddenly he really wants to get a good look. He's looking at it through the eyes of an outsider for the last time, like a tourist. No deep personal interest or connection to the place, just curiosity.

So he looks. And everyone he passes looks back, mirroring his curiosity for an entirely different reason.

Though usually deserted, this area of the Ghost Zone is now packed with ghosts. When the Speeder passes by, History and Anne flanking it at either side, ghosts stop and stare, they whisper, they take a step back. They point at him a lot.

"You'd think someone here wouldn't have read the paper," he mutters, sinking in his seat. "Only Dad ever reads it back at home, and he only reads the comics!"

Sam snorts. "Danny, how often do you think they get to read the paper here, though? Do they even have one?"

"You could start one," Tucker suggests. "It'd add some level of organization to the place." He gestures to the mess of doors and chunks of land floating around. "It's clearly needed."

Danny ponders that. He can barely keep his closet neat (his room, never)—how is he supposed to organize this place? "You think that sort of thing is possible? This place is a mess."

"We've seen weirder stuff," Sam says, Tucker nodding in agreement. "And, anyway, what do ghosts even do around here? The Ghost Zone doesn't really work like our world—ghosts don't have jobs or any other defining role in society. Everybody sort of does their own thing. Do you think that's a cultural thing, or should we consider it an actual problem?"

Danny's brain doesn't feel up to considering it, period. He realizes how much of a shock this is going to be for him—he has to lose the attitude, pronto. He knows he has a genuine interest in helping out (hero complex or not), so that's a plus. He just has to channel it in the right direction.

Just… not now.

"We'll think about that later," he says. "Looks like we're here."

"Here" is a stretch of barren land that doesn't look any different from all the other floating islands around the Ghost Zone. It's not particularly large, maybe the size of the Park back at home; he could probably walk from one end to the other in about five or ten minutes.

He phases his friends out of the Speeder, next to where History and Anne stopped.

"Looks like it'll be some party," Tucker says. "You think all those ghosts we saw will fit here?"

"Oh, no," History says. "They aren't allowed on the island without Danny's permission. Won't be, anyway."

He finds that extremely vague, but Anne doesn't leave room for questions: "Ooh I can't wait to see what you'll do with the place." She pauses. "If you don't get it right I could spare some help… I've wanted to do this for ages!"

"Get what right?"

"The island, you dummy! It's yours!"

As if that explains everything. Then Tucker taps him on the shoulder. "Dude, look at this." He's gesturing towards his PDA. There's a map on the screen. "This is the place where Pariah's place should be. Used to be."

History nods. "Very good. This island did not specifically belong to Pariah Dark, however. It is linked to the crown and ring, and belongs to their owner. With them, you can shape this place into whatever you want, build anything that comes to mind."

"It's so fun!" Anne says. "It's a permission thing, like access to the island. Iris once let me play around, just for a minute." Her gaze turns downwards, she bites her lip. "She was… fun."

It dawns of him that Anne knew Iris. Of course she did.

"Danny?" Sam says. "You feeling okay?"

No, not at all. Anne is never going to see Iris again because her ghostly obsession has to do with history, and history will always exist. Anne is going to be around forever, just her grandpa and Clockwork for company. She's never going to see Iris again.

The feeling in his stomach isn't exactly pity; it's a raw form of empathy he doesn't remember having ever felt before. For a brief moment he tries to imagine how ghosts like History, Anne or Clockwork must feel but can't, and instead the dizziness intensifies.

Then it hits him: that could be him. If something goes wrong, if they've missed any details… The thought gives him perspective; he can't believe that, just a few days ago, he'd worried that shoving ghosts into the thermos would be his fate for the next seventy or eighty years, as if it were the worst thing in the world.

He looks up at the concerned gazes around him: "I'm fine." He really isn't.

History clears his throat. "Your friends will also be here this evening, right?"

Danny turns to look at Sam and Tucker. It's an unspoken sort of thing, that they'll be here; he realizes he never actually asked.

"Yup," Tucker says. "Don't worry, we'll find our way just fine—the Speeder's GPS system should have a lock on this place."

"Excellent," History says. "Then I suppose that will be all. Anne and I have some things to do before tonight, so you won't have us lurking around for the afternoon. I suppose you can make it back on your own?"

After a nod from Tucker, History and Anne nod back and leave.

