The Pandemonium Moment

By Prinder

Rated: R for violence, Religious warping, and questionable topics.

Summary: Can a Devil, a Sinner, actually be the son of god? The Seventh Bell Children seem to be doing their best to cope with Lucia leaving them—and from Mrs. Gene's perspective, that is not very well. In the meantime, Yashua's training has just begun, but is he really up for the challenge? And what are the "voices" trying to tell him? And who is the woman in his reflection?

Disclaimer: Chrono Crusade does not belong to me.

Legend: "talking"

'thinking'

reading

written

"Talk Electronically sent somehow"

Chapter Eight: Order

At the sound of a loud crash from the living room, followed by screams and yelling, Mrs. Gene hurried to the scene of the crime, her shoes clicking on the floorboards firmly as she tried to make it there before they hid the evidence. 'Honestly!' She thought, 'They've just started acting up like this ever since Lucia left. They're just acting out because they're insecure, but this is growing to be too much!' For weeks now, it seemed, the children had been living in a state of unrest, since Lucia turned 15 and moved out of Seventh Bell Orphanage. She promised many that she would write to them, but so far no letters had come to any of the kids.

This was a scene that Mrs. Gene knew all too well, and she had actually grown accustomed to having to comfort the young ones when they realized that, eventually, they would have to leave some day as well. Sometimes the ones that would leave would be adopted, and that was treated like a celebration; but all too often, that wasn't the case. Of course, Mrs. Gene always hoped for caring adults to come and fall in love with one or more of her charges, but those people always seemed few and far between.

"Children, was that the lamp that fell?" She called, picking up her pace as she heard muffled panic and the sound of glass tinkling.

"Ohh! Ohh! Mrs. Gene! Luke was playing ball in the house!" Sally squealed, running out of the living room and pouncing onto Mrs. Gene's skirt, clinging for her life as the boy in question screamed his rage ("Sally, you big tattletale!"), the other children at his heels.

It took a great deal of effort to calm all of them down. Thoroughly scolding all of them for roughhousing, prying Sally away from her legs so that she could walk again, and sending them outside to get some fresh air before the autumn air set-in. Sighing as she watched them from the doorway, Mrs. Gene couldn't stop herself from shaking her head. It was hard giving all of them the attention they deserved, even with all of the help from the Magdalene Sisters at the New York branch. 'The poor things…' she thought, focusing her attention on the 11 who had arrived, in force it seemed, no more than a year ago.

Brothers Jacob and Hank Richardson, 6 and 7 years old, had matching noses and cheek bones, but their similarities ended there. Hank (the oldest) had green eyes and blonde hair, which he kept neat at all times, only resorting to fist fights when someone tried to mess it up. Jacob was leaner than his brother, and had dark brown hair with light brown eyes and a harmonica in his back pocket.

Lincoln Leader, usually called "Cole" by his friends, was 9 and had been shuffled to Seventh Bell from three other Orphanages because he was "uncontrollable." Mrs. Gene never believed the stories; he was actually a quiet boy, and only acted up when others tried to take his things. He was a strapping young fellow with pale blue eyes and very fine blonde hair that fell limply on the sides of his long face.

Twins, Trisha and Tristen Bates, were completely identical with exception of their genders. With dusty, pale brown (almost blonde, but seemed to lack the proper sheen), hair and searching blue eyes; even for being 3 years old, they were exceptionally curious. Both were also emotional and very sensitive to others, always becoming upset when someone else was hurt.

Sally Schneider, the German "tattletale," (as she was not-so-fondly called by the other children) loved to run around and scream at the top of her lungs. She was only 5 years old, and liked to keep her hair boyishly short, her brown locks spiking in every direction. Her eyes were almost a chocolate brown, and had a strange lightness to them that made people become hypnotized by her grace and agility. Obviously a tomboy, she still had a softer side to her that demanded lots of hugs and attention.

