Chapter 11

It was dark and damp, with the familiar sickly sweet scent of drying blood and rotting meat inside his own mind, and yet, Yassen felt perfectly at home.

The Chinese Lóng beside him snorted, "And this takes macabre to a whole new level. Grandson, how can you stand such a morbid extreme for a mindscape?" Peng paused, "Well, this explains quite a bit actually; what corpse do you have rotting in here, Yassen?"

Yassen turned his head to look for Peng, but it was too dark, he couldn't see anything, "Corpse? I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do, child." Peng breathed out a puff of flame and let it hang, unmoving, in the air around his great, horned head. The light cast a harsh relief against the murk and revealed Yassen sitting cross legged on the ground, eyes covered with a black cloth. His grandfather's snort of derision was thundering to his small body; it would figure he'd be a child in his own mind when he never was one in reality. "So you are both ignorant and denying your ignorance. Wonderful; things became a great deal more difficult. Grandson, remove your blindfold and help me locate the corpse you've left to rot in your own thoughts."

Yassen furrowed his brow and reached up to feel at his eyes, there was no cloth, "I'm not wearing a blindfold."

The gust of wind from his left was almost a typhoon, "Then what do you see?"

The assassin stumbled slightly but kept to his feet, "Nothing. I can't see; it's pitch black in here."

"No, it is not. I can see you perfectly. Your form looks to be around thirteen and you are most definitely wearing a blindfold. Can you not see that your own ignorance of your problems blinds you?"

Yassen growled, "I think I would know my own mind you interfering old man."

"Says the man who did not realize he was causing his angel pain by not being affectionate; by being cold and giving off the implication that said angel was only a temporary burden," the Asian didn't pull any punches; the assassin needed to see how little he really knew about himself.

The Russian felt as if the breath had been forced from his body at the reminder of what he had done. His breath came in a stuttering gasp even as the ground beneath his feet began to tilt.

"Yassen!" the dragon roared, grasping the man-teen gently in his claws. The assassin clawed at where the barrier over his eyes was located, trying to remove it. His fingers scrabbled at the tight cloth that blinded him but even as he began to wrench it from his face he could feel his skin peel with it. Finally he pulled the damnable cloth – and a fair amount of flesh – from his face; panting from the shear mental exertion he looked up at the one holding him.

"Holy shit..." Yassen managed to get out before falling flat on his rear. He hadn't expected what he was going to see. The gigantic beast that crouched before him looked as if it had come straight from one of the old Chinese legends that spoke of the ancient race. "I knew you weren't lying about being a dragon but I wasn't expecting this…" The beast in front of him only chuckled. The Russian looked down at himself, "Why am I a teenager?"

Peng settled himself upon the cold floor, setting his great clawed hands on either side of his grandson before answering, "You should learn to take some people at their words, child. Why do you think? Your psychological body has manifested itself at the age before your life changed, there is a reason. You just need to find it."

Yassen closed his eyes, "My parents were murdered in front of me at fourteen; you know that, Peng."

The dragon lowered his head slightly in a nod, "And because of that what happened?"

"I joined SCORPIA. I became an assassin and met John Rider; he introduced me to my Sashka," the man-teen smiled slightly at the thought of John and Alex; they had to be the two dearest to his forgotten heart.

Peng sighed slightly, "And what did joining SCORPIA cause you to lose?"

This time the assassin had to pause in thought before answering, "My humanity."

"Partially, what else?"

The young man's brow wrinkled in combined confusion and concentration, "My ability to accept and give affection?"

Finally! the old dragon thought in annoyance. "Exactly. Now, look around you. This is the shape your mind has assumed."

Around the pair was dank darkness, the cloying too-sweet smell of decomposition, and rough-hewn stone of a Medieval-style dungeon. In one corner the darkness was too deep to see what lay hidden within it.

"What lies in the corner? What corpse fouls your mind incessantly?"

"NO!" was what broke out before Yassen could contain it; whatever was there he didn't want to see. He didn't want to know what horror he'd left to rot. Yassen was a grown, well-trained assassin and he was absolutely terrified of what was concealed in the darkest corner of his mind.

Peng watched Yassen carefully, there was something wrong. Slowly thin, dark threads began to twine their way over his eyes. "YASSEN! What have you left there!"

Nonononononononono; don't want to see, don't want to see. Can't look again; don't want to see...The world around them began to warp and twist; where a dungeon had been before there was a single cell with the young Russian shackled to the wall within; the dark corner farthest from the teen's self-prison. The blindfold had returned only to be reinforced by chains.

Peng jerked his head in surprise as his tail lashed at the smaller confines. It was one of the most violent denials he had seen in centuries, "Child," he tried to coax gently, "You will not begin to heal until you accept what is there."

"I can't; please don't make me look," he whimpered pathetically; he'd sounded like the child he appeared to be.

It was as if he couldn't move past whatever had caused the corpse in the first place. A trauma of some sort ... perhaps... a death? "Who died? Who left you alone?"

"Please stop; I don't want to see."

"Your mother, father? Your two training partners? One of your teachers? Or was it John Rider?"

Peng had expected a volatile reaction but the shear violence in Yassen's was...unbelievable. The Russian screamed before the mindscape warped once more into a world of all white; the dark corner now visible with the decaying corpse of John Rider. The assassin was on his knees; head buried in his hands as he cried and shouted his hatred and sorrow for the father-figure he'd lost.

The blue-eyed man mentally conjured objects only to have them shatter or explode; various parts of the surrounding world would shift to scenes of past murders – every kill Yassen had ever made – while others would randomly change between scenes of John and those of Alex when he was small. The near-skeleton dragged itself up only to stumble over to where pale youth was crumpled.

"Your fault," it blamed. "It's your fault I'm dead, Yassen. It's your fault my son was raped. IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry; I tried, John, I tried. Please stop..." he choked out between bawling sobs. "Please don't hate me!"

"Hate you?" it questioned mockingly. "I don't hate you; I just wish it were you who died!"

Peng reared back in shock before anger blazed through him. With a mighty roared the ancient parted his mighty jaws and filled the chambers with flame. Destroying the mutilated effigy of what was once a kindhearted man. When the fire had burned itself out the old dragon coiled itself about his grandchild with a low comforting growl, "It is gone, child."

It took a few minutes for the assassin to calm himself before he could talk, "It was my fault for being careless; I put him in a position that threatened all he loved and he died because of it. Then Alex went to Ian and I couldn't do anything to stop that; I couldn't keep Alex safe and that was my fault..."

"No," Peng growled, "none of that was your fault. There are things in this world that are impossible to control. You must move on."

"But..." he whispered in protest.

"It is not your fault. You must believe that child. I have known you for nigh twenty-five years. There are some things in this world that you cannot take blame for. You must learn to forgive yourself." The dragon nudged his grandchild's arm gently.

Yassen gently uncurled and rubbed the tear tracks from his face, "I want to go back and hold my Sashka now, Grandfather." The man looked up at his kin; grown and at least somewhat sane once more.

"Of course, my child," was the dragon's pleased reply.