"Let's go," Sam says, a hand on his shoulder. "You look like you're going to be sick."

He nods but Sam doesn't see it because, from behind him, Clockwork's voice cuts in: "Time out."

He feels Sam's hand on his shoulder go stiff. "You could just say hello like everyone else," he mumbles, prying Sam's hand away and turning to face Clockwork. He doesn't wait for the snarky answer: "I heard you didn't let the Historians snoop into my life with a portal. Thanks."

"You don't need anything else to worry about." He gestures around. "What do you think?"

"Could use some work," he shrugs. He has no clue what he's going to do with this place, but he chooses to put that off till later. "What happened to… well, everything?"

"It all disappeared when ownership of the crown and ring was transferred to you. Pariah's sarcophagus is under custody of the Observants now, that's not your concern."

That last part is a relief. They're quiet for a while, and Danny's tempted to ask Clockwork to start time back up because Tucker's frozen face is creeping him out. But the pensive look on his mentor's face makes him keep quiet, figuring it's best not to interrupt whatever is going on in his head.

"I wouldn't allow you to do this if I didn't think you could," Clockwork says suddenly. "Have faith in yourself."

That's strangely comforting. It also makes him wonder… "You're saying that just as there's a future where I mess this up really badly, there's a future where this doesn't go that bad?"

"Of course there is. There always is."

Cryptic as always, though this time he's okay with not knowing the details. He likes to think it allows a bigger margin of error, the possibility to mess up and know the damage isn't permanent. At least, that's what he wants to think.

A moment later, Clockwork says: "Be at my lair no later than quarter to midnight. I'll give you your instructions then."

He doesn't get to respond, cut off by a sharp "time in" and blinded by swirling portal in front of him. Then the portal fades, and he's faced with his reanimated friends.

The first thing he notices is the sharp gasp coming from his left, the look on Sam's face when she sees her hand floating randomly in mid-air. "Damn you, Clockwork," she mutters. She turns to face him. "Well, you look better."

"Yeah," he says, phasing his friends into the Speeder. He tries to focus on the last part of his conversation with Clockwork, tries to convince himself that he's telling them the truth when he says: "I'm good."

He has always known there are millions of ghosts out there, that the Ghost Zone is so large he'll never see it all. He only knows some of the ghosts, mostly the ones that can hold a form outside the Ghost Zone.

Tucker explained some of this to him during their ghost history lesson, but seeing it for real is something else entirely. Perhaps the shocking effect is doubled because they're all staring at him.

They're gathered in front of the island. When the time came, two of Walker's guards passed through the crowd to make a narrow path leading up it. Now he has to glide through it—walking would've taken him ages, that's how many of them there were—and even so it's taking a while. And everyone is whispering, staring: analyzing his every move and wondering what in the world is going on.

In fact, their train of thought can't be that different from his.

His friends and family are all standing atop the island, off to one side. To the other side, the Historians, the council of Observants and Clockwork. They're watching him very closely, too.

The gazes to his sides are pressing down on him, sizing him up, probably wondering what the heck is this kid up to, thinking oh shit, we're doomed, what's he going to do.

He doesn't know how he's doing this—keeps gliding, keeps his gaze firm Tucker's PDA or Sam's ponytail just to have something to look at. His hands are shaking at his sides, even tucked into fists, and he feels weak, like he'll collapse any minute, like his limbs are staging an uprisal against his brain, trying to turn around, saying nope, wrong way, let's go back.

He can't go back.

Instead he goes forward, forward, forward. When he finally reaches the island and one of the Observants steps forward to greet him, he settles on the ground and stands firmly in his spot. He doesn't think he'll be able to move from that spot in a while.

Everyone goes silent.

"I am above meaningless pleasantries," the leader of the Observants says. "Do not misunderstand us. We do not think it wise to grant you any power at all."

Another of the Observants takes this as a cue and steps forward with a black box in his hands. Box isn't quite the word, though: it's smoke, little black tufts pieced together to form a shape that doesn't look at all solid. When the smoke fades, though, there they are.

Both the ring and the crown have that menacing glow that most any ghostly object holds, a dark aura a thousand times creepier than anything Hollywood special effects might create. And he has to wear these things?