Sisters Sandra and Blossom Schotts, also German, were drastically different in age. Blossom was 11, while her little sister, Sandra, was 4. While, technically, only half-sisters (Blossom's mother died when she was very little, her father then remarried, and then was killed in a bank robbery, trying to protect his second wife, who also died on the scene) their bond was stronger than any other. Blossom, while she and her sister had the same deep brown eyes, had long and lustrous black hair, and Sandra had wavy red locks; they would spend hours just sitting on their beds brushing each others hair. Mrs. Gene, when she watched them, found herself looking to their connection as an example of unconditional love. It was strange, despite how young they were, she found herself looking up to them in regards to how to care for others.

Bianca Heipel, 11 with blue eyes and a mind for romance. Originally, she was born in France, but her family packed up and moved to America; it was a perfectly normal thing, except the ship they were on was attacked and only a few survived. Mrs. Gene was never told what attacked the ship, only that Bianca, who did not speak very good English yet, had no family left. Bianca, herself, liked to lock herself away from the rest of the world, reading books (romances, classics, and anything in French—if she could find it). Her curly blonde hair was something of a prize, and she fussed over it more than the Schotts' sisters did on their own. Combined.

Calvin Andronicus, like Cole, came with a large chip on his shoulder. Even though he was only 6, he had come from a violent childhood, his parents drinking themselves to death on Bootleg liquor, being sent to live with his aunt who had a mental illness, only to end up in an orphanage that, one year later, was destroyed by a vandal's fire with half of it's occupants still locked inside. The result was that his body was slightly deformed from the flames and was constantly picked on before coming to Seventh Bell. It was because of this past that he rarely gave a large smile to anyone; instead, he would smile with his lips tightly pressed together, as if to keep a secret from escaping, his dark green eyes lost under his sloppy black bangs.

David O'Brian, with short, curly, dull red hair, brown eyes, and patches on the elbows of his shirts (he was always wearing them out), he was as scrappy as he was independent. He didn't like help with anything, and even though he was only 7, he insisted on doing everything himself, and that included tying his shoes and buttoning his shirts, which always ended up having the buttons out of alignment and his laces coming undone.

Rebecca Rule's hair was a deep, rich, mahogany color, neither dark brown or red, but a mix of both. Her eyes were dark, nearly black, and her skin was a fine cream-tan. She was quiet, compared to the other children her age (she was 8), and liked to sit back and watch things and always knew things before all of the other kids. Mrs. Gene never quite knew how she did it.

Then there was Mark Hunts and Isaac Malcom, both 4 years old and best friends. Virtually impossible to separate, Mark was drawn to Isaac like a moth to flame, in every sense of the phrase because Isaac was known for being astoundingly accident prone. Everywhere he went, there was usually a crash, or a bang, or a thud, followed by scream of "I'm okay." While they both looked very much alike, with the same blonde hair in bowled hair-cut with mild green eyes, they were distinctly different in the way that Isaac always had a bruise, scrape or Band-Aid somewhere on him, while Mark seemed to walk on air, unable to trip or fall even if he tried.

Adam Ananics, Victor Tate, and Gregory Graham, 7, 8, and 9 years old (in that exact order) all had come to the same conclusion: all girls had cooties. While most boys their ages, and even older, had this belief, they took it to new levels, refusing to sit next to a girl when eating at dinner, or staying in the same room as one. Adam had dark brown hair and eyes, Victor had black hair that was buzzed short on the sides, long on the top, with equally dark eyes with thick glasses, and Gregory had pale, spiked, blonde hair with stormy gray eyes.

Sapphire Watts, much like Bianca, was somewhat of a young romantic, and seemed to have develop a crush for Adam, who was the same age she was, and followed his "terrific trio" (as the trio so-dubbed themselves) everywhere they went (much to their displeasure). Her dancing brown eyes and orange-red hair paired with her bubbly smile was sure to be a formidable combination when she was older, until then, she was a small thing with knobby knees and kept snagging the end of her skirt on brambles and thorns or whatever else the boys would run through to try to escape her.

