A/N: Little different. It's going somewhere. You just have to trust me. And give it time. I have work and school to think about.

Asphyxia

Chapter Eight

Once upon a time, there lived a boy named Steven Holtz. Steven had a father, named Daniel, and they lived together in a very dark place called Quortoth. Daniel was a good father, who taught his son the difference between good and evil. In Quortoth, that wasn't very hard to do.

There were monsters in the dark land. Some had horns, others scales. Some were tall and intimidating, others lithe and meek. It didn't matter, really, what they looked like. They were all evil. If their heart wasn't in their chest and their eyes weren't a duet, they weren't good.

One day, Steven decided to try out his new toy. The fun one with the sharp blade and the beautifully chiseled handle. Daniel had been feeling generous the day before and given him his Christmas present early. Christmas, Steven had learned, was the twenty-fifth day of December in which humans, the good, celebrated the birth of Christ. Christ, Steven knew, was the son of God.

And God had given him to Father.

"When's Christmas?" Steven often asked, because he always looked forward to presents. As any self-respecting child does.

Father would pat his head and scold him for being selfish. He would then remind Steven that he didn't know when Christmas was. There was no December in Hell.

Now, Steven's sharp nose caught the scent of dirt, but not earth. There was evil in filth and the crunching of leaves beneath his feet continued long after he had stopped walking. Daniel was standing next to a tree, arms crossed, a small smile of encouragement on his aging face. The ground ruptured.

Steven jumped, almost lost his sword but snatched the handle out of the air and took the correct fighting stance. Steven was a warrior, a knight, everything that was good and dear and noble. Because that's what he had been raised to be.

But, oh, it was huge. A giant monster this time that towered eight feet above Steven and the boy looked with wide, frightened eyes into the twenty glowing orbs and ninety sharp teeth. It had no appendages and merely bullied Steven with its serpent's coil, hissing and spitting and rising higher by the moment.

"F-father," Steven stuttered.

"Fight, my boy," Father sounded jovial. "You can do this."

"I...I can't."

"You can," Daniel contradicted. Then after a moment of nothing, added, "It would be best for you if you did."

So Steven fought and dodged and wondered if Daniel would still think him good if his heart was in his throat and not in his chest. Steven was a good fighter, quick and clever. He was also very strong.

Because Steven's biological parents, Daniel frequently reiterated, were vampires. Things that drank the blood of the innocent.

They had hearts in their chests and eyes that were duets, but their hearts didn't beat. And the dead, Daniel had lectured, should never walk. It was not God's wish.

"Steven!" Daniel yelled now, as his adopted son was bitten with those sharp teeth and stung with the glare of those glowing orbs, "FIGHT."

But Steven didn't win and the evil went triumphantly into the ground, leaving the boy crying in pain and defeat.

"I'm not dead," Steven said to Daniel, backing away from the older man. "That means I didn't really lose. Right?"

"You didn't try hard enough."

"I did."

"You haven't been practicing."

"I have!"

Daniel raised an eyebrow and frowned. "Lying is evil's work."

"It's the truth, Father."

But as much as Daniel tried , he could never put God's light into such dark roots. And he tried so hard, so very hard...

Angel woke abruptly to the sounds of his son's sobs, leaping to his feet and causing the thick book of Grimm's Fairy Tales to fall to the ground. He put a dead, yet gentle hand, through his son's recently cleaned hair and whispered the boy's name with a certain amount of urgency.

"I tried," his son croaked. "I'm good."

And Angel shook the boy a bit, spoke a little louder.

"Come on, son, wake up. You're having a nightmare."

Eventually, the blue eyes opened and the boy saw his father, the thing. His father, with the angelic face full of youth, paled by lack of light and blood flow. His father, who loved his friends like family, and his son like life .

The boy saw his father's hands, sculpted hands, dead and cold hands. Hands that turned to fists and hit him until he bled.

"I'm good," the boy murmured, eyes flickering shut.

"You are. You're very good." Angel's voice rose with a tinge of worry. "What was your nightmare about?"

"Fairy tales," the boy said quietly. "You shouldn't read to me. I'm too old."

"Never."

"Always."

And Angel watched his son shift and sigh and try to fall back to sleep and he wondered why his little boy would never be able to dream of sweet things, as all children should.

"Would it be better if I made something up?" he asked after a while.

"A story?" the boy inquired, his eyes blinking slow as he fathomed the idea. "I guess."

So Angel stroked his son's hair with his dead hand and searched his long-winded head for something sweetened with solace.

"Once upon a time," he began, because that was always the best way. "Once upon a time, there lived a boy named Connor Angel..."

Healing process begins next.

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