~AN~ OH MY GOSH! OH MY GOSH! FFN ACTUALLY LET ME LOG IN WITH MY WINDOWS XP!! *pant pant* Sorry, but for the past week or two I've been having trouble logging in again---those of you who go back and read people's reviews will know that I've had this problem before---and that means I have to go through the whole save to disk, unplug the keyboard, go downstairs, get the old computer running, upload disk, log in, put up chapter thing every time I want to update. *groans* It wouldn't be so bad if our old computer didn't take at least two minutes just to open a file. I was curious and clocked the uploading process once, and it took me forty-seven minutes just to put up a chapter. *whistles* I don't like that old computer, if you haven't figured it out.

However, ffn, in an unprecedented act of amazing kindness, actually let me log in with my Windows XP, so to celebrate I'm putting up the next chapter early! And to thank you wonderful people who left such kind reviews, as well. Thanks! *blushes* Yeah, it's getting dark, but then this is a dark subject I'm trying to write about. Thanks again for reviewing...Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Hello. How are you? I am insane. Are you?

If you understood the above statement and did not consider it strange, then you are.

Chapter Eight:

Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he's dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,

They said.

Oh no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much too far out all my life

And not waving but drowning.

Not Waving But Drowning, by Stevie Smith

NiGHTS was perched on a branch above the river, feet swinging, when he felt it.

"It" was a sharp jolt to his chest, almost like the stab of a knife; he clutched at his heart, nearly falling off the branch as he did so. What?…

He looked down, feeling a strange heat under his hands. Carefully he lifted them to find a faint red outline glowing clear on his chest. It looked like a sideways square, or perhaps a diamond.

Without warning, it was gone, just like that. No fading, no alert, just gone. So was the strange pain.

NiGHTS blinked, touching the spot gently; when nothing responded negatively, he rubbed it hard. There was nothing there. What in the dream world was that?

A minute or so of patient waiting brought nothing to light, and eventually he dismissed it as a strange but unexplainable occurrence. A bit shaken, he slipped off his branch and headed for a clearing he knew to be nearby, planning to do some cartwheels. Doing acrobatics always helped him think. He skimmed over the river water, kicking up a shimmering trail of spray, and wondering why he suddenly felt an intense desire to make sure his brother was all right.

Slowly, the energy dissipated, and the floating nightmaren drifted down into the palm of Wizeman's waiting hand. His screams stopped.

Pain like he'd never known faded, and Reala found himself capable of reasonable thought once more. He groaned, forced to breathe deep and gather some energy before he could even open his eyes. He found five giant eyes looking back at him.

He blinked, then slowly put a hand to his forehead, trying to order his thoughts. Wizeman's voice broke over his mind like a tide. "How do you feel?"

"Ughn…" was Reala's answer, the Seeker General being too weary to even operate his mouth properly.

"Do you feel…different?" perused Wizeman.

This one gave Reala a pause. He focused on himself, and gradually became aware of a vague feeling of change about his body. His brow furrowed as he tried to translate the feeling.

He stiffened as one of Wizeman's hands hovered over him, it's eye closing in concentration; the sensation he experienced a moment later was not unpleasant, however. Energy streamed through him once more, but this time it was a healing motion; within moments he felt his strength returning. Greater might then he'd ever possessed flowed in him and did not depart.

The eye hanging over him opened and evaluated him again. "How do you feel?" Wizeman repeated.

"Strong," replied Reala, sitting up. Instinctively he clenched his fists, marveling at the power gliding along his muscles; it was this motion that brought something to his attention. He looked down at his hands.

They were different. His once well-manicured nails were replaced by long, razor-edged claws.

He inhaled, taking in the cruel weapons now sprouting from his fingertips. Slowly he held a hand up before his face, waving his fingers gently, staring at the way the light glinted off the claws' polished surfaces.

He looked back up to find Wizeman looking at him expectantly. "You gave me claws," he breathed.

The ruler nodded, a slow, even motion. "Stand up and see your improvements."

Reala stood as told, looking down at himself involuntarily as he did so. It was then he saw the reason for the lasting feeling of strength running through him; his entire build had changed. Before he had been slim, well-built but thin. Now muscles rippled along his arms and chest, well-defined by the striking red and black cloth he wore.