And then, finally the second set of twins, Benjamin and Bethany Nordstrom. Both with honey blonde hair and corn-flour blue eyes, they were another example of an inseparable family bond, a bond that seemed to be stronger then death itself; because that seemed to be the only thing that saved them from the tragic end their parents faced one rainy night in New York. Only a couple of months older than Tristen and Trisha, they had turned 3 years old one week ago.

Despite all of their differences, all of them had something in common besides being merely orphaned in this chaotic world. 'Though they all had Sad and pitiable pasts, some similar, some worlds apart, they all have bright futures ahead of them. That is my one true belief.' Mrs. Gene thought, her eyes glazing over slightly as they mingled freely with each other. At Seventh Bell, in that fenced in yard on the hill, age and time didn't seem to matter; in truth, it never had. It was strange, but, even though she had been unfrozen, 'so long ago, now…' even after all of the children who played with the Joshua and Rosette Christopher had grown up and moved away, the orphanage moved from the fringes of New York to Michigan, time still seemed to be something she never noticed passing. Even though each child grew and changed in her eyes, and every year she found more wrinkles on her once young and heart-shaped face. No matter how much gray cropped up in her dusty brown hair, or how thick the glasses on her nose became.

All she wanted was to just watch the children, and, for a little while, give them a solitary moment of happiness. 'Tom was adopted just after Lucia left; it can't all be bad. There is a home out there for each of these children, and, for now, they have all of the time in the world for that home to find them.'

That was her wish.

Yashua slipped from shadow to shadow in the mansion, flapping his wings silently to keep his weight off of the, otherwise, creaky floor as he headed for Sisters Mary and Claire's room for the duration of their stay with the devil duke. Making use of his glowing yellow eyes, Yashua could see perfectly in the dark, in fact, he felt strangely at ease with it, despite the feelings of being alone that most people associated with the blackness that shrouded the hallway in the gothic home. Without even realizing he had done so, he found himself thinking back to the first day that they had arrived in Denver Colorado.

'My horns are still buzzing,' he thought, pausing in his movements to touch the side of his head at the base of the jagged ivory where it met his scalp. If anyone had asked him if he was frightened of Duke Duffau, now, his answer would have been confused, it was, of course, a "Yes," he was afraid, but at the same time resounding "No."

They had driven the whole way to Denver, a feat that was difficult, despite the advancements in motor vehicles and roads, but because he was unable to hide his horns under the hat that Sister Azmaria had given him, there was no alternative; they couldn't risk riding the train in open public so long as he was with them. His anxiety along the way made it next to impossible for him to sleep or eat.

'Not that I really need to do either, it's just that it's comforting to have the choice or ability to do them.' He thought, continuing on his way down the hall.

They met Duffau across the street from a church. Apparently, it was considered "neutral ground" for both sides, but Yashua was not entirely sure why. It was late in the evening when they arrived at the site; it had taken a level of courage that Yashua didn't know he possessed to leave the Ford and face the other devil on his own two feet. For a strange reason, he knew that, if he didn't do at least that much, he wouldn't be worthy to call himself a devil, let alone a man. He still remembered Mary's stammering voice, being the first person to speak in their silent showdown of wills.

"B-before we begin, I want to know why you're still alive? I thought you died trying to find Aion and Rosette."

Yashua frowned at the statement even now; 'Just who is Aion?' had been his thought at the time, though he tried to hide his own confusion, hoping that, if it did show, it would be assumed that it was only because he wasn't aware that Duffau was supposed to be "dead."

"Devils like myself do not simply die, Sister." Was the other devil's reply, his face obscured under his hat and trench coat collar, which was turned up to the eerie wind that left the smaller devil with a chill, even now, days later. Duffau was dark and imposing, but also seemed to give off a feeling of nobility that Yashua had not realized existed before, and he couldn't help but be inspired by him, even when Duffau added, in a mysterious tone that revealed nothing to its cryptic meaning, "But then, since you are here, you must have suspected as much."

