Disclaimer: Fox logos, the LXG trademarks and characters do not belong to me. I make no profit from this venture, the folklore/ghosts stems from Black Hart Storytellers and Meercat Tours and of course Old Reekies' Terror Tour...
Author's Notes: IT'S THE FINAL CHAPTER!
Lord, it's been a wonderful ride—from sceptical reviews to wonderful reviews; from cries of "I don't understand!" to "It rocks!"; from "Crystal" to "Nox" and "Willow" to "The Lady"—we've been many places together.
I must apologise, grovel and beg your forgiveness for the lateness of this chapter; unfortunately writer's block struck, and hasn't let up yet. However, have no fear! A sequel may be in the works...
Once again I have to thank you all; this story wouldn't have happened without your consistently encouraging, charming reviews (and interesting tangents of thought eh Crystal Nox?) Special thanks to my longest running reviewers Keyanna and Funyun, without you two and your incredibly detailed, credible hyperbole (:-D Kei!) this wouldn't have made it past chapter two.
Individual shouts at the end.
Shards
Chapter Eight: A quintessence even from nothingness
The sky is spinning.
Night air, cool and dark and crisp; the breeze against her flesh. The sense of warmth beneath her shoulders, neck and knees—a soft pressure, all enveloping. The feeling of hands, cradling her, warm and sticky.
And a jaunt, a lumbering step which bounces through her bones.
Mina looks up to see Hyde—or Jekyll—she is no longer sure what to call him. She sees the blood running in rivulets across his ruined face—splitting apart, coming back together, small dancing drops, pooling in the hollows beneath his eyes.
There is a strange comfort in this—being carried, bathed in blood, a newborn human; no longer hungering to sink her mouth into his neck, or lick the rivulets off. Instead the blood is sticky; her skin itches where it has soaked through her dress.
A hollowed out, dissonant peace.
And at the same time, a horrible pain, a feeling of intense loss—the knowledge, tearing her that if this is what has happened to Jekyll, then what has become of the others?; Sawyer, whose eyes sparked, defiant, and angry and terrified as they ran; Skinner and the feel of his panic trembling through his hand—warm and scarred and callused in the dark; Nemo and his formalities, his calm buttoned up, his burning eyes?
They are alone on the streets; the empty witching hour breathing down on them; apart from the stealthy sound of footfalls, nothing, a building silence.
She coughs softly, sound almost lost in the dull, cold air. Jekyll's eyes flicker to her, a smile tears distantly across his face.
She could almost smile back.
The streets stretch out ahead. "Where—?" She begins, softly, dimly.
His voice is quieter than hers when he cuts her off:
"I can smell them."
A small peace, a small happiness spreads through her.
His eyes, darting around, they don't stop moving; not once does he stop looking. She can almost feel through his skin, see what he is seeing; Hyde's senses, acute, tender; the glow of the dark, the throb of the stones;
and the smell of the familiar, the comforting.
"Only Skinner and Nemo."
"Are they alive?" She whispers, moving in her perch, skirts rustling in the dark.
He hums, and the air moves aside with this intensity of sound; she can't breathe in this waiting space.
"I think so." Comes the reply: small, and indistinct.
She feels their pace increase.
There is a terrible intensity to his feeling now his skin is gone.
The rawness of the night air on his nerves, clogging and coagulating in the new-born stickiness; the sense of bile spilling from his liver; acid dripping through his muscles.
Rotting away; skin like shredded leather, eyes milky with their marble hardness.
He can still move; twitching at the writhing, crawling beneath his skin as intestines uncoil themselves, muscles lose their tautness, fluids pool and shift and slosh through his body.
His whole mind rebels at this; this seeping away of the flesh, this inability to connect. He burns with the sheer agony, the tightness in his chest coiling, cleaving. He wants to scream to run, to shout blind agony to the sky, to save Mina and Jekyll and Skinner and Nemo, to cry at their graves, to loosen the guilt, to have his body back.
He recoils at the sudden brush of contact against his hand, the smell of decomposition that seeps through his skin coating him; rancid oil.
