A/N: Trust the WWE to f*** up a perfectly good story... Survivor Series was SUCH a disappointment, as well as the ending of this feud. OH WELL, I guess I'll have to write my own ending...mwahaha. Sorry for the delay also. Life happened...bleh.

Through the dense fog of pain, hunger, and thirst, the Undertaker could still hear the remnants of electricity as it crackled across his skin and through his blood. He could just barely make out Kane's face, devoid of emotion and eyes dead as he watched his brother grit his teeth in an attempt to hold back his screams.

It had been five days, by the Deadman's count, but it had felt like a month. Bray Wyatt and his weird followers—who never entered the dungeon without those idiotic sheep masks—had been giving the brothers a steady diet of drug-laced water and pain.

Bray hadn't used the urn since that first night, but it remained in the room, just out of reach, always a reminder, taunt, a threat.

What the madman preferred, however, was to use the brothers' own abilities against them. To torture them with their own powers. He absolutely loved that game.

So far, he had only gone as far as using the Undertaker's lightening against him. But the threat of using fire against Kane remained, and it haunted both brothers every night.

'Taker forced himself to keep a hopeful, if not stoic, demeanor. He knew that if he were to give into despair—as his little brother was doing, unfortunately—the chances of them leaving alive would drop to zero.

'He's doesn't know how to get rid of us just yet,' the Deadman reasoned as the 5th night fell. 'Otherwise, he would have done so already. So, what is he waiting for?'

As if one cue, the large metal door swung open, and Bray Wyatt walked in with his "family," the same mad smile on his face as it always was.

"I've learned something new, Deadman. I know that you don't respond very much to physical pain...but, my response is as important as yours, you see. To get your true powers, I can't just imitate. I have to absorb."

The largest of the family, clad in a goat mask, was near Kane in a flash, and wrapped his massive arm around the Big Red Machine's nearly-immobile arm.

"For example," Bray continued, nearly salivating. "If I, say, have my dear Brother break your dear brother's arm...I'll have the opportunity to take in every ounce of his agony."

The Undertaker pulled against his bonds, growling audibly. "I told you not to fucking touch him!"

Bray began to laugh. "Why on Earth would I listen to you, Deadman? You are powerless down here...you can't even save yourself, much less your beloved little brother. And at the end of the day, it makes more sense for me to hurt him in order to get to you both.

"I mean, I'd have my Family whip you bloody, but I'm afraid you'd get too turned on by it."

'Taker's teeth were visible as he snarled, although his green eyes still glowed with worry for his brother.

"Fuck you."

"Don't fret," Kane whispered. "He won't do it." He winked up at Bray, a twisted smile on his face. "And I've sure as hell had much worse than a broken arm!"

The leader of the Wyatts seemed impressed. "You're made of harder stuff than your big brother, in some ways...I like it." He knelt by Kane's side, affectionately running a hand along his top of his head. The larger man pulled as far away as he could from the unwanted touch.

"I don't know if either of you have noticed yet, but in this cell, you are both slowly reverting back to your old selves. Kane, the silent, tortured monster, and the Undertaker, the heartless, even more tortured demon.

"Once you've gone back to the darkest reaches of your soul...then I will take them from you."

Bray Wyatt stood up and waved his hand in some sort of signal. The rest of the family came forward, and, with little fanfare, rained down heavy punches and stomps on the Brothers until they were battered into unconsciousness. The Eater of Worlds looked down at them, shaking his head.

"Oh, but we've got such a long way to go...and such a short time to get there."

When the Undertaker opened his eyes, he was chained to a metal rocking chair, and Bray Wyatt was standing in front of him, a mad smile on his face.

"I'm gettin' really sick of seeing you," 'Taker growled, although the bite of his words was taken away somewhat by his bindings.

Still, Bray drank it in, even shuddering visibly as he stared into those burning green eyes that he had grown to love.

'I think I'll keep them,' he thought ominously, sitting cross-legged in front of the Deadman. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, glass vial that was shaped like a human heart, and connected by its top to a chain. The Undertaker raised an eyebrow at the odd pendant.

"It will help me gain your powers," Wyatt explained, catching the look. He held up the vial so that it twirled in the dim light, casting a strange shadow on the far wall. "I need a container, you see."

'Taker rolled his eyes. "For my blood, I'm guessing?" he asked sardonically, but the Eater of Worlds only laughed.

"For your tears, Reaper!"

Now that gave the Deadman pause; and although he would never admit it out loud, he felt a brief flash of fear.

"Well, I hate to disappoint you, boy, but I don't cry."

Bray Wyatt laughed again, and now he stood, slowly approaching the bound Reaper.

"Oh, I know," he admitted, fingers lovingly caressing the vial. "You're far too strong, and stubborn for all that. Well, at least, not from physical pain."

For the first time since kissing him, Bray touched the Undertaker, gently placing his hands on the sides of his head. He simply couldn't resist stroking those quickly-growing dark-orange-black locks, loving the deep growl it produced in the back of Undertaker's throat.

"True rage," Bray said breathlessly. "And true sorrow, all behind those wonderful eyes..."

Before his victim could brace himself for it, the leader of the Wyatt family was inside of the Undertaker's mind, causing a million images to rise up from the dark depths of his memory.

'Taker tried to wrench away, to break Bray's grip, but the physical pressure in his head was building even as the mental pressure increased, and very soon he was immobile, staring sightlessly in front of him as his life replayed in his mind's eye.

Not his entire life, though. Only those moments of pain, and sorrow; moments when he had felt as though his heart would truly break.

Moments when the pain had been so great, that he had to retreat into his inner darkness, or into the arms of a loved one. Moments that he couldn't handle alone, to his shame.

Only now, reliving them, he was alone. And his heart was breaking.

Pain, suffering, betrayal, death...the Undertaker saw and felt them, experienced them once again.

And, at last, the kaleidoscope of images and emotions settled on single moment.

He was a child—not yet the Undertaker, but simply Mark. He was standing outside. It was the winter, but something was far too warm...

He was crying. Screaming.

"Mom! Dad! Glen!"

He couldn't stop crying. Paul Bearer was holding him back, keeping him from running into the burning house in an attempt to save his family; or, rather, to die with them.

You can't be dead! I can't live alone! I don't want to be alone!

So selfish.

It wasn't his voice. Mark knew that this thought wasn't his. But who was it?

You killed your family, and your first thought is about yourself. You truly never loved, have you? Even now, you don't know what that means, do you?

"I know what it means. I know how to love. I have loved before. I love even now. That's not the problem..."

Was that his voice, so weak in its answer? What was happening?

I have loved...But who could ever love me?

The Undertaker slowly blinked, mind once again in his control. He could feel something cool and smooth against his cheek, and Bray Wyatt's long hair filled his vision.

"Thanks, Deadman."

The Man of a Thousand Truths held up the vial, which was now filled with a shining, clear liquid.

The Undertaker stared at it, silent. He could still feel the warm, wet tracks on his cheeks.

"Go to Hell," he whispered, closing his eyes and lowering his head so that the last of his tears could fall.

"With pleasure," Bray Wyatt answered; and, oddly enough, there were tears in his own eyes as well as he left.