'What a strange man,' Yashua pondered, hiding his wings again as he touched his full weight onto the floor in front of the correct door. 'Are all devils so…so… indistinct?'

Yashua, in all honesty, did not know what to expect from the imposing devil at that time; of course, he never thought he would be accepted with open arms, that never struck him as proper etiquette among their kind, but neither was he expecting to be slapped across the face so hard that what little reign on his form he had was lost as he was sent spinning to the concrete while the two nuns screamed the devils' names.

"Yashua! Mr. Duffau!"

Raising his hand to the knob, Yashua slowly turned it and pushed against the heavy door. It was solid and seemed unwilling to move, even with his devil strength. Part of his mind wondered if that was intentional, for the safety of the women inside, 'Protection from what, though? Not me. Surely not me… right?' while the other part still lingered on the words that Duffau had said, when he had asked him why he had been hit.

"Let them see your whole face for what it is and never make the mistake of hiding the smaller differences first! Consider that your first lesson."

With Yashua's other hand, he reached up to feel his forehead, he could still feel the three "blood drops" and the metal "clock hands" that marred his facade. Even when he was a baby, he hid the markings when he was in that infantile state. He did not know how he knew, especially when his first memories had been of being locked within the cold and bitter darkness of the bomb shelter, but a part of him still recognized his unconscious efforts to exist with humans before he had even left the womb. 'Why couldn't I just have hidden the horns instead! I knew the other marks weren't right as a baby, why did I have to mess those up?' his mind screamed, his eyes welling up with tears, spilling from a part of himself that he hated to acknowledge.

He was Guilty. Guilty of being unable to protect the people who wanted a child from seeing the monster that they had nurtured within. Yashua's greatest pain was knowing that he, alone, was the cause for their madness, their insanity, their venom and, ultimately, the death of a man he had never met: his own father.

"Yashua?" Claire's soft voice drove him from his thoughts. Looking up, he focused his watery eyes at the nun who had opened the door the rest of the way without him realizing it, and now stared down at him with worried and shocked eyes as Mary snored deeply somewhere behind her, inside their room.

The blood drops, placed in the shape of a triangle on his forehead, reflected the light from the window behind Claire briefly before he let out a strangled sob and imbedded his face in her legs as the tightly sealed emotion made his small body convulse and heave against her as she regarded him with shock and pity. Pulling the small devil away slightly so that she could lower herself to his level, Claire wrapped her arms about his shoulders in a hug, encouraging him to bury his face in the puffed sleeve of her uniform. "What's wrong, Yashua?" she asked, closing her eyes to focus on his whimpers, failing to notice the towering, dark, form that moved to stand behind the small boy in the hallway.

Duffau pulled a pinch-full of whiskered hair from his beard, raising his hand to his lips, he blew on the dull black hairs, releasing them from his fingers to dance on his breath. Interrupting the scene, he said, "If you can find the energy to wail so loud as to wake the dead, then you have enough energy to begin your first lesson."

Yashua paused in his cries, turning his head slowly to look at the other devil. Choking back a sniffle, he peeled his form away from Sister Claire and turned the rest of his body to look up at Duffau, pulling his shoulders back slightly, he stared back. Though Yashua tried to hide his fear, Duffau could nearly taste the odor as it filtered its way up into his sensitive devil nostrils. Claire stood slowly, seeing the slight tremble that vibrated from Yashua's back and into the metallic bone "tail" that branched off from his head at the base of his neck.

"What would his first lesson be, Mr. Duffau?" She asked him, her voice calm, the subtle hint of curiosity lingering only a second on her lips.