The fear that crawls through him, eating up what little of this there is.
This hiss of this other beside him, this embodiment of the living nightmare. His dead counterpart. What he will become if he lies here, lies here just lies here.
"Just lie there, just do as your told, don't move—don't"
"I'm dying alive, I'm feeling all of this, and you—you"
"do anything to bring them to you, to draw their attention. They"
"tell me to lie here, to rot, well, go to hell if we're not already there, and take your"
"persecuted us enough in life, all the children, the mothers, the fathers, the"
"goddamn advice. I'm not dead, why suffer with you? Who the hell are you? What"
"covenanters, we were alone. We are food now, to hell, for hell, trapped here, like you and you friends."
"the hell are you doing here?"
The hiss of indrawn breath, the flail of failing lungs against the oppression of the blackness above.
He breathes.
"What the hell do you know about my friends?"
She whispers. Hurried, rushed; the hiss of final breath escaping.
"They're damned. It knows, it watches. It eats us up and it waits. It's waited so long we're almost all gone. It's getting ready, the final showdown; the big finale. It knows what you wanted to do, what you're doing now, it burns, so badly he fears fire and it knows, it sees, and your woman, your monster, your crewless, they're eaten eating alone..."
A pause above him, the waiting silence of despair.
"We are, each of us, alone. And without their doorway, they're damned."
The golden glass is warm against the blackness; pub light, beery and rich on the cobblestones. Jekyll peers through the little panes, warped enough, she knows, that he won't be seen in the drunken inside.
"Upstairs." He states, "Jacobs, Nemo and Skinner." His eyes slide away from the window, down to her, where she leans against the wall. She feels the abrupt tingle of cold against her skin, the shiver of what? Anticipation?
And then his eyes drag away, to her left.
A small door; paint flaking, blue shredding off, dark, hollowed-out in the black air.
He moves; the graceful step of Jekyll she knows so well, unwieldy in Hyde's body. A breath of warm air, the smear of blood across her dress as his arm brushes across her.
She's watching him, so intently, in the gathering gloom, fear and gratefulness and something hot moving in the pit of her spine.
He presses his fingers beneath the hinges and pushes the pins out.
The door swings inward; cold groans out in a dead, still musk.
Inside: The blue, faded wreck of a hallway; the stairs wooden, sanded and sagging beneath the moisture of condensation. Somewhere ahead, the sounds, refractive and doubled, of movement.
Jekyll looks to her, eyes blue in the dullness.
She steps past him, inside and stands at the base of the stairs, stands in the waiting stillness.
"I don't accept that, there's always a way—"
Her decay moves against his anger, with a sigh of stagnant air.
"None, nothing; wish for what you will it won't allow you. The doorway was kept here, too far for you to reach—"
The sudden break, the air becomes cold and crisp again for one instant; a breakthrough?
"Doorway?" He asks, "The way this thing gets in? It was kept here?"
"This is the transitional place; everything comes here, no solid form, you wait till the next. The doorway, it waits till it's called: mirrors, asylums, holes, white rabbits, rings, trees wardrobes: Wiccans calling, your nightmares hot like food for it—"
"So it took advantage and made the doorway its exit? Feeding on our nightmares to keep it alive?" The pieces keep solidifying, arranging themselves in his head.
"And it's strong again. It brings the doorway back."
The breeze again, the stagnation and stalemate lifting in his head. Hope.
"To here? Where I could reach it?"
Screaming; loud and pained and horror-filled.
The black hole in front torn open like a mouth, screaming it's nightmares out with Skinner's voice.
She lunges through, toppling into the blackness and in her mind the story of Alice: The account of falling through and down down down springs to mind; she's following her painted white Rabbit, who screams out that it's too late.
She doesn't want to be too late.
No one saved Alice; but she'll save them all, I will, she mantras, even without her gift.
Behind her Jekyll stumbles through; blocking out the little light from behind.
Ahead is the blazing of light, golden and hotly flickering against the vaulted stones.
