A/N – So this was going to be three parts but I sort of finished it here. Count it as a oneshot, maybe. Thanks to everyone who read last time, don't be shy to drop me a message ^^ I've really enjoyed writing this, as abstract as it is. See you next time!


He was so eager to get outside the following day that one of the maids stopped to question him as he flew down a flight of stairs, one hand gripping the banister to stop his weak frame from crashing to the floor.

"Snark wants to play," he said breathlessly, swinging around a corner and dashing towards the large front doors. She watched him leave with a confused smile, wondering why the little lord was so energetic after what must have been a miserable evening.

His father had not been as proud as he had been hoping. Despite all of his studies on the globe and in academic books, he had not known enough to please. The words of praise had been kind, as they always were, and he had enjoyed the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder. But when he was in bed, thinking back, he knew that it was all just routine. He was not the boy his father was looking for, still. Some nights he wondered if he could ever become that boy. He was too sensitive. He had been berated for being friends with Snark again. He had been right in keeping the stories secret.

Doing better in his studies was not an option, it was a necessity. But still…he had promised to hear a story. If he listened today and then behaved for a whole week, things would even out. As a vow to himself, he had hidden the story books deep in a dusty cupboard. Cobwebs had clung to his pale hair and dirt had streaked his hands; he was in no rush to go back in there. He would listen to Trump's story and then focus on his studies.

It couldn't be impossible to make his father happy and enjoy himself. Could it?

Snark was waiting for him near the entrance, the lamb's small dark eyes glittering in the morning sun. Jizabel dropped to his knees, scuffing them in the grass, and wrapped his arms around the animal's neck.

"Good morning!" he said cheerfully, eyes closed as he inhaled the familiar earthy scent. "We're going to play with another friend today. Isn't that wonderful?"

Snark nuzzled into his neck, as always, and Jizabel smiled with pride. The little lamb was growing faster than he had expected. He looked forward to the day he would grow into a big, strong ram that could stand by his side. They'd make everyone proud, together. Petting Snark's head one last time, the boy got to his feet and pointed down the hill.

"This way!" he said. "Come with me this time, okay?"

Together they made their way across the lawn, kicking clinging dew drops free from the bright blades of grass. Jizabel tried to imagine them doing this in the future, when he had his own estate, his own lawn, his own forest. The dew would look smaller in the future. Everything would. In a way, it was sad. He'd have to find greater forests, bigger lawns, if he wanted to lose himself as much as he did now. But that was the wonderful thing about nature; it could always be greater and would never turn him away.

He reached the edge of the forest and the temperature plunged. The sun had not kissed the ground long enough for it to warm the shadows. His skin rose in tiny bumps, like the flesh of a chicken he had once seen lying in the pantry with no head. He hated his skin like this, felt sick at the reminder, and so slid his hands up and down his arms to warm them. The movements were frantic and he stood rooted to the spot, eyes on the ground as he waited to feel warm again.

"Good morning."

Trump's voice was warm in the cool of the shadows and Jizabel turned towards it, a small and lost flower turning towards a tiny sun.

"Morning," he said quietly, taking a small step back and feeling Snark's reassuring weight leaning against his legs.

"Are you cold?"

"A little," he replied honestly, letting his hands fall limp at his sides. He felt a little embarrassed now that someone could see. "My arms feel strange."

"Don't worry," Trump said, stepping forwards much faster than Jizabel would have expected and placing one tiny hand on each of Jizabel's arms. He began warming them, eyes lowered. Jizabel had never been so easily touched before, even though all the boys in his adventure stories were used to it. He'd never had a real playmate, a human friend. He stared at Trump's hands with unabashed curiosity. Tiny white marks marred the skin. He'd seen similar ones on his mother's hands, long ago, when she still spent time with him.

"What's wrong with your hands?" he asked. Trump flinched, grip tightening on Jizabel's arms for just a moment.

"I have a dangerous hobby," he said at length. "It's nothing to worry about."

"What is it? Mine is reading, I think. I like reading so I think that means it's a hobby."

"Right," Trump agreed. "You'll always like reading, I promise, even though people might not know. Someone will realise."

Jizabel stared at him, confused.

"You say strange things," he said. "My arms are warm now. Thank you. Are you going to tell me the story?"

Trump let him go almost hesitantly before nodding. He gestured to the ground at their feet. The grass here was a little drier but sparkled with frost. Trump must have come from somewhere very far away, as he had said, to be able to withstand the cold without even complaining. His dark, fitted clothes didn't seem very warm. Before he could voice his concerns, Jizabel was directed towards the grass.

