There is a turning point in most lives, and if one is lucky then the new path is a good one. If one isn't so lucky then the path you're set on can go bad, decay so quickly around you. Or moulder slowly and poison one's life until one's twisted and pained, clouded and murky.

Turning points come when they do, some seek to change that and some do not; some never want changes.

But some changes, no one notices; they creep in slowly. Slides into your life, shambling nonchalantly and settling into your mind like it's home. Which it is, after a while.

Sherlock was whispered a story at night, often. And, in turn, so was John. And then, again, Greg; the older Others in the household had whispered it to him.

Always whispered, never spoke. If the Normals had heard the story that Other would've been struck down, maybe even killed for their insolence.

But the story was passed around because the Others needed it, wanted what it spoke of.

The freedom.

The story goes as such...

In the spring, many years past. When snow still blanketed the ground, silencing the earth in its cool grasp, two boys wandered far from home.

Their father was a Path Tracker; he traced the paths the animals took, could feel them in his bones, and he used this as a hunter. Searched out their dens and slew them in their sleep.

Their mother was a Dream Wanderer, she walked the earth outside of her waking hours, knew lands she'd never laid eyes on and knew people she'd never known. That was her gift.

And they lived peacefully, away from Normal's harsh eyes and blood hungry weapons. In a community of their own kind.

They lived peacefully.

They lived happily.

One day the father went out hunting high in the mountains, but the boys stayed at home.

As their mother tended to her chores, the boys ran off; first they rough and tumbled in the snow before trying to follow their father, neither knew if they had his power, both knew only that they wanted to follow him, be like him when they were grown.

The two had gone to follow him but lost their way instead, wandering the frozen hills alone and scared. Their parents fear had turned to dread as they searched for their dear boys, many other people helped from the surrounding houses.

When, by dusk, they hadn't been found fires were built on the highest peaks. Sparingly though, as nobody wished to be found by the Normals.

The children lay huddled together crying; "Oh Mater and Pater, why can't you hear our cries? The day is almost over, soon it will be night..." They clutched each other, trying to find some comfort. "We're so tired and hungry. Our feat are tired and sore..." They began to sob together. "We promise not to stray again from our homes door."

The younger of the two tried to conger a fire but what merger power he had left was in no way sufficient to make more than a spark. The small boy slumped against his older brother who held him close and tight, understanding that the tiny boy couldn't be to blame.

Now their mother woke one night, from a strange and eerie dream; she saw a path between two snow covered hills, near a dark and swollen stream running cold with ice.

She told her husband of her dream and for two more nights it returned.

The mother saw her children crying; "Oh Mater and Pater, why can't you hear our cries? The day is almost over, soon it will be night..." They clutched each other, trying to find some comfort. "We're so tired and hungry. Our feat are tired and sore..." They began to sob together. "We promise not to stray again from our homes door." And she cried and cried for her lost little boys, just as they cried for their lost lives.

The local people searched in vain at the west side of the creek but the children's mother knew the place of her dream and directed them east to the place where her children cried and called to her, like a siren call. With their guide to take them there the men came upon the scene.

They found the boys cold and still beneath an old, twisted birch tree. The images of the stark white youths lying on crisp snow beneath the ancient trunk was at such odds with each other that many of the men paled and faltered in their walk.

For many years the mother's dreams were haunted by her children's cries; "Oh Mater and Pater, look past the tears you cry. We're past the point of harm now and we're by each other's sides. We've found our powers now, Mater." The boys smile then, holding each others' hands. "We're The Death Walkers, Pater, the Fates whispered it in our ears as we lay dying. So as you lay us down to rest in the presence of the Ladies, know that we will meet you here at

Death's door."

The Death Walkers do their job, sacred duty; this is their power and ability. The little boys guide the souls to Death's gates and to the fates waiting arms.

They might have died alone, in a mountain pass with no one but now they shall never be alone again. They sleep wrapped in death's cloak in the arms of The Mother, under the watch and guidance of The Crone. With The Maiden as their sweet friend.

They are a constant in all Others lives. They can appear to those in trouble and guide them out of it. They'll fight for those who are just.

They even fought in the first Excidium War.

: :

Hi! Sorry it took aagggeeess but it took so long to muddle this stuff out between us.

Thanks for sticking with us though! And a special thanks to Wholockian221, IAmThePhantomoftheOpera and JoeCoolNerd for reviewing last chapter!

As ever guys THE MORE YOU TELL US WHAT YOU THINK THE QUICKER WE'LL UPDATE.

Thank you.

From M and C.