Running towards them; the same hollowing rebound of voices as that time on the Nautilus, the same pit of fear in her stomach, all churning and boiling, and the knowledge deep down, deeply distant in her that this is not something she wants to see.
The room is ablaze with light when she rounds the corner. Dazzling; candles, gilt and mirrors burning her eyes.
And Skinner in the centre, thrashing wildly, screaming, it burns, oh God, it burns...
So many mirrors; so many black reflections, boiling glasses.
The terror shaking through her, the knock as her breath leaves her body.
But he's screaming, and behind him Jacobs is writhing on the floor, soundless.
Running to them.
And she is there, supporting the white rabbit with Nemo; holding him upright, the solidity of Skinner beneath her hands grounding, helping her, him.
Even in the whirling, the reality, the joy is sharp and clear. Nemo's eyes flashing thankfulness and desperation in the brightness.
And the sound behind, around, next to her of whispering, crawling, chewing and burning. Time seems to move too fast; she feels as if she's swimming through it. The burning knowledge, like ice crawling up her back, that this is not where she wants to be.
Get out, away, now...
Turning to run, and Hyde's standing in the mirror, Jekyll boiling on the floor under his gaze.
It's too late.
He stands up.
Smile dark on his face, eyes burning, and she backs away so fast. Nemo shooting her such confused looks and Skinner almost rigid with the pain, falling to the floor.
Turning to run away, back, away from Hyde's eyes in Jekyll's face,
Into Jacobs.
Whose eyes are black.
He just knocks her down.
The dull hump of sound as the air around him changes, faster than he can breathe with his ragged lungs.
Another layer of decay is added to the mix.
Sawyer knows, just as he knows without seeing that he has corroded, that it is here.
The doorway.
And it burns in him, slowly, hotly, this knowledge; that he can do this, put it all right again, save the others, wherever they are rotting, save this thing next to him, that speaks in the broken language of the dead.
And he forces the rotten limbs to press down, into the mud.
And he forces the dead weight of him body to roll.
And he crawls.
Towards it, this shape in the dark ignoring her hisses behind him, ignoring the groans from around him as he crawls through what could only be other bodies.
Another shot rents the air; hits him in the back.
And he feels it: excruciating pain, white hot, another fractured bone.
So much pain.
"What are you hoping to accomplish here?" It asks, the mocking monstrosity, eyes black in Jacobs, voice multiplied in the one throat.
Nemo feels the press of tight anger in his lungs.
Mina scrabbles to her feet in front of him, Skinner grasps weakly at his arm, breathing so heavy in the thick air, eyes unfocussed in his pain.
Behind him; Jekyll, radiating malice.
"Really now, what were you trying to do?" It smiles, the smile a cat would give to a mouse to take to its grave. It's black eyes looking in turn at Mina, himself, then Skinner, who groans and hunkers down even more.
The anger boils up tighter, flaming hot.
"We will destroy you!" He spits at the thing, holding onto Skinner tightly, willing him to stand; willing recovery.
"Who is 'we'?" It asks in return, smiling still, "You and...Your invisible friend? Your fangless vampire?" It grins now, teeth too sharp in Jacobs face, mouth too twisted.
The anger boils over, sizzling hot, hissing against the cold fear. Vision almost bleached with this heat, everything so unjust; he lunges at the thing.
All breath disappears against a wall of force; sucked out as he flies backwards like a stone; smashing into a mirror, shards biting into his back as it shatters beneath him.
He seizes one sliver, cold, slicing into his hand, and lunges again, slicing at its face, cutting deep, the blood oozing out, black and thick.
And hands pinning him, forcing him away, backwards, beside him Mina, gasping as behind them Jekyll holds her hair and his neck.
He fights.
But Jekyll doesn't move.
He just snarls.
She can't breathe, and her skin is pulled so tight.
Pain runs through her face, burning, so harsh. Her eyes are rolled so far down to watch this that they ache.
Nemo next to her still struggles, but his face is colouring in his fight to breathe against the arm wrapped around his throat.
"ENOUGH!"
And it is, god it is, she can't take more.
But Jekyll's arms don't release them.
