His hand reached for his throat, but before he could grasp his blood spewing neck he felt himself sliding down. The darkness came, then the cold, and finally the heat. His vision filled with orange and reds, and his nose with smoke. The feelings of where he was were all deja vous.
"Undertaker," came a growled whisper. "You're not welcome here."
Underneath him he could feel the hot rock with their blunt edges pressed awkwardly into his back, and he pushed himself to a seated position to relieve such discomfort. The sharper rocks bit and punctured his palms, though he seemed indifferent to the discomfort. He expected his head to flop backwards, the front of his neck so severely severed his trachea would be exposed, but surprisingly he had remained in one piece. Before him lay treacherous stone steps, the bases were cracked and on each side there was never ending nothing, plummeting into darkness, their path lead up to Stygian. So he climbed the steps and stood at the prison's gate, which swung open to allow his admittance. The place appeared of long abandonment, cell doors rusted shut, cobwebs everywhere, and behind bars lay yellow bones the flesh picked clean not from rats, but from their starving cellmates whom too succumbed to eternal death.
The hollow wind whipped through the windows and cracks screaming at him in a duet with pained cries that originated from deep in the prison. He took heed and followed the wails though the more he carried on, the more it seemed the noise came not from in the building, but from it. He followed to the lower level, traveling down spiraling stone staircases, the screams were louder now, they came from every bloody impalement spike, individual whips and chains, cattle brands, thumb clamps and torture wracks. Still, following on he trekked deeper, and into the lowest bowels, each step making him heavier, his mind cloudier, and his stomach cramped in pain by the time he reached the dungeon of Stygian. The wailing was unbearably loud, and though he screamed for it to stop, hands pressed tightly over his ears, it would not cease. It seemed his eardrums would burst if it became any louder.
But there in the corner of the dungeon hung the young boy of his child hood. His arms shackled to the wall, and his jaw slack, eyes squinted shut as he screamed. If he freed the boy he had killed the screaming would stop, the thought seemed as logical as 'if I pinch myself, it will hurt.' So he dragged himself forward, hands pressing harder over his ears to no avail, and when one left his head to touch the child he screamed in pain. His hand fell to the boys face and he fell from the wall, and Undertaker collapsed.
He crashed into bones and through the wall but felt nothing, a second set of cries began and he simply ceased to exist.
* * * * *
His body fell forward in front of her, thunking against the tub and his arms falling into the water. She grabbed him by the legs, and struggled to dump his body in, it took a good minute or so before the corpse finally was in the tub. Out of a small cosmetic bag she had brought Desdemona removed dried plant leaves and a fine black powder, which clumped together thickly in her fingers, she put this odd mixture into the large cut on Mark's neck. So much she put on it that it clotted over with the blood and formed a grotesque scab, the remnants on her fingers were flicked onto the meat. She took a candle, lighting both the scabbed wound cauterized shut, and the meat aflame.
The fires spread, feeding off the blood and encompassing the meat. The smell was pungent and choking though she breathed it freely asphyxiating herself. Smoke filled the room at a steady pace until it brushed the ceiling and blurred all vision. She slumped to the bathroom floor unconscious.
"Giver, why have your returned?"
"I ask something of you Judge. I ask a gift of two lives."
The Judge looked at the she-demon before him and pondered her words. "Why will I agree to this Caregiver?"
"I will give you followers of mine and Stygian will be built anew."
"I accept this proposal, you will have these gifts. But I shall give you only one immortal life the other shall be as a human. I already know of the circumstances in which you wish for these lives, and they will be as so."
"Thank you Judge."
The Judge left Purgatory and returned to his dwellings, where he watched Undertaker climb the steps of Stygian.
