The three bandits were charged with keeping Kaitlyn out of trouble, no matter how much they disliked the idea. The main chamber of the shrine was soon made their base camp, because of it's size and closeness to the general exit. The little girl was making things easy for them by not doing anything in the least bit disturbing, just sitting quietly in a corner slotting shards of a broken tablet together, in the hopes of formulating the broken pieces of rock into their original state. It was like watching somebody put a five thousand piece jigsaw puzzle together. Dario had practically fallen asleep, catching up on a snooze he had never gotten to finish the night before. Ravendor woke him up far too early.

Speaking of their boss, the man was nowhere to be found, slipping away into the shadows with a few instructions left to Antonio, the foreign bandit just emerging from the mouth of a long corridor, dusting off his hands. He had an open bottle of alcohol in one, the other hand brushing back his thick curly locks. He was grinning, stepping over the nearly comatose Dario and making his way over to Romero, the blonde ninja staring off into space. "¡Hola!" He called to get his attention, sauntering up to the quietly brooding man and sitting down beside him, "What you think about, huh? You look troubled. Tell 'Tonio, he always know what to do."

Romero sighed, watching Kaitlyn try and fit two pieces of stone together. "You know where the Boss went?" He asked, flicking a small pebble away with two fingers. Antonio was blank for about a second, then offered his bottle of alcohol to the younger bandit, which was accepted gratefully. Romero took a long pull at it before taking a breath, somehow anxious on the inside. "It's just that… well, I don't think I should've taken this job. I'm getting a bad feeling, or something. Maybe it's 'cause we're in a Guardian shrine, but I keep thinkin' that something big is being hidden from us, you know? And the Boss…" He trailed off for a few thoughtful seconds, looking at the label on his bottle, "I only just noticed this, but there's something just wrong about him. Y'know, like the difference between a real gella coin and a fake one?"

"You think he be fake?" Antonio assumed, a hand on his chin. Romero was sharper than the foreign bandit would have thought, he was picking up on things much quicker than he had absently guessed. He tapped Romero on the shoulder comfortingly and glanced at Kaitlyn, who was still far out of harm's way. "He no fake," The small man said with a little reservation "He is good amigo, just a little weird." A pebble fell from the ceiling and landed nearby, close to a small underground stream that was filled with pitch black water. Antonio looked down. "Siempre está triste." He explained simply, then shrugged.

"I think I prefer Janus, though. Even if he did double-cross me an' Dario, at least we knew about most of the shit goin' on." Romero replied, handing the bottle back to Antonio. "I'll be happy when all of this is over." Without much thought, he hurled a small rock over to Dario, where it struck him in the face and didn't budge him an inch. All he did was roll over and begin to snore.

Antonio got up. "I go for walk." He announced, "I be here before, there be many, many miles of tunnel around in shrine. You no go too far, or you be lost. Stay with the chica, I be back soon." He frowned as he walked away, banishing it long enough to smile and wink at Kaitlyn. Antonio may have seemed cheerful and slightly dumb to others, but that was just his dyslexia getting in the way. The ninja was a lot more cognitive of the world around him. The bandit snorted, directing his thoughts inwards.

This is the last thing we need, the others to be getting suspicious… Where did the Boss go, anyway? I'll have to search for him. Poor Romero, he will end up in the worst predicaments if he doesn't learn to keep his big mouth shut, and even worse than that, why the hell does he seem so adamant to be alone with Kaitlyn…?

The answer presented itself, and Antonio groaned.

That damned pervert! Dario had better stay on his toes, for that girl's sake, eh? In fact, change her hair colour a little bit and she does look a little like Carolyn… Poor Dario, he probably doesn't even see through the resemblance, the silly oaf…

He slipped into a shadow, disappearing.