"Impressive," he commented. The words were a bit rougher than he was used to, and he realized his voice had dropped an octave or two lower. Another strange feeling connected to speaking caused him to put his hand to his face; his lips felt odd under his fingertips.

Wizeman saw his confusion and held one hand out, palm facing him, willing the eye in the center to momentarily act as a mirror. Reala turned and looked at the glassy surface, taking in his new appearance.

Now he saw the reason for his discomfort when speaking. His mouth, originally diminutive and slender-lipped, was carved into a crooked line. It was small enough that the change wasn't easily noticeable, but when he smiled it curved up into a sharp, jagged smirk.

That wasn't the only addition to his face. His skin had always been abnormally white, but aside from that he'd resembled any other nightmaren in facial features. Now two long, even scars ran down through the corners of his eyes, framing them in a sharp line of black; his eyes themselves were pale in color, a definite steel instead of the gentle forget-me-not blue they'd always been. Altogether he was a different, frightening creature.

He gazed at his reflection, taking in the changes he'd undergone. Wizeman's voice floated down from above him. "You have endured the test of re-forming, Reala. Now you are truly deserving of the title Seeker General."

The words brought back to memory the plan to take over the Waking World, and Reala felt a surge of duty. He looked at himself again, realizing that now, he looked fitting to be the general of the Nightmare forces, and his "reforming" took on a new light. He hadn't been tortured; he'd been perfected. Now he was finished.

For a moment Reala closed his sharp blue eyes, savoring the words his master had just said; then, he looked up. "I am honored to serve you as your general, my lord."

"Very good. You will do well as a leader, Reala."

Reala bowed low, sweeping his clawed hand to his chest in an elegant gesture. "Thank you, my lord."

Wizeman breathed a sigh, as if he'd just finished a task long planned and prepared for; then, he turned aside, looking in the shadows to their left. Reala followed his gaze, and his eyes widened.

Suspended in midair, a small silver cage floated in the shadows. It was delicately wrought, harking back to the design of the one far above them that held the room's light. It wasn't the cage that drew his attention, however; it was it's occupant. Inside a miserable bundle shivered on the floor, a ragged figure that was shuddering with wracking sobs. Jackle.

The demi-maren didn't seem to be aware of their presence; even as they watched, he lifted his head and looked about wildly, but did not seem to see his surroundings. Reala was shocked by the fear etched on the maren's tear-stained features, his hair tumbling about his frightened eyes in a ragged mess. Jackle didn't bother to wipe his face clean of the salty tracks running across it, but only huddled in a fearful bundle in the middle of the cage, eyes darting about as if he were surrounded by something terrifying.

Without warning he leapt up and flung himself at the bars. They repelled him silently, not showing a dent; he skidded across the tiny space, crashing to the ground in a tangled heap, instantly clawing his way to his feet and charging again. Again he was thrown back, but he continued to fling himself at the wall, as if hoping he could somehow break through by repeatedly slamming himself against it.

Reala watched with a sort of morbid fascination; then he turned to his master. "My lord, what is wrong with Jackle?"

"He cannot see what we see," replied Wizeman calmly, still watching the demi-maren beat himself against the cage's bars. "To him, he is surrounded by darkness, and he is afraid. He is trying to get out of the darkness and find someone else."

"May I ask why he is in there, my lord?"

"He is here because I wish to reform him also," replied Wizeman, and he finally turned from watching Jackle. His eyes focused on Reala, circling about him. "But that is not for you to see. You need to rest and regain your strength."

And before Reala could protest that he felt fine and didn't need to go to sleep, a sweet smell embraced him, and he dropped to the ground.

Wizeman turned away from the peacefully sleeping nightmaren and approached Jackle's cage. The demi-maren seemed to sense someone drawing near, for he halted in his useless attack of the walls and crouched in the middle of the cage, sightless eyes darting about in fear. He whimpered.

Gently Wizeman picked up the cage, holding it at eye level and inspecting the person within; after a moment, he reached out and opened the door, his voice deceptively quiet. "Come hither, little one."

Jackle's eyes flitted to the origin of the kind voice, trying desperately to see through the all-encompassing black. Again the voice, feeling strangely familiar and yet unknown like a faint smell of a long-forgotten herb, spoke through the dark. "Come to me, my child."