"Do not accept these as gifts," the Observants' leader says, "because they are not. By taking possession of these relics, you are agreeing to follow the Ghost Zone's law code, to protect it and its inhabitants, to take responsibility for it and them. Do you understand this?"

"I understand." The only reason anyone hears him is the absolute silence.

There's a pause that gives him time to study the ghost in front of him, much shorter than him but floating high enough to meet him eye-to-eyes. That's the thing about the Observants—how they're always staring with that big eye they have for a head. He has been stared at too much for these past two days, for these past few minutes, and this one big eye feels like the last straw.

Said eye flickers between the objects and himself, and he takes that as his cue. No one but him can touch them, Tucker once explained. There's a part of him that's still scared to reach out, scared his head's gonna blow, his finger will fall off, he'll die within a second, he'll become a full ghost... Sam said it's not likely.

We thought the sudden surge in energy would kill your human half, she'd said. But, looking into it, we realized that your human half isn't really there when you're a ghost. It's hard to explain, Jazz can tell you more.

Sam tried hard not to look him in the eye when she explained that.

He's scared out of his wits, but he feels the tense silence and the weight of so many gazes on top of him, and his desire to get this over with outweighs his fears. He reaches out and, as he does, the Observant says: "The Ring of Rage is the concentration of the King's power, the strongest and most dangerous of the two…"

He stops listening because he knows all this already—thank-you, Tucker—and because he's entranced. Its glow is kind of fascinating, not a constant sort of thing, but rather little smoky tendrils flying around it, teasingly. Like oh, this power is so strong that it takes turns slipping out for a breath of fresh air, it's just taking a stroll, don't mind it.

The stone in the middle is bright, so much it blinds him at first. He knows that's where all the energy is concentrated, that it just flows around the circular shape of it so that it doesn't build up. That's why it's a circle—it goes on and on, in a perfectly confined space that never starts and never ends.

That sounds strangely appropriate, given his situation.

Eyes on him again. He gulps, gets a shiver up his spine and shudders a little, looks away and meets Sam's gaze.

Won't kill you, she said. You'll be fine.

He slips it on.

You'll be fine.

"Well, I'm not too late, am I?"

That voice. He's been wondering about that voice's absence.

"Terribly busy, I was. But it seems I arrived just in time, didn't I?" Vlad smirks and touches down on the far end of the path between the crowd. "Had a bit of a delay, I'm afraid; you could say I offered too many friends a ride."

He grins that cruel smirk of his, but his eyes aren't into the game today. He's mad. Of course he's mad.

Behind him, ghosts begin to show—Spectra, Nocturne, Prince Aragon, Freakshow, Lydia. These are his real enemies; truly angry, grudge-holding, bitter sorts of ghosts. Some others he doesn't recognize at all, but they're all glaring at him just the same. At first glance he figures there's around thirty of them. He focuses on Vlad. "You had to make an entrance, huh?"

"What better way to make a statement? That is why I'm here, of course." He jumps back into flight, addressing the crowd as a whole, "Allow me to ask: What do you expect from this boy? He has no experience beyond seventeen meager years of life, no vision, no ambition. Say, do any of you even trust him?"

He starts to see red. It's a little worrying, how fast Vlad gets to him. "I'm sure they're more inclined to trust me," he retaliates, "than you."

But he's not so sure about that, and Vlad can see it. "Yet I have sympathizers," Vlad says, gesturing to the small group behind him. "And from what they have told me, you have enemies."

Someone else cuts him to the chase, says: "Just like you."

He already knows Walker agreed to supervise the event, but he never figured he'd follow through if something like this happened. But suddenly there he is, flanked by his guards, staring Vlad down. "You've given me some trouble these past few weeks. I know you've been sneaking my prisoners out. Your little display here is complete disregard for the authority." He smirks. "Looks like you've been messing with the rules."

His guards rise to attack, but Vlad shields himself from their blasts and shakes his head, stepping down to stand right in front of Walker. "Do forgive the intrusion," he says, "though I'm not here to fight today."

"What do you want, then?" Danny asks. "You've made your statement. Leave."

Vlad makes a tsk, tsk noise. "Such manners, really. What would your parents say"—he cuts himself off, notices Jack and Maddie. "Oh, this is interesting. You finally told them."

Not everything, he thinks. He needs to get Vlad out of here before things get messy. "Leave my parents out of this, Vlad." His voice is cold, so much that it surprises Vlad into turning to face him. "This isn't about them."