Realizing that the human woman would not allow Yashua to leave with him willingly until Duffau answered, "How Devils of high ranks can escape death." In the back of his mind, Duffau sorted new information he had gleaned about the Sister away until a later time. Knowing your enemy was valuable tool; knowing how to control their minions was even better. Duffau was no idiot, he knew that the Magdalene Order would never see him as a trusted ally. 'Wasn't that the vary reason why they sent two who had the most minimal personal contact with devils in the first place?' he mused, turning and continuing down the hall, not pausing to see if the smaller devil followed.

Claire, noticing how Yashua lingered behind the Duke, gave the boy devil a gentle nudge. Yashua turned his head to look at her, his eyes wide and frightened.

"Go on," She said, nudging him again, "This is what we came here for. If you learn everything you can quickly, we will be able to take you home."

'Home.' Yashua smiled; that word left a funny taste in his mouth, as though he bit into a cranberry fresh off of the tree. It was both pleasant and bitter, the berry would be sour, but at the same time, cleansing the pallet. Nodding his head quickly to show that he understood, and liked the idea, he trampled off in the direction the Duke had exited by a moment before, catching up soon after.

Duke Duffau did not pause in his stride, nor did he look to see if Yashua was actually behind him as he spoke, "Like all souls, devils are born and reborn again and a again. But unlike the humans, our souls 'remember' the bodies they belong to, and retain that image within our minds until it is triggered by a 'Seeded' memory." he climbed a straight staircase behind a narrow door, leading them up into the small attic.

Sensing that Duffau was waiting for him to respond, Yashua scrambled up the stairs behind him, biting back a sneeze as dust filtered into his nostrils as he asked, "What are Seeded memories, and, what do you mean retaining the image? I always looked like this." Shrugging, Yashua put his tiny hands into his pockets as Duffau walked over to a broken window, reaching his hand up to a spiked shard of glass and purposely slicing his fingers open on it's razor-sharp edge. Yashua gaped at him, taking a step forward before halting in his place as Duffau turned to look at him again, licking the blood from the slashed fingers with his tongue.

"Which is why I was so interested when I was called. That you were born with your true image visible. It is clear, however, that your imperfect Glamour was not just a slip of fate." Duffau stated, pulling a picture out of his pocket, presenting it to the small devil, who looked down at the portrait intently.

The photo was of a young man, if Yashua were to guess his age, he would say that the boy was no older than twelve. The boy was holding a baseball in one hand, and a glove in the other. He had freckles on his nose, a small smile that did not show his teeth, with thick dark hair and eyes that where nearly matching in the same tone.

"David Michael Davenport was last seen playing ball with his friends in an open parking lot across the street from here. He hit a curve ball and it crashed into that window," Duffau said, gesturing to the same window he cut himself on only moments before. Yashua remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

"His friends dared him to go into 'Damned Duke's' house and retrieve it. He walked in, but he never walked out." Duffau said, accepting the photo back from the small devil, who nodded, seeming to understand.

"What happened to him?" Yashua asked, already suspecting, but wanting his theory confirmed anyway.

"In the mansion, he found his way up here, and discovered the memory of the duke." The taller devil said, placing the photograph back into his pocket, his voice only the faintest of murmurs.

"What was the memory?" Yashua asked, his voice hushed, though he did not know why they were whispering.

An eerie light flickered across Duffau's eyes for a split second as the starlight streamed through the raising dust within the unused room. Yashua's brows drew together at the bridge of his nose as Duffau walked over to an old bookshelf. It was mostly plain, with only a simple curved top crown and it struck Yashua as something that did not really fit in with all of the other furniture in Duffau's residence, even next to the rest of the hodgepodge items in the cobweb-infested attic, it looked out of place. The bearded devil knelt down and reached to the floor next to the shelf where, Yashua now noticed, a tan baseball had rested. Duffau turned his head to look at the shelf again and reached for a small lidded box with a carved star with what looked like a circle around it.

Yashua walked over to get a better view at the box. "What is it?" He asked, blinking as he noticed small markings carved into the star's outline and along the circular boarder.