If the Boss is sick again, there will be hell to pay… and seriously, literal Hell…Antonio remembered that last time Ravendor had lost control, and, well… He still had nightmares about it sometimes. The other bandits were ignorant, but Antonio knew far too much.

xxx

The bucket was wooden and watertight, sealed up with a mixture of tar and other chemicals, reinforced with a band of metal around the base and near the rim. A little old-fashioned, maybe, but suitable enough to get the job done. It slowly filled with clear bubbling water as it was immersed in the underground spring, the liquid icy cold and dark from the lack of light, but pure and capable of being drunk. It grew heavy with the weight of the water and he lifted it with a bit of effort, the wood now dampened and glistening. Ravendor could see his reflection in it, just barely.

He had discarded his jacket, shirt and boots at the edge of the water reservoir, and now he was immersed waist-deep in the frosty pool, left alone to do some very important thinking. He trusted the others with Kaitlyn for now, but at the moment, all he wanted to be right now was alone.

Raising the bucket, he tipped the contents over his head and felt the refreshing water spill all over him, washing away the partially dried blood from his agitated injuries. It ran down his face and through his hair, the chill numbing out the small shocks of continuos pain. Well, at least he had stopped bleeding so far, he could be thankful for that, but this only meant that it would get worse soon enough.

His gloves lay alongside most of his clothing, leaving his hands bare, but still hidden under the watery depths. Raising them, the black leather of his gloves no longer hid a mutilating scar that extended along the entire length of his palm, staring at the wrist and moving all the way in a diagonal direction across his hand, ending in a rough gash between his thumb and index finger, cutting his life line in half. It was a knife wound, and very, very old. This was the reason that Ravendor always wore gloves, to hide the scar that spoke of his own wish for self-destruction. It had been a while since he had thought so deeply about it, but the fact that Clive had come back into his life again made it no easier to forget.

I remember, long ago. I was a very sad and lonely person, where the days were just as bleak as the night. I felt as though people talked around and through me, as if I was already a ghost whom nobody could detect. I wanted to die, I did not wish to exist anymore, and I knew that the world would be a happier place if I were to be wiped out of existence forever. Water droplets ran through the cracks between his fingers, creating ripples in the frosty pool below. Ravendor's eyes were focussed, his voice soft. He spoke only to the walls and air around him. Not much… has changed. I may have a different purpose now, but my goal will always be the same…

"Kaitlyn…" Ravendor breathed, stepping out of the water, "If you saw me again, I would not be recognized. But that does not matter… only… revenge… Would you… know who I am?"

The only reply he got was the burning of his injuries, and making sure that nobody else was around, he spat on the ground and cursed, not the world, not Clive, but himself. Another curse to add to his collection…

xxx

The bullets came loose from their clip with only a hushed scraping sound, metal sliding coolly against metal, reflecting the light of the pale moon and stars. The night was still dark, even with those comforts, and it hid all the things that wished not to be seen. Ravendor was one of them, standing upon a crumbled decrepit staircase that led to nowhere, except a fifty-foot drop to a cluster of jagged rocks below. It used to be a beautiful stone chapel, carved with divine and heavenly insignia, a site of worship long ago. Now, except for a few statues and choice chunks of foundation, just a skeleton remained. Only a cliff, a dead ruin, and a destroyed soul. Ravendor's life was a ruin, and he wanted it to end.

He had climbed the staircase like he was already half-asleep, his loaded pistol in one hand, and a sharpened knife in the other. It did not really belong to him, but Clive had not noticed it's absence, for he was already preoccupied with other trivial things. He had written a note and left it where the knife was supposed to be, hopefully, the last thing he would ever have to write. Ravendor didn't need to sharpen the blade, Clive took good care of it anyway, not even the slightest speck of dust existing on the edge. It would be perfect for his uses.

The remaining parts of the broken foundation were embroidered with images of floating cherubim amongst a floral design, meant to be cheerful and happy, but now just an addition that held no meaning. He had dressed warmly because the air was slightly chill, but did not really have to worry about catching a cold too much, assuming that his plan would carry out correctly. Almost business-like, he exposed one of his wrists and brandished the knife, preparing himself.

