Author's notes: Promise the next chapter coming up has the good bit you've all been waiting for. -obligatory double wink-

Wonderful. Slauson felt without a doubt he had never felt such a reviving sleep, or a morning appetite quite so exciting. Even the itchy, threadbare wool of his blanket couldn't ruin the General's morning. This short stay should have, by all accounts, been a miserable experience. Yet here he was, and it seemed each extra day delayed by the snow made him stronger and stronger.

"Looking very smart today, general. Quite smart indeed," he complimented himself as he inspected his face in his shaving mirror, only marred by the chipped surface of the glass itself. There seemed to be a glow in his cheeks. His hand had been absolutely steady as he trimmed his moustache. Yes, sir, there was no doubt about it. Slauson was quite a specimen. Far more fit than half the men his age.

A smart knock at the door to his temporary quarters, followed by the distinctly healthy and cheerful voice of Colonel Ives himself distracted the General from his ill-conceived narcissism for the moment, "General, will you want to take breakfast in your room before you depart this morning? Unfortunately, Lindus was forced to take to his bed this morning from a sudden illness. He had a terrible pain in his eye."

"In his eye?"

"Yes, quite nasty, from what I could tell. Perhaps he hasn't been washing up properly."

Slauson was more than a little surprised. Normally, his assistant was in excellent health, attending the sick notwithstanding. He'd never had eye troubles before. "Are you quite sure? Did he wish to tell me anything before he retired?"

"General, if you'll forgive me, I don't think he's in any condition to talk." The door inched open, a breath of crisp air carrying with it the intoxicating scent of the man's cooking.

"Well," Slauson began, clearing his throat and settling into a poorly-built chair beside his bed, "I suppose it can't be helped. Yes, breakfast first, and then I think I should see to my horse. Hopefully it shouldn't take too long to gather the men we'll need to bring this Fort back into proper order."

Damned odd. Damned odd.

Colonel Ives, with impressive grace, managed to shift the tray of food he was holding to balance on one arm, so that he could reach into his trouser pocket and pull out a pristine handkerchief. He gave it a smart snap and settled it onto Slauson's lap. "The food's a bit hot," Ives explained, setting the tray down onto the mattress so that Slauson could pick and choose what he wished to eat. There was an awful lot.

"I was under the impression yesterday evening there was no more fresh meat," Slauson remarked, eyeing the meal. A fresh cut of good steak, a cup of good coffee still steaming, biscuits, and even a small jar or preserves. He hadn't even known there was any.

"From my personal supplies," Ives explained before he could even ask.

"Thank you, Colonel. I'm increasingly impressed with how quickly you're recovering. Every day you prove yourself more and more indispensable. Perhaps soon you'll be seeing the last of Fort Spencer."

"Yes, well-" Ives trailed off, a certain smile playing on his lips. The reaction to an unspoken joke. He seemed to be quite full of those. General Slauson had never met a man so agreeable in such a miserable situation, nor quite so patient with a madman as he had been with Boyd.

"Were you going to say something?" Slauson prompted, snatching up his plate from the tray, and hardly pausing long enough to properly chew once he began to saw into the meat with a knife and fork.

"I don't doubt it. Fort Spencer seems to be losing some of its novelty," Ives admitted, "perhaps I should consider retiring, in due time of course." He pressed a hand to his chest, "in truth, I still haven't quite recovered, General, and I don't think-" He was interrupted by a sudden cry outside, the squeal of terrified animals.

"The horses!" General Slauson exclaimed, shoving his plate back onto his bed and wiping at his greased moustache with the handkerchief on his lap.

Ives was the first out the door, and if Slauson had been looking at him, he would have caught a glimpse of the same monster Boyd had tried to warn them about. Enraged, cold, and focused entirely on the wild-eyed man standing outside of the main building of the fort while the horses raced past him, and the wooden structures began to be consumed by flames.

So he was a killer. He couldn't fight his appetite when it took over in the face of death, which he was beginning to think he would always be a hairsbreadth from for as long as he lived. That was fine. Boyd would be damned a thousand times quicker, though, if he continued to let Ives stalk Fort Spencer in his sheep's clothes.

Men would die. By Boyd's hands. By Ives'. That didn't mean Boyd was going to embrace it, even if he had to make the whole world burn around him.

The warmth of the spreading fire felt good, helped him still his nerves while he looked the devil in the face a hundred feet away. It warmed his snow-soaked duster. It gave him the strength to raise the hunting knife in his arm and point it towards Ives, challenging him to come forward again, to finish what they'd started before they'd been caught in that trap.

No words between them. Only anger. Only hatred. Nothing more, Boyd thought, trudging forward in the snow on legs far stronger than they'd been the night before. With a will, and ferocity he was becoming well-acquainted with after a satisfying meal. The last cold portions of Lindus' flesh he'd allowed himself that morning before he'd started the fire had gone a long way in healing the remainders of his wounds.

"Boyd!" General Slauson shouted, the general command in his tone he'd normally sported fleeing in the face of fear. Fear of the man approaching, rather than the one at his side he should be far more worried about. "Captain Boyd!" He cried out again, this time far louder, attempting to get through to him.

Ives merely watched, waited, even when the General tore back into his quarters before the fire had come close to spreading to that part of the fort.

"Is this what you want, Boyd," Ives spread his arms, "ash and snow?" He sneered, "you didn't even have the wits to save any leftovers, did you?"

Boyd continued walking towards him, his knife still drawn and steady. He fully intended to use it, too, until the poorly-aimed shot of Slauson's pistol tore into his shoulder and sent Boyd stumbling back to the ground in near agony. Needless to say, he dropped the knife.