"It's a portal, to Pandemonium. A gift from our Queen, made from the bones of my first slain devil brother." Duffau spoke, running his hand over the symbols for a moment before looking at the devil child. "Seeded memories are places or object which hold strong feelings to the devil who owns them. They do not fade, and they always draw the devil they belong to back to them, from life after life."

Yashua inhaled, his eyes widening, 'The photograph…' he thought, quickly shaking his head, "What happens if the seed isn't a strong enough memory? Or what if a the wrong devil finds it? What happens to devils who have no seeded memories from their past lives?"

Duffau returned the box to its place on the shelf, reaching up with his hand to roughly stroke his beard, plucking the hair from his chin and blowing it from his hand before he spoke. "Only a seed from a potent memory can release the devil from the reincarnation, and it would only affect the devil the memory belongs to, other devils would not be drawn to or be able to sense it. A devil without a seed would never be able to recall him or her self, and would then just live out as a human from that point on."

"And you knew, right away, who you were, when you found the box?" Yashua asked, sounding strangely relieved to Duffau's pointed ears. Unsure if he wanted to give the other devil an honest response, Duffau attempted to use his horns to listen in on the other devil's thoughts, but finding it surprisingly difficult for him to do so.

'How could an amateur, who is unable to correctly apply his own Glamour, be capable of blocking a Read?' Tucking the question in his mind aside for a later time, Duffau gestured the smaller devil to sit on the floor, sitting down as well. Changing the subject, Duffau said, "Now we will teach you how to use your Glamour."

"Glamour." Yashua echoed, trying the word out on his tongue, finding it left a strange, sticky feeling, as though he had been given a spoonful of syrup. Following Duffau's example, Yashua sat down cross-legged, face to face with the older devil.

"Glamour is a limited power made by Legion—"

"What are Legion?" Yashua questioned, realizing that it seemed to have a different meaning to the devil than what humans used it as; a word that meant a Battalion or army.

"Legion are low class devils, with little intelligence. They thrive off of higher ranked devils. In exchange for sustenance, Legion assist more powerful devils in various tasks. Some humans will summon Legion to do their bidding, for a human to summon anything more powerful could be hazardous for their health." Duffau paused a moment for the full meaning of his words to sink into the younger devil's mind before continuing, "Legion, within the devil's body, are capable of rapid healing, protecting the devil from illness, and simple warping of the devil body."

"Glamour." Yashua reiterated, smiling slightly when he saw Duffau's assenting nod.

"So long as there are Legion within the devil's body, the devil has a limited amount of Glamour. Stronger devils have more Legion, and therefore have more Glamour to disguise themselves, and the reverse is also true; weaker devils have few Legion, or none at all, and have equally less Glamour." Duffau finished, his expression serious as Yashua shifted uncomfortably under his black gaze.

"Because of your limited Glamour, you cannot hide yourself completely with it, instead, you must prioritize which parts must be hidden completely, and what parts only need slight alteration, and which things could be left alone or hidden in other ways." The older devil said, appraising the smaller devil, making personal notes, himself, on what should be hidden, how much, and in what order.

Sighing and closing his eyes to concentrate, Yashua focused his mind on his power, feeling it stretch out around him like thin crape paper on the air. Slowly, he drew it back into himself, centering his efforts on the energy that surrounded his horns, pulling it in until it was flush with his skull. Moving to his wings, he repeated the same action, feeling them waver and fade into the spaces on either side of his spine.

Holding the energy in place, he paused, hearing Duffau speak in a tone that was earthy, as though raising up around him without echo. "Draw in the two clock hands on your cheeks."

Frowning slightly, not sure why Duffau wanted only the ones on his cheeks to be hidden, Yashua did as he was told, feeling the two clock hands under his eyes disappear under his skin, the four above his eyebrows still gleaming like brushed steal as they reflected the yellow glow of his unholy light as it enveloped him as he turned the metal tail on the base of his neck back into rich purple hair, which splayed in the demonically-charged air that made the windows, loose papers and sheets shudder around them.