It was strangely painless, he thought after a few moments, as the razor edge of the knife pierced the soft translucent skin upon his wrist. Only the tip cut through, manipulating it carefully and drawing it downward along his arm, grazing the vital veins and allowing the blood to bead around the cut. This was a stress relief, and the colour of the leaking blood seemed so pretty to his eyes, a vibrant lively red, pouring down his arm. A few moments passed, and he began to feel the impact of his actions, a small sting beginning to manifest in his system. It was small, however, and easily ignored. It was worth it to see his life drain away, departing, in liquid form.

Losing a bit of feeling in the damaged arm, Ravendor holstered his ARM and switched the blade to his other hand, having to forcefully tighten the grip on the knife because his nerves were going dead. His face expressionless, he carved a similar wound onto his left wrist, seeing a small stream of his blood slide down the edge of the knife and collect at the handle, catching the moonlight and stars. He would bleed himself nearly dry before consummating his plan, his blood bore guilt, and the genetic pattern of his family line, one that he had never wanted. The blood of the immoral duke flowed through his veins, and if he wanted to die with peace, he would have to remove that stain of sin first. He smiled, but the smile immediately faded, though, and he was left to wonder at the ruinous turns his life had taken. How had it happened that he, who was meant to be a duke and live above his fellow man, was now left homeless, loveless, a refugee in an unfeeling planet, allowed to remain only at the sufferance of his gang leader? Allowed to remain only as long as Clive Winslett saw fit?

He was a Begucci, he was a nobleman, he was… nothing.

A warm breeze caressed his cheek as he held both his arms over the precipice in front of him, the falling drops of blood spilling down to a surface too far away to be seen, carried a little by the wind. This was where the chapel's altar used to be, but due to neglect and soil erosion, only the small part Ravendor was standing on remained. He was sacrificing his blood to a shrine that no longer existed, praying to a Guardian that was no longer there. That was fine with him, he didn't really want anything anyway, just an ending. And the only force capable of offering that to him was just the pure nothingness, nonexistence itself. This would be over soon.

He checked the clip in his revolver, six separate canisters that had been emptied of it's rounds, lying in a scattered pile at his feet. Kneeling for a short while, he carefully picked up one of the rounds, the bullet rolling placidly into the center of his palm and picking up a small smear of blood, the coppery metal it was made of contrasting with the red. The bullet slipped with lubricated ease into the clip of his ARM again, the blood helping a little in it's entry. There, the gun was loaded for one shot, and, he spun the clip in his revolver randomly, snapping it shut after counting to three, he now had a one in six chance that the weapon would properly fire. Knowing this, he held the gun to his right temple and pulled the trigger without hesitation, sighing.

Shot one. The first time I saw you, you were crying over the bodies of your parents in the wreckage of a burning carriage. You were sad, and I was there to help, but, no longer…

The Peacemaker only made a hollow clinking noise next to his ear, indicating that the bullet canister was empty. Well, no matter. He could play this game of Russian Roulette all night if he had to, eventually, the law of probability would have him killed. Ravendor was beginning to feel slightly dizzy from the steady lack of blood, so he sped things up a bit by picking up another bullet and inserting it, again slotting it randomly into his clip and spinning it once more. The chances had been raised, now there was a two in six chance that he would die. This was strangely fun.

Looking down into the wide gap of nothingness in front of him, Ravendor could easily predict his fate. The gun would fire, he would lose his head, and the body would topple from this perch onto the sharp rocks below, alongside all the blood he had already lost. Nobody would find his corpse, or even search for it, he was technically an orphan already, his parents presumed him dead, so why not make that lie into a truth? He didn't have a future, without Seraph, there was no future. She was dead, and so was he. Squeezing the trigger, he tried again.