Instead, Skinner, tears streaking through the greasepaint, is standing and grasping blind-fingered at an oil can.
"You wanted a sacrifice to end this—that's all we need to end this: a goddamn sacrifice, so you can bloody well have it!" And he douses himself.
And the thing begins to laugh.
Laughing as if it's sucking the air from the room.
"YES! Sacrifice yourself! We won't be destroyed! You need the door; and that my painted one is taken care of." And it smiles, so hungrily.
Next to her, Nemo slumps, unconscious.
She's crying now, face wet with tears and she knows, knows with everything left that this is it; they have failed.
"The more you hurt, the more we feed, the more pain, the more of us there are; all those that burned in these tunnels, all souls that rotted in the churchyard prison, all those that drowned, or split or burnt on your fine ship: we feed on."
The very blood pouring from it seems to swell, the skin to boil away, it is there, forming, changing, and she closes her eyes as it moves towards Skinner; reaching with those boiling limbs.
"We are the eaters of souls: and we are so hungry. We'll have you, and then we'll have more."
Time is like oil, thick, black, heavy.
Sliding through the filth from one side to the other, the pain burning through him, the whistle of bullets missing, just.
The hammer blow when one hits; tearing through him.
Five, he counts; five bloodied holes it takes before he feels the sandpaper-rough wood beneath his fingers.
Six before he gets the matches in his hand, cardboard pulp from saltwater and blood.
And in him this peace, this thought that perhaps this is it; perhaps this is his time to go.
The first match is too wet, it jus smokes, and the second...
Another soft shot, feather-light in sound, hammer blow in impact.
Too wet again.
Another shot.
Eight holes; so painful it's almost an ecstasy to be left rotting in peace.
He closes his eyes.
Tom Sawyer: finally licked by the ghosts in the graveyard; the witching him and Huck used to calls on in the lonely nights to cure aches and ailments and sore teeth.
He feels the laugh bubbling up inside him, and he can almost see the moonlight again, he his friend with his "warn't" and his conviction that the treasure being buried could be theirs for the taking.
And then Allan's voice soft in his ear: "Eyes open boy."
And he opens them, half expecting to be back there in childhood with Huck and Becky and Allan.
But all there is is a box of matches.
And he knows, pain and grief and incomprehensible life stretching ahead, that this is what he has left.
The third one lights.
Too little light for the blackness, a small little tip of warmth struggling to stay lit.
He touches sulphur tip to the wood of the doorway.
And it burns so much more brightly.
Screaming, howling and such terrible heat.
She falls in the abrupt release; next to her she hears the slump as Nemo hits the floor.
Such bright light that burns against her eyes red light hurting through to golden to white that steams through her eyelids and sound, screaming, so many voices; too much, growing, pressing on her till she is sure she cannot hear anymore, that something has to break soon.
Abruptly it does.
Silence.
And a terrible pain in her throat, a tightness; a dryness, the sense of blood burning in her vision and sharp canines and strength flooding through her.
The thing has gone.
The candles are still burning, lower, waxy on the floor. The mirrors still stand, but empty, repeating everything in the room except her—invisible once again.
Jacobs, lying still on the floor; Skinner standing, panting, oil-slick and eyes missing once more; Nemo, still unconscious, blue robes dust-covered on the floor.
And Jekyll, backed into a corner, looking down at his own hands, suit in tatters, by mercifully, eyes back to normal.
It's over.
She stoops to pick up Nemo, that coldness, merciful strength filling her, and such peace, such blessed relief.
There is an uncoiling, a release, the knowledge that when she looks back at this it will be over. It will be finished.
Perhaps.
Behind her she hears Jekyll beginning to smash each and every one of the mirrors.
A little church, a lot of tombs black with age.
He looks to the right, down the slope of the hill.
Wilhelmina Harker perched in front of the Grim Reaper.
She looks directly at him, eyes, changed by time and experience; "It is so peaceful here-" She begins,
"Makes a welcome change." He finishes.
Back where they started, back in the graveyard, and Skinner knows so much has changed, so much more is different.