* * * * *
Undertaker screamed as pain awoke him. It was like being burnt all over, and stretched inside out, but left as quickly as it came. The feeling took his breath and he sat for a minute, just regaining himself, memories dribbled back into his mind slowly. Instinctively he grabbed for his throat, fingering the skin, it was complete, though he came back with dried blood and something else he couldn't identify on his fingertips. He was in a tub. Why was—Oh, yes. His clothing was covered in blood as well as the entire bath. He needed a shower, he smelled like a slaughterhouse. So he took one, throwing his clothing in the corner with disregard.
Stepping out afterwards he saw the sink, filled with rags and the clothing Dessy had worn the night before, both were soaked in blood, and the sink basin was flecked with dried patches of crimson. It seemed as if a much larger mess had been made, and then cleaned up, there was a single towel left on the rack, which he wrapped around himself.
Logic stated how pissed he should have been that he was going to kill this woman who came into his home and took advantage of his kindness. But there was a benevolent sense of knowing he felt something, which was Greek to him, and somehow, he understood.
* * * * *
"Shhh," Des whispered as she sat on the couch beside Jordan. He placed an arm around her, saddened by the fact how different she felt than the day before. She was like a rock wrapped in clothing, all hard edges with no soft spots to sink into, and she was lack of sleep, her fingers shook from the absence of proper nourishment. But she was at ease. He hated the man who left her to rot with scum and made her ugly, but she pretended as if she owned the dark one something and gave part of her life to him. Nine pounds of her soul and power she had given.
The shower had quit running a minute ago and the apartment was now void of sound save for the occasional soft coos. The sound of the bath had reminded him of the night he had spent sleeping on the couch that smelled of alcohol and cheap cigars. He'd had better rest at a bus station and didn't smell as bad afterwards neither. There was no way he would think of using this man's shower though. Dessy handed him the bundle of cloth as the bathroom door finally opened. There was much she needed to explain this morning.
"What did you do last night to me?" Undertaker asked as he walked to his room to scavenge whatever clothing he could to wear. The tone of his voice inclined he was only moderately displeased.
"Exactly what I promised I would," Desdemona replied simply.
"No never said anything about killing me."
"I know, but do you think you would have let me had I told you? I had to anyway, your mortal life was useless on this plain, only on one of the other three realms could it change."
He picked jeans up off the floor and pulled them on under his towel, they were clean enough. "If you restored me, why do I still feel mortal? Immortality does not feel this weak."
"You don't feel any different because you aren't, yet. Last night two lives were created, mortal and immortal, the catch is here the strong depends on the weak. The immortal shall depend on the mortal."
He understood, but…didn't. Black eyebrows narrowed at the woman. "Des…what did you do?"
There was crying in the living room. Desdemona stood flat and emotionless as always. Undertaker hurriedly pulled on a black tank top, rushing out to the other room only to confirm his fears.
"Oh God, Dessy, you didn't!"
"That was the deal Mark."
He stared at the little pink body wrapped in a t-shirt as a makeshift blanket. Des picked it up from Jordan's arms and showed her first emotion for the day, she smiled. The child became silent, resting its head against her shoulder.
"No, that wasn't the deal! You never said anything about…that! What do you expect me to do with it?"
"She is the key to your immortality, and she's yours."
His fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose. What had he done? This was a joke, he must have still been dead and Lucifer decided to screw with his mind as a homecoming present. Des knew better than this, she would never trick him.
"How is that the key?! Is that the immortal life you created?"
"No, she's mortal, but she can make you immortal."
"Fuck, so I have to wait for that thing to grow up, master black magic, and connect with one of the three eternal worlds before I get my powers back?"
"No," Des just laughed. "You will be immortal much sooner than that. You will be immortal when she loves you."
A/N: Okay, I feel like I've got lots to explain now. The screaming boy I speak of was Taker himself. If you read the comics you know that Taker can't remember burning down the house and all that jazz, so that was him finding his own soul that he had put away so many years ago and becoming in a sense "human" again.
What's up with Jordan? I don't even know, but I know I'm the only person who doesn't think he's a whiney little bitch. XD