Shot two. I remember when you were healthy, we got lost in a cornfield outside of the town, and it took hours just to find each other, even though we were following the sound of our own voices. You were laughing then, you were happy…And, so was I.

The sound was the same, empty, ambient, lacking. Lowering the weapon, he cursed and wiped at his face, leaving a trail of his own blood upon his cheek. The dripping fluid that was slowly staining the sleeves of his white jacket red were pooling on the ground at his feet, creating a puddle that nearly held his reflection. It had consumed the rest of his bullets, so he fished around in his own blood until he found a new one again, wiping the liquid away on his clothing and adding it to his game of roulette. It was three against three, a fifty percent chance now, this would probably be the last try. With a languid motion, he pressed the end of his ARM against his forehead now, brushing aside his fringe of black hair. Biting his lip and closing his eyes, he readied himself. His arms were nearly numb, the cold was seeping into his body, gaining dizziness from the blood loss… The hand of death was only seconds away. Slowly, he began to pressure the trigger, and…

Shot three. On the last day of your life, you escaped from your deathbed to die alone and unburden us with our grief, but I searched, and found you anyway. You were here, on this very altar, and with your last words you confessed that you did not want to leave… You cried, but at the same time, you smiled. I… do not understand…

Some things were not made to be understood.

"Swanky!" Clive cried, feeling his heart tighten in relief and fear.

Ravendor paused, opening one eye. He recognized that voice, and it was not welcome at all. Turning slowly, the ends of his jacket getting stained by his blood, he lowered his revolver and looked down upon the boy at the foot of the staircase, wondering how he had gotten here. He message had not detailed exactly where he was going to be, how in the world did Clive know? Ravendor narrowed his eyes and took a small step further towards the cliff. "What do you want?" He asked with irritation, going a little tense.

Clive kept his distance, he didn't want to provoke Ravendor into doing something foolish, and he was already much too close to the precipice for comfort. The younger boy had one hand shoved in his pocket, while the other was balled into a fist, shaking by his side. In it was the note Ravendor had left at their hideout, discovered much too quickly. Unsure of what he should do or say, he shot blindly into the dark, trying out his best convincing voice. "S-swanky… What are you doing?" He asked, then suddenly wanted to take back the words, they were stupid and totally useless.

The teenager standing upon the altar drastically changed the subject, gripping Clive's knife with his free hand and touching it to the hollow of his throat, then slowly trailed the tip across so that it didn't draw blood, but only left a white mark of it's movement. Had he placed a little more pressure over the instrument, he would have slit his own throat. "Seven years ago we met, didn't we? At first, we were poised to kill each other, but then we rapidly became friends. You let me into your gang so that I would have a home to live in, and in doing so, I met Kaitlyn. Why did you do that?"

The green-haired boy hung his head, but he also took a step forward, ascending up one stair. Ravendor noticed this and moved a little further away, but this was as far as he could go without falling. "I can't answer that," Clive said sadly, feeling a heavy pressure on his small chest, "I was six years old and I was stupid. I saw that you needed help and so I wanted to help, that was just they way I used to think. I still try to be like that, sometimes. Ravendor," He was beyond serious, Clive hardly ever used Ravendor's real name, "Please step away from the cliff. Don't hurt yourself like this…"

He shook his head. "Go away, Clive." Ravendor said faintly, indecisively sheathing his borrowed knife in an inner pocket of his white jacket. "Go back to your gang, go back to Catherine and the others. Go back to your Professor and your studies. Go back and become a drifter and an archaeologist, make yourself a happy future. My future is here, with this cliff, this gun and this destroyed chapel. I do not want to see you anymore. I do not want to see, or know anybody or anything. It is tiring, I am tiring…"

Clive stood with his head down, his arms hanging limply by his sides. If there was anything he could do to convince Ravendor to step away from that cliff, he would have gladly done it. "You're my best friend, you know," He admitted sincerely, "And I am only a worthless orphan. Because of this, it means that my friends are automatically my family. If you die, then I'll be just an orphan again." His words became more frantic. "It hurt when Kaitlyn died, I don't wanna have to bury you as well! I don't wanna lose another brother or sister!" As quickly as that, Clive lost nearly all of his drive. "One is… enough…" He sighed.