He studies her face, and she, for her part studies his.
There is a long time where nothing happens, not birdsong, not wind rustling in the trees, nothing. But there is no pressure in his chest, no distrust, nothing but complete peace in his lungs.
"How is Tom?" She asks eventually, hand picking at the moss covering the tomb she sits on.
He crunches down the incline towards her, silent this time, watching his feet and her hand and the blue sky above.
"Better today." He states as he takes the free space beside her. "Eight gunshot wounds and the kid still lives—bloody miracle." He folds his cold hands across his chest and lets her eyes look him over.
"He's not a 'kid' though," she states eventually, but the admonishment that would have been in her tone a few days before is gone now. "We've changed, Skinner. All of us."
She looks out over tombs towards those gates at the back corner, now shut tight; safely locked up.
"I noticed," He hedges, "Nemo talks more now, Jekyll talks less, Hyde hasn't been heard from for days: licking his flayed wounds Jekyll says, But you don't talk to Jekyll, and Tom, well..." He frowns, forehead heavy with these feelings. "The Nautilus is almost fully repaired, and the nightmares are easing."
He looks at her, and she lets him.
"Do you think it's over?" he asks eventually, watching her skin, her eyes, her mouth, watching, waiting for the answer.
"It should be." She states eventually.
On the grass beside him a blackbird hops, pecking at the ground for worms.
"Would you like a drink?" He eventually asks.
The pub echoes through the wood of the toilet door, and rush of cold water from the tap.
And she washes her hands, knowing that he's waiting for her on the other side.
That everything could go back to normal.
And she looks at her reflection to try and prove it; to see that the woman looking back is Wilhelmina Harker as she was.
And she's almost convinced.
Until her reflection winks at her.
EVERYONE GO READ "TPDoEQ" (ALL 4 VOLUMES!) THAT IS A STORY WORTH PLUGGING; IT IS BRILLIANCE AND SHOULD BE ON YOUR FAVOURITES LIST!
Asia Cwiakala: Ah ha! Hoped you'd find the story itself! Sorry this one took so long: dreaded writers block...
Sirhcvuli: Happy? See: no-one died! Yay! Plenty more opportunities for a sequel...
Beautifully Immortal: Oops! I'm sorry! That's what happens when you speed-read someone's pen-name... BAD SMILLA!
Funyun: Oh no! Where are you? No review! I've lost my first reviewer!! :-(
Keyanna: Oh Oh Oh! I think that's from "Lear" and it pretty much summarises the complete wonder of my response to your praise; I have to thank you; without your thoughts I wouldn't have been motivated to write this story at all!—I have penned all the chapters with pretty much one question in mind: "will Kei approve? Will Kei like this?" I hope you do...
Crystal Nox: Nah, dreaming is good! Let's go back to fantasyland; I like it there! Thank you once again; wouldn't have written the story if it wasn't for reviews from you! Now, Night of Broken Wings; very interesting plot development there: a replica Nautilus? Lord! Glad to see you're as big a fan of TPDoEQ as I am; they finally made it! Yay! Bessie/Skinner 'shippers unite!
Funky in Fishnet: Your halo's a necklace? Mine's a charm bracelet! Oh yes, Jekyll and Hyde: To quote one of the best Jekyll/Hyde-central stories out there: 'Shindo': "What's a Jekyll without his Hyde?" They pretty much define each other! My dear, now this is finished; I could beta the odd chapter for you if you want me to; send them my way as text documents (.txt) and we'll see what we can see...
The Lady Thief: Hmm, a lady thief eh? A lady thief with an interest in Skinner? Interesting character idea; have thought about it myself; perhaps your name will end up in lights! (Or, perhaps not in lights but on black verdana font on your computer screen...er...still: in lights!) Thank you for your encouragement and intriguing nicknames; now that this Ook saga is over, we're moving onto creepier, nastier things... By the by, nice new story: I've posted a review!
Shadow Darkholme: Aw thanks! It's wonderful to hear I can convince your friends you're crazy! Ha! Smilla strikes again! Hope this one ups the chill factor...