"Sit down and I can tell you. Do you…need to see your father today?"

Jizabel dropped down into the grass, gathering Snark onto his lap, and shook his head.

"He's left again. I don't need to hurry back. Mother doesn't notice when I play outside."

"She does," Trump said quickly, sitting down as well and leaning against a tree. "She doesn't say it but she does. You've never been…you're not very observant, are you? Not with the things that matter." The look on young Jizabel's face was enough to cause Trump to throw up his hands in apology. "Sorry. Never mind."

"You're really strange, Trump. I don't mind though. Please tell me the story. Of the boy who grows up to be a hero?"

"You have to promise me something first."

The condition caught Jizabel off guard and he blinked his large eyes across the gloom. Trump's face was serious, far too serious for a little boy. He reminded Jizabel of some people that had visited the house once. Veterans, his mother had called them. People who had been somewhere far away to fight them, or something. They had all looked at him with serious pained eyes. At least, that's what he thought they were. He'd never been taught anything about pain and suffering. He knew he was lucky. Trump did not look so lucky. He wondered why.

"What do I have to promise?"

"That you'll never forget this story. Ever. Okay?"

Jizabel nodded easily. Why would he want to forget?

"Not even if people tell you things that make it seem…not so…real," Trump added. "No matter what. Don't forget. All right? You can forget me. You will forget me. But not the story."

"I won't forget you either!" he cried, all innocence and loyalty. "I'll remember everything. I promise."

Trump's smile was slow and sad as he answered. "We'll see. Okay then. The story. It begins in a fortress built of lies."

Trump's voice was even and melodic as he told the story, although sometimes he would stop and rub at his eyes as if they were filled with dust. Jizabel listened carefully.

The fortress had thick walls and low ceilings, Trump told him. Light was allowed in but the cruel words of those inside had stained the windows so that all the goodness of the sun was leeched away before it reached them. The people inside were very sick. Sometimes they would feel better and play with one another, laugh for a little while, but then the man that built the fortress would visit and everything would return to normal. He was important, Trump said. Jizabel had to remember him. He was a bad man.

The young hero had lived inside the fortress all his life. But even though the very air he breathed was thick with deception and sin, he had a pure heart. The hero loved animals, sunlight, being outside and on the grass. Maybe he was pure because he dared to venture in the grounds, Trump said. Maybe he'd had enough of the fortress but was too young and naïve to realise. Either way, he loved the world outside of his rooms and he loved sharing it with the creatures he could find.

Jizabel liked the hero a lot. He seemed nice, despite everything. Heroes were meant to be like that.

As the young hero grew, so did the fortress. Here came the sad bit, Trump said, the bit where the fortress grew so big that it swallowed the world outside and stopped all light from even existing. All the animals ended up on dinner tables or hung on walls and everything became covered in dust. The innocent hero wandered the endless corridors in sorrow, looking for the family he had once laughed with. Only one person could ever be found inside that fortress. No matter where the hero turned or which doors he opened, the man that built the fortress would always be waiting for him.

He sounded scary, Jizabel said. Trump had stopped talking for a while after that.

When the story resumed, the hero was desperately trying every door that he could find in search of someone else. Each time the man was waiting for him. He praised the hero for trying so hard, for growing up. His hands were heavy but burning hot, so hot that they burned right through the hero's chest and into his heart and lungs. The hero forgot how clean the air could be and how warm the sunlight was. Each breath he took was coloured with lies and his heart grew a covering of black, like thick rust.

Jizabel thought this was very sad, to forget how lovely nature was. Trump agreed.

"But don't worry," he said. "There's still hope."

It didn't seem very hopeful. The hero kept looking for a way out, even though with each door he opened he forgot what he was searching for, and why. Things started to change, Trump said. The fortress was still growing, covering the entire country. Inside it, other things started to appear. Sometimes there were frightening people who could perform magic tricks, people in robes with bright cards clutched in their hands. The hero looked down to see a card in his own hand, one that showed a skeleton.

"I don't like skeletons," Jizabel had interrupted. "I have to study them but…living people are better."

"You're a good boy," Trump replied. "But don't interrupt. It's important."