For a moment, the blank mask Ravendor was wearing flickered, revealing green eyes immersed in pain, and, trembling behind that, something that almost seemed to be fear. "Go away, Clive." He whispered again, his voice rasping slightly. "Leave me alone and let me finish this." For long minutes Ravendor was still and silent, not moving from his position or looking away from the ground. Then his hand came up to cover his eyes, the other supporting his elbow, and an odd noise came from him that Clive recognized as a painfully stifled sob.

The younger boy chose this time to act, climbing up the stone staircase and pausing less than a foot away from Ravendor, his breath fogging up around his face whenever he breathed. Ravendor was doing it too, but it was more irregular, like he was holding back pent-up emotion. "Don't do this, Ravendor," Clive said quietly, "There's another way. Don't end it like this." He looked at all the blood staining his older brother's clothing and winced at the self-inflicted wounds he had made, wondering how on Filgaia he could have done such a thing. "You still have so much to live for…"

Ravendor's head lifted and he glared at Clive, his angry eyes shining with tears. "And how the fuck would you know?!" He hissed, his hand tightening on the gun that was still loaded. "Do you think you know me?! Do you think you can even help me?! Do not make me laugh! You will never understand what I have lived through!" There was still so much, so much pain that he wanted to forget… And death, it was the big erasure…

Taking a chance, Clive struck wildly at Ravendor's heart. "Would Kaitlyn want you to end everything like this?" He asked carefully.

Clive suddenly had the end of Ravendor's Peacemaker pressed into his stomach, though he was still unsure if it would fire or not. He hoped, he prayed that it would. No fury on Filgaia could have matched the amount contained within his bright green eyes, and he gritted his teeth so tightly that it was nearly painful. "I will kill you, you fool!" He yelled, his hand shaking. "Guardians, if only I had killed you that day we first met! I would still be as miserable and worthless as I am now, but at least I wouldn't know it! I wouldn't see it! I wouldn't have known what I was missing!" He'd have never met Kaitlyn, he would have never lost her, and then, he would never have to feel this endless pain. It was all Clive's fault!

"…If you hadn't met her, or stayed with her, Kaitlyn would have died all alone. It was because of you that she lived so long, Swanky, I think you made her happy. I think that was all she wanted. I know I'm not as smart as you, but Kaitlyn would have wanted you to be happy as well."

Ravendor shook his head and struggled briefly before sobbing again. "I cannot stand... to look at myself…" He wept, his tears hot and bitter, streaming down his cheeks. "Gods!" He screamed suddenly, his head tipping backward as he howled at the night sky, "How could this have happened to me?! How could I have let it happen?! How could you let it happen?! Why am I so weak?!"

"I know you're not weak, Ravendor!" Clive shouted, raising his voice to get through to the other boy. "You're strong! You've made it this far! Everything's been against you but you've managed to evade death for sixteen fucking years! Don't give in now…"

Suddenly all fight went out of him and he trembled terribly, hardly even holding himself up. "Let me die, Clive." Ravendor whispered, staring dully at nothing. "I'm so tired of everything. How can I go on living everyday with nothing to look forward to?" His voice was becoming strained. "I never thought that it would be this way. I'm ruined, and I have destroyed myself. I wanted to be able to stand on my own, to be whoever I wanted to be, so that what the duke did… When he got drunk and liked to beat me... It was so many... times..." They all had a sordid past, it was natural in a town like Little Twister, but to Ravendor it only made him feel all the more unclean. "You must think this is funny…" He said after awhile, still holding his ARM up against Clive's stomach, "That is why… this is the only way…"

His hand moved fast, and Clive was all of a sudden holding his hand over the top part of the revolver's barrel, trying to gain a better grip on it. However, he pushed the ARM further into his stomach, his smile sadly mocking. "Kill yourself, then." He said without emotion, "Go ahead, but you will have to kill me first." He tried to smile, but the result came out all wrong, "You said you wanted to, now do it. Afterwards, finish yourself off."