He staggered to his feet, face showing plainly his confusion; after a moment, he took a faltering step towards the door. Wizeman nodded, even though he knew the demi-maren could not see him. "Yes, my pet. Come to me."

Jackle took another wavering step, then halted, hesitating; he wanted terribly to be with someone, anyone, to speak with another person. And yet he was afraid of voices…

Wizeman allowed a small beam of light to make itself seen in the demi-maren's consciousness, gleaming dully for a moment before extinguishing without a sound. Jackle's face jerked towards where the light had appeared, desire for illumination showing strongly on his features. His voice came out as a cracked moan. "Be safe?…"

"Yes, little one. With me you are safe."

That decided it. Slowly Jackle stumbled towards the voice, and as he reached the open door Wizeman put a hand to it, allowing the demi-maren to stagger onto his fingers. Once Jackle had reached the center of the palm he stopped, looking about in confusion. "Master?…"

"Here, my pet." Jackle looked up, blind eyes searching frantically for the owner of the voice. Wizeman reached down gently, placing a single stone finger on the demi-maren's forehead. " Soon you will be safe."

It was the last thing Jackle heard before pain such as he had never felt blazed through him.

Scream.

Puffy was arranging a vase of flowers, singing under her breath as she did so. Happily she ascended the scales, increasing in volume as she went higher. Behind her Gillwing and Gulpo suffered in silence.

Clawz entered the Great Hall, tossing a snarl at Puffy as he passed her. "Shut up, will you?"

She jerked back, shock written over her features; then, her expression turned to anger. "Be quiet yourself, Clawz!"

The catmaren ignored her and leaped onto his chair, curling up into a graceful posture. Puffy's long ears were trembling with anger. "Why did you--"

"Because I'm annoyed, that's why," snapped Clawz in an irritated tone of voice. He growled and popped the claws on his right paw, inspecting them with a trained eye. "I'm supposed to be leading a patrol with Jackle right now, and the idiot's nowhere to be found."

"Why don't you just go out on your own?" asked Gillwing, then cowered under the usual round of "oh-shut-up-Gillwing" looks directed his way.

"Because Reala likes his orders to be carried out to a T," explained Puffy, forcing herself to calm down and return to arranging her flowers.

"And he'll throw a hissy fit if Clawz and Jackle don't do just as he says," continued Gulpo, breaking the surface of the water in his bowl to add his comment. Gillwing blinked. He always had a hard time understanding Gulpo. The fish was sarcastic and hermitical, preferring to lurk deep in his lagoon rather than socialize. For some reason he managed to get away with statements that would have gotten others the flaying of their lives, such as his saying Reala would have a hissy fit. The dull but honest Gillwing had trouble understanding the callused loner.

Puffy was humming again, having already forgotten her altercation with Clawz. Thankfully the catmaren didn't seem to notice her quiet rehearsal, instead staring moodily at the ever-present fire sparking in the fireplace. No one knew why, exactly, the fire was maintained in Great Hall at all hours, during all seasons; however, it was. One could enter the Great Hall in the middle of a summer day and the fireplace would be filled with a large fire, burning merrily. People had stopped questioning the tradition a long time ago.

Eventually Puffy finished with her floral arrangement, and leaned back to admire her work. Gillwing looked at the careful composition of lupines and jonquils appreciatively. "That's pretty, Puffy."

"Thank you," Puffy sang. Clawz rolled his eyes but said nothing. Gulpo, floating motionlessly in his tank, didn't even open his eyes.

Jackle screamed as energy twisted through him, rippling through his skin like a lethal tumor. He felt it swirl around his face, writhing through every inch of his flesh, clinging to him with a heavy thickness. He struggled, unable to break free of the energy's raw grasp.

His mind was in chaos. The darkness around him had not dissipated, and he was frightened beyond anything he'd ever felt. His thoughts were disordered, confused.

And then it stopped.

He floated in the darkness, exhausted from the changes that had been wrought on his unknowing body. Eventually he gathered enough strength to call out, his voice broken to a cracked whisper. "M-master…"

"Here, my child." A faint glow, too little to throw any light on the surroundings but still a bright spark in the darkness, flared up softly above him.

He lifted his trembling head, searching desperately for the owner of the voice. "Master?"