"Blunt your ears and fangs." Duffau ordered, moving to stand as Yashua completed the task, the light fading away and the wind dying around them, the room falling silent once again as Yashua opened his eyes, their yellow dimmed into a dark amber with red undertones.

Standing and walking over to an old, full length, floor mirror, Yashua blinked, slightly surprised by the transformation. The three blood drops and four clock hands were still placed on his forehead, and on either side of his head, he could just barely feel the bump-up of bone that was his horns, skillfully hidden in his amethyst hair. His ears still had a slight point to them, but it was not nearly as drastic as the way his ears used to look. Turning to look at the duke, Yashua said, "It's bedtime for me, right? Elder never gave me a time to go to bed, and I know it's almost morning now, so should I bother sleeping?" Yashua stopped, seeing Duffau's expression seem to grow more somber.

"Sleep is important for young devils as much as it is for humans." The duke responded, giving the smaller devil all that he needed to know. Not wasting another word, Yashua nodded briskly and sneezed, the dust finally getting to him, as he walked as softly as he could across the floorboards to the stairwell, down to the open door at the bottom. Duffau followed at a more resigned pace, shutting the door behind them and locking it tightly.

"Duke Duffau," the boy's voice stammered slightly, pausing in the hallway, "What was Chrono's title?" he asked, his wide eyes glistening with an innocence that was unheard of among devils.

Duffau looked over his shoulder before fully turning to face the child, his mind pausing on how mortal the boy seemed; inherently un-devil-like. Even in his life as David, he had never truly behaved human; in fact, he had worried his mortal parents with how "detached" he was to people or things, as though he knew they were nothing that was of consequence to him. 'But this boy, Yashua has a different aura around him—One not unlike one would expect from his human counterparts.' A part of Duffau considered simply giving him the title Chrono had earned when he had joined with Aion in the stealing of Pandemonium's head, 'However…' something compelled him to respond with the one he bore before his great betrayal, before he slew one-hundred thousand of his brethren.

"Earl." With that, Duffau parted ways with the child, who stood in place, his expression dumbfounded. Yashua did not know what possessed him to ask, he knew nothing of Devil titles and what they meant, only that it seemed strangely important, but not at the same time.

'I'll ask him to teach me that next,' Yashua thought, with an almost giddy smile, seeing his reflection in one of the window panes, the inky black outside rendering its surface pond-like. His amber eyes glowed and stood out from the rest of him.

"You will be the one to take my life."

Yashua blinked and staggered back from the glass; glimpsing, for only a second, just long enough for him to question if he had actually seen it, he saw a woman's face overlap his own, her hair as light as his was dark, and eyes as dark as his were light. His horns hummed painfully next to his ears, though they were not visible to his eyes, allowing him to "hear" her smooth voice. "Ah-a-aaah," Yashua's mouth opened of its own accord, issuing a strangled sound from the back of his throat. Snapping both his mouth and eyes shut, shaking his head to clear his mind, he turned away from the window and sped down the hallway on his short legs, refusing to stop until he had made it to the room that Duffau had kindly given for himself.

Diving into the down-feather covers, he silently thanked the duke for making him stay in his own room, though, at the time, he had to fight back the urge to protest; disliking the concept of being locked away from everyone else more than he hated being taken from home. Panting lightly, even though he was not actually winded, Yashua stared up at the tin ceiling tiles, their twisted ivy pattern seeming to echo the knot that wound itself up into his intestines.

Feeling slightly sick, Yashua placed a hand over his lips and choked, "Who are you?"

Holy crap! I, Cannot, Write, Angst. Excuse me while I beat my head onto my desk, but UGH!

Also, Fair Warning, my chapters will be coming more slowly as Summer comes closer—it's the busiest time of the year for me, so I may not be able to actually sit down and really do much typing as much as I would like until September.

Until next time!

Prinder