"No? And what, exactly, do you suppose it is about?"

He crosses his arms. "Might have something to do with me getting everything you ever wanted. Power. If it makes you feel any better, it's not like I asked for any of it."

"Then allow me to relieve you of your burden, Daniel. Simple compromise, yes?"

"No."

"I figured you'd say that." He floats back to his group. Raises his voice. "Very well, I will leave. But first, consider this: there is dissent among you," he gestures to the crowd, "I can feel it. I have seen and heard it"—he gestures to his group—"and I intend to take action. Freedom of speech, yes? Of assembly?

He loses the act and glares. "I do not agree with granting unlimited, unrestrained power to a teenager. I do not think many of you do. Think on that." He turns and nods to Lydia, who begins to turn, and turn, and turn, until she has created a whirlwind—a portal.

He's shocked to see Walker turn to him, a question in his eyes. Pursuit or no pursuit? He doesn't really know, but he sees why this is important. He's about to take a decision in public.

He doesn't get to consider this one because the enemy is getting away and he needs to choose now. He glances around at all the ghosts gathered. He essentially has an army at his disposal right this instant.

He shakes his head. No.

All enemies but one are gone. "You would do well to contemplate my offer," Vlad says. "You do not want to cross me, nor any other enemy of yours. You have plenty of them, I've seen."

Vlad doesn't wait for a response and steps into the vortex.

Walker's guards step back to the sidelines and the murmurs rise once more. The Observant still standing at his side looks bewildered, a little bothered by lack of propriety or something equally ridiculous like that.

Behind him, his parents are glancing at one another, muttering Wisconsin ghost. Beside them, Jazz looks like she nearly had a heart attack. She notices him looking and tries to give him an encouraging nod, but it doesn't convince either of them. She looks away.

The Observant in front of him coughs, probably wants to go on like nothing just happened, but he figures that's just not going to work.

He takes a decision, hopes he's not about to make a fool of himself, and takes a step away from the Observant, facing the crowd. He doesn't have a fear of public speaking, thankfully, but this is something else entirely. There's a reason why Sam is the activist, why Tucker is the one running for student council. He's the one with a secret identity—it's secret for a reason. He doesn't work well with the public eye.

That's probably why he starts off rather badly: "So this is awkward."

It is, given the silence.

"You heard him," he says. "He doesn't agree. I bet a lot of you don't. Heck, I don't." This is probably a really bad idea, but he lets himself rant, just this once. "All of this is the result of a big, unlucky coincidence. If you want to point fingers, let me tell you—Vlad woke Pariah Dark. Wasn't me. But I guess that doesn't matter anymore, huh? We're all involved now.

"Things got messy under Pariah Dark. If you can remember the time Scepter and Iris were around, you'll get my point. I'm not saying I can take you back to that sort of glory era—Vlad's right, I'm learning as I go along. I'm willing to try, though."

As if that makes everything better. He's getting uncomfortable up here.

Particularly, it bothers him to face them all down like this, he's so high up. What he's about to do might not give the right message, but craning his neck ever so slightly like this is making him twitchy. He sits down at the edge of the island and crosses his legs; the silences lets up for a few murmurs but everyone eventually quiets down.

He continues, a shred more comfortable addressing them like this: "Look. I'm not looking to be here in the long run, but if you don't want me here at all, I won't put on that crown. This is your problem too." He pauses. "Just please don't take the violent approach like Vlad. Speak up, I'll hear it. If you all shoo me from here right now, I swear I'll leave and I won't come back."

He's tempted to insist that they do just that. If Sam has that list of requirements around, he could pass this burden onto someone else right this instant.

But—he doesn't want that. He took this path for a reason. "Thing is, I don't think any of you really want to be up here either, and I don't blame you for it. And if you do—think that over a couple times. I didn't get much of a choice, so here I am. You all know, supposing you read the whole newsletter, that the Ghost Zone will continue to be in danger if someone doesn't claim the crown and the ring. That's the only reason why I agreed to this, don't get the wrong idea. But if you all don't want me up here as much as Vlad doesn't, then okay. We'll have to figure something else out, keeping in mind that we need to be fast about it."