"I am here. You are safe. Rest, and regain your strength." And the light went out.

"No, master, don't take away the light…" But it was gone. And he was alone again.

Jackle whimpered, a weak sound that died out soon in the weighty darkness. The very forlornness of the noise frightened him, and he wished frenziedly for a sound beside his own ragged breath. Finally he called out. "Anyone…are you out there?…"

It was a silly question, and one that went unanswered. No one wanted to answer him. They were all too nasty to…they never liked him in the first place. Stupid second-level. Stupid little tainted second-level, messed-up little demi-maren. He wasn't worth anything…he was a mistake.

His voice wavered through the dark once again. "It's not my fault…"

He gasped as a voice---or, rather, several voices speaking as one---answered him. Of course it's not.

He jerked himself upright, hands clenched so tightly that his nails cut into his palms and made them bleed. His nails weren't that sharp… Trembling, he accosted the air. "Who are you?"

Friends.

He bowed his head, tremors making his skin twitch erratically; forcefully he answered them through his mind. 'I have no friends.'

That's what you think.

'I don't know you!'

You may not know us, but we know you.

'How do you know who I am?'

You're a well-known person, Jackle.

'You know what I mean.'

We've been watching you for some time. You've heard us before.

'I haven't---'

He cut off. Suddenly the words came back to him. "Neither can we."

His mental voice was very small. 'You're The Voices.'

The voices gave what he could only think of as a mental nod. Very good. You're smart, Jackle.

He felt a flush of pride at the unexpected praise. He hadn't been complimented by anyone other than Gillwing for a long time.

The voices gave another mental nod. It's a pity; you deserve so much more than you get.

"Why do you say so?' retorted Jackle, his answer calculated for a double goal. One, to find out more about these strange beings, and secondly to perhaps get another compliment.

The voices laughed, a strange, other-worldly sound of merriment. For a moment Jackle thought he could distinguish a slightly different tone to the mirth, an almost amused snicker; then it was gone, and the voices spoke again. Isn't it obvious?

'You're very flattering,' admitted Jackle. 'But the snake's the one who has the forked tongue---and the poisonous bite.'

You're very intelligent, laughed the voices. And very hard to convince. How can we show you our goodwill?

'Get me out of here, for a start.'

The voices laughed again. That's a start, truly. But before we begin on the subject of getting out, we want to offer our friendship.

Jackle paused, blinking, gold lashes fluttering in a show of uncertainty. 'Friendship?'

Of course. You're the only one around here perceptive enough to hear us; why wouldn't we want to be your friend?

'Makes sense, I guess,' admitted Jackle. He frowned. 'But what would this friendship do, apart from give another person the power to hurt me?'

A poetic soul, laughed the voices. We'll give you something to lean on, for one. For example, a few moments ago you were ready to kill yourself in your fear. Now you're conversing as reasonably as if you were in your room.

That one made him pause. They had a point; he felt unusually calm now that he wasn't alone. Perhaps it would be nice to have companions. It would mean the end of that horrible silence…he shuddered. Anything but silence.

'Maybe you're right.'

Maybe we are, murmured the voices smilingly.

'What will you get out of this?' Jackle wanted to know.

Like we said, no one else around here is smart enough to hear us. Now that we've found someone intelligent enough, we're eager to be friends.

'Alright, then. We're friends.'

Wonderful, the voices said in delight. It's so nice to have a nightmaren friend.

'Speaking of which,' interrupted Jackle, 'What are you?'

We knew you'd ask that. We're ethereal beings, consciousnesses without form.

'Right…sure. If you're just spirits without bodies, then what can you do besides give people weird dreams and heart attacks?'

Plenty, replied the voices amusedly. We can give you everything you ever wanted.

'Whoa, there. Repeat that again, slower this time?'

We have more power than you think.

'Meaning?…'

You're a very intelligent being, Jackle, but you're in a bad position, and you're unstable. With us to help you through difficult situations and even out your thoughts, no one will be able to stand in your way.

Jackle clenched his hands into tight fists. 'How can I know you're telling me the truth?'

Please, believe in us. Let us help you.

'I...'

He lifted his head, secretly wondering why it felt so much like he was handing his heart away on a platter. 'Very well. Help me make my life better.'

Trust us, the voices said.