Ravendor bowed his head for a moment, though he didn't move the gun or pressure the trigger. "Gods damn you, Clive! You know I can't!" He half-sobbed, his voice harsh with tears. Clive slowly closed his eyes, continuing to hold the gun near him so Ravendor could not use it on himself, and waited to see if it would fire. Against him, it never did.

But the older boy did take another step back, and instead of meeting another stone part of the floor, his foot touched nothing except for a wide expanse of air. He had backed up over the edge. Clive felt a force pull the revolver away and he immediately opened his eyes, choking out a startled gasp when he saw Ravendor struggling to keep his balance before he had a chance to tumble off. The motion forced Clive to let go and grab for one of the older boy's hands, but he remember the wounds on his wrists and snatched at Ravendor's shirt, trying to hold on. It was difficult, for his age, Clive was not particularly strong.

His hand grazed the inner pocket of Ravendor's coat and without even thinking he had his knife out again, stained with the already drying streaks of the older boy's blood. Ravendor still had his hand upon the trigger, but he was too preoccupied with falling to notice this danger, and the gun could easily go off and hit either of them. Clive knew what he had to do, he needed to disarm him, before it became too late. Shifting the knife into the palm of his unburdened hand, Clive located the hand bearing the revolver and swiped at it, nearly hearing in slow motion the reverberating clang as the ARM was knocked away and up into the air. Ravendor screamed, and blood began to flow horribly from his hand, Clive had accidentally cut far too deeply.

Clive threw himself backwards and used his own weight to drag both of them back onto the staircase, and Ravendor grabbed blindly for his ARM, raking the air with bloodied fingers, and then touching metal, but it bounced out of his aching palm and went off, a cracking sound indicating that the gun had been loaded this time. If Clive had not stopped him, Ravendor would have finally died on shot three.

The dark-haired boy heard the sickly sound of meat being struck by a high speed object, then his fired weapon hitting the ground with finality, the end of the barrel smoking contentedly. He heard Clive gasp, and then groan, struggling to stand and then hitting the floor on his side, whereas Ravendor slipped and struck his head against a chunk of eroded foundation, being smitten dumb by a temporary loss of his senses.

Time flowed, but it could have been a mere few seconds, or perhaps even an hour as Ravendor came to again, feeling a sticky and stinging sensation as blood from a cut to his face dripped down into one of his eyes, and his right hand twitched feebly, the nerves slightly damaged from Clive's quick maneuver. He felt like he wanted to throw up, but pushed himself to his feet and brushed the fringe out of his eyes, cursing quietly. So much for his plan. He was stained with blood and tears, swaying slightly, he wondered if it would all ever end. Tensing, Ravendor heard a groan.

Clive was lying in a puddle of his own blood, the breath emerging from his body bearing a rasping whistling quality, taken deeply, and he twitched a little as he tried to weakly move his arm, which was torn open by a wayward bullet wound. He had lost far too much blood, and Ravendor cursed.

He tried to save my life, the idiot, and now he is injured… This is all my fault…

The dark-haired boy picked up his gun and opened the clip one last time, setting it so that it would fire again properly. Breathing in deeply, he held it to his head again, he could at least get this part of his plan done…

"S-s-s-swanky… don't do it, for the Guardian's sakes, please don't do it…" Clive whimpered, struggling to get up.

Ravendor paused, looked at the gun, and then dropped it. Cursing again most profusely, he turned, regretting everything, and then ran to get help.

He would have to die another day.