He gulps. This could either work really well, or.. not. "I chose to take this risk," he says carefully, "knowing it might end up really badly for me. Now I'm going to let you guys choose if you're okay with it or not."

Now he's quiet, and he'd like it very much if someone else spoke up for a change.

But for a while no one does, a silence filled with absolute stoicism, no eyebrows rising and no middle fingers pointed. It's enough to make him rise to his feet with a sigh, contemplating that glowing green crown and realizing that things will, after all, go on as if nothing happened.

And then comes the interesting part, when Ghost Writer, even in his introverted nature, rises to hover a little above the crowd, crosses his arms and says in a tone that eerily reminds him of the Christmas incident: "Long live the undead king."

And for a scary moment everyone sort of stares between the two of them, and then Clockwork rises up and repeats after him. Dora joins them and repeats, and the kicker is when Youngblood does the same, in his little-kid voice, hook in the air and pirate hat tipped: "Long live the undead king!"

And some of his friends join in and start to repeat. A few of his enemies do stay on the ground, but they only look at him with raised, skeptical eyebrows. He sees what they're saying: they'll test him. That's a scary thought on its own—he has plenty to prove but no idea how to do it.

But that's a problem for another day, he figures, when he sees that big eye gesture to the floating crown. He takes it carefully, gingerly, and notices how some of the ring's little tendrils of smoke float towards it and away from his finger.

The Observant looks like he wants to say something, probably another dull history lesson on the crown, but the crowd drowns out his voice and he's perfectly alright with that. He doesn't turn to face his family or friends this time, doesn't really focus on the crowd staring at him. This time he's looking down at his hands, thinking here goes nothing and hoping Sam was right when she said he'd be fine.

He puts it on, feeling a little ridiculous for a moment, but that stops quickly.

On first instance, he can say it hurts, and the grimace on his face makes everyone shut up. His wrists, his elbows, his knees all twitch and his back arcs and for a minute he kind of hopes the crown will fall off and make it stop, but it doesn't. He doesn't even feel its weight—it floats, how appropriate—but its presence is there.

This "hurt" is cold and uncomfortable, running down his spine, across every nerve, hitting his fingertips and running back to its origin. It's not quite like receiving an electric shock (he would know) but it's just as jolting and for a moment he's scared he'll have a seizure then and there, in front of everyone.

The sensation settles and now he just feels a presence, running through his body the way you can sometimes feel blood rushing, heart beating. The word for it is overwhelming, because even though he feels wide awake, he wants to curl up and go to sleep, process this one on his own.

He feels that energy in him, running and jumping around, just begging to be used. It infiltrates his thoughts, tells him how easy it would be to find Vlad right now, find those the prison escapees, a number of his enemies… it's an urge to throw the first punch for once in his life, to prove something. The thought is random, sudden and worrying, but it's gone the moment it gets there, and he's suddenly met with many, many eyes on him. This time he can't look away, drag his focus someplace else, and instead can only stare back.

That's when it hits him, one of those oh shit moments that make you stumble, make you stutter. Your heart skips a beat and your knees feel like they're about to collapse, your breath is cut short and your stomach is filled with ice.

This is it. This is real.

A/N:

Oh, gosh. This took a long time to write. Hurrah for 6000 word chapters! Speaking of which, I'm moving around some stuff with the outline, so there's a chance you'll start getting longer chapters more often. In turn, this might cut down the final chapter count from 15-20 to 10-15. (I know you guys may not find this as exciting as I do, just celebrate with me :D)

Thank-you very much to the fantastic reviewers, to those who favorite and alert, and to the readers as a whole because you guys are amazing :) I hope you liked this chapter!

Two very special thank-yous today: the first toibelieveinahappilyeverafter (tumblr user), whom you can credit for the "long live the undead king" line. I originally intended to use several lines from the original post, but plot happened and I only used that one, which actually helped inspire the last scene. (Original post is linked to on this chapter's tumblr post.)

The second special thank-you is for MarkTheTinyGiraffe (ffnet user), for the fantastic fanart (can be found on this story's tumblr account). I'm flattered!

I'd love to hear your opinions on this chapter; my brain, fingers, and keyboard are all reeling from it. See you all next week!

—Rose.

PS. Last thing, I swear: this story went past the 25K mark with this chapter, which I find both exciting and exhausting to think about. Yay! Plenty to celebrate today, yes?