The hero who had forgotten how to be a hero was still opening doors. For days, weeks, years, he kept searching. Some of the rooms had animals. Jizabel smiled as Trump explained how the hero one day found a dog inside one of the basements and made friends with it, remembering his friends in the world outside distantly. This was the happy end, surely. But no. The dog died. Jizabel almost cried as Trump described how it was torn apart by unseen hands. The hero stitched it together, hands covered in blood, only to find it torn apart again. He gave up after a while and resumed wandering but the blood never came off of his hands. Each doorknob he turned was stained crimson, marking the way. There was never a shortage of new doors.

But the man was always there.

"Who is he?" Jizabel asked.

"The hero doesn't really know," Trump replied. "He thinks he does but he's wrong. It doesn't matter. He's a very bad man. Remember that."

The story started to change. One day, the very bad man opened a tiny window and in rushed a small rat. It was jet black from head to tail, with tiny grasping paws. The man went to crush the rat but the hero took it quickly and placed it on his shoulder. It followed him as he continued his search from room to room. Sometimes it brought him food or useful items, lockpicks, things it could find in small spaces.

"Does it have a name?" Jizabel asked. Trump shook his head.

"Think of it as Shadow. It's not far off."

"I like it. It's a good rat, isn't it? Even though it doesn't look it?"

Trump smiled and continued.

Sometimes the rat would bite the hero out of frustration with the search. Sometimes the hero would tread on the rat while trying to do something else. They stuck together though, always. They met many people during their search, mostly bad, and the ones that were good would usually die. They both became covered in blood, turned to the same colour through the endless days of searching and wishing for an escape they couldn't grasp.

And one day the rat died. One of the scary men hiding in the rooms picked up a knife and skewered it. The hero remembered himself, for a while. He had once tried to save a dog, he realised. It hadn't worked and it had been painful but it had been the right thing to do. The rat was from outside, where he had once played and laughed. It couldn't be allowed to die. The hero locked himself in a room and worked tirelessly, in secret, and soon the rat lived again. It looked different, now. The shock had turned it's fur bright white, like an angel only visiting from heaven, living on borrowed time. This frightened the hero. After all of its help, the rat could not be allowed to die. He wouldn't let it.

As he reached up and cracked open a window, the rat said goodbye and scurried away. A flick of its tail promised that it would return through a window large enough for the hero to climb through. As he watched it leave, a ray of sunlight fell on his face and the hero recognised himself for what he was. Struggling. Blood-stained. Alone. But still pure.

And he would not be alone for long. He resumed the search with a smile. Even if the bad man was waiting, there was still hope.

"And that's the end," Trump said after an awkward pause. "I might not have told it right, but…it seems good enough."

Jizabel was silent in thought. In his lap, Snark dozed peacefully. He could almost see the rat, the hero, the blood, the bad man. He thought he could understand. You would always search for this beauty, wouldn't you? Even if people made it so that you forgot what it looked like?

"That was a strange story," he said. "And not very happy. There wasn't an adventure or anything but I liked it. Why is it important?"

Trump stood up and crossed the distance between them. One hand under Jizabel's chin, he spoke slowly and with an intensity that he had lacked before.

"We are always trying to find the way out of the dark fortress of lies. You can't see it, though. The doors can't be touched. It's all inside your mind and it's always growing. But the world outside still exists. The sun is still warm and the animals are still waiting for you to return."

Jizabel tilted his head a little and Trump stepped back, looking embarrassed.

"That's the important part. Don't forget that. Even when all hope seems lost, hope can find a way in. People that love you…friends…friends can always find a way in through the smallest of gaps. You just have to let them."

"And we're friends?" Jizabel asked, getting to his feet as well with the lamb still in his arms. "Like Snark and me?"

The last smile Trump gave him was accompanied by tears.

"Yes. We're friends. Goodbye, Jizabel. Don't forget."

The dark boy retreated into the shadows. No matter how hard Jizabel looked after that, he could never find him again. Soon, over time, he grew to believe it had all been a dream. But the story remained. Even as the books hidden in the cupboard were forgotten and left to fall into decay, the story remained.


Cracking open a window, Death allowed a dove that had been sickly to fly back into the open air. He had been thinking strange things while working. That wasn't unusual for when he was with the animals. Thinking about terrible things, about annihilation and disease, mutilation and deception…those things were all normal. The peace he felt when tending the birds was strange in its tenderness. He did not mind. It reminded him of childhood.

"The fortress was called Babylon," he said, raising a hand to catch a falling snowy feather. He did not know why he spoke the words but they felt right, felt warm sitting in his weary and pained heart.

The fortress was called Babylon but the window was open. That had been important once. He stood and stared at the open window until darkness began to gather in the sky.