Smoke, and snow, and the taste of gunpowder in the air. Blood on his gums from breakfast, uncooked, raw with life. The telltale sound of cracking bones, when Boyd just managed to push himself into a sitting position with his one good arm, just in time to witness Ives snap Slauson's neck.

He was sick to his stomach, and he wanted to retch. He wanted to expel the demon that had taken over his life and his spirit, yet still hadn't made him strong enough to kill Ives. Nor recover as quickly from being shot.

Boyd slumped back on the ground, to let the blood ooze from his wound into the snow, and wait for Ives to finally come finish him off. Maybe he was right. It would have been smarter if Boyd had saved some of the meat for later.

Ives had been debating with himself that morning. He truly had. Would it be wiser to strengthen Slauson a little more, give him a fresh cut of raw meat, build the proper addiction to welcome him to the fold so they could pursue his initial plan of proper domesticity at Fort Spencer? Should he take what opportunities he could to simply fatten the man up a bit, and experiment, see what a Wendigo's flesh tasted like compared to a normal man? Or just scrap everything, kill him, and be done with the place altogether?

It was fortunate Boyd made the decision for him. He was tiring of For Spencer anyway. Better to find somewhere with good weather the majority of the year. Perhaps there really was something more to be said for manifest destiny. Why stop here? They might as well migrate somewhere warm. The people would be far plumper there compared to the meager travelers they were likely to find en route.

Something to consider, but right now there were more pressing concerns, namely: the fire, the dead General at his feet, and Boyd still lying near one of the burning buildings pulling his Hamlet act for the second or maybe third time. Really, the man should have been a thespian for all the needless drama he created.

"I should leave you out here!" Ives shouted, not bothering to maintain any sort of false geniality. He was no longer in the mood. "Let you freeze. Thaw you out when your fingers and prick turn black!"

Boyd didn't bother responding; a habit Ives was becoming quite used to. So, very patiently, he threw Slauson's body over his shoulder and stalked away from the clearing of the Fort, unsatisfied until he was far enough to take in several gulps of fresh air without smoke to ruin his mood even further.

"There," he rasped, tossing Slauson to the ground, "I hope you don't mind," Ives added, kneeling down to pat at the man's coat pocket. He'd at least had the wherewithal to throw it on before he ran back out to shoot Boyd. Ives' hand wrapped around something hard and smooth, tucked into the General's woolen coat pocket. He quickly yanked it out, examining the hand-carved treasure he'd found. A small knife with a deer-horn handle. A bit ornamental and gaudy, but it would do.

"Peculiar hobby, General," Ives mused. "I had no idea you were a carver. Perhaps I was a bit hasty disposing of you, but I'm sure you understand. We need the fresh meat." He hopped to his feet, stalking back towards the burning monstrosity he'd left behind. Odd that he felt so compelled to persist in keeping the woefully mad wendigo he'd helped forge: Boyd, who hardly seemed able to cope well with dinner conversation, let alone cannibalism.

Ives returned to the raging fire of what was Fort Spencer, but would soon be just another memory of ash and death, only to find a large blood stain in the snow where Boyd had been lying.

"Son of a-" He began to curse, when he felt those strong, cold fingers digging into the back of his coat and shoving him forward. Ives spun about, tossing the knife up in the air and brandishing it at Boyd with the mind to slice the man open even as Boyd continued to stumble forward with his own knife in hand.

"You never quit, do you?" Ives demanded, almost impressed. Boyd's recovery time was improving. His instincts getting even sharper.

"I said I was going to kill you," Boyd stated, clenching his jaw, "I meant it."

"Oh yes," Ives hissed, "I know you did. This is all turning into your favorite game, isn't it, Boyd?" He used the strongest tool in his arsenal, his voice and Boyd's self-doubt. Like a charm, it was working already, when the man in front of Ives hesitated. Just a moment. Long enough for him to step just a little bit closer.

"This isn't a game," Boyd snapped, taking in several shallow breaths. The pain in his shoulder was readily apparent, and so was the blood still dripping down his arm, much of it coating the hand that held his knife. "You're a monster."

"We're monsters." Ives clarified, edging around towards Boyd's wounded side to gain more of an advantage if he had to take the man down. "Me. You. Preach all you want to me about morality, but in the end you did kill, and you did eat again. I didn't force your hand."

"I didn't want to."

"Want. It's a very different word from need, isn't it?" Ives questioned with a self-satisfied smirk. "I want to kill you, and I'm sure you want to do the same, but face facts. We need each other. I need someone to alleviate my boredom when there's nobody to eat, and you need me to make you feel like less of a coward. A monster, as you put it. You can't kill me, Boyd. You can't even kill yourself. You'll only end up driving yourself into the same state you were in last night when you carved into poor Lindus." He continued to talk, stepping even closer, just enough to touch or stab...or even be stabbed.

"I won't kill anyone else," Boyd replied, though something finally seemed to have gotten through his thick skull, because his arm was finally falling, his hand growing lax to let the knife fall.

"You will," Ives insisted, "but if you stop fighting me, Boyd, maybe you won't kill quite so many." It was a lie, of course. The more they ate, the more they'd want. A nuisance when there wasn't anybody around, but by the time Boyd learned the truth for what it was, he wouldn't care anymore. For Ives, of course, it had only taken one meal. For Boyd, perhaps it would take a dozen.

"I'll make my offer one more time, Boyd," Ives went on, lowering his own knife, "join me. Come with me. I meant what I said when I promised I wouldn't force you to do anything. I don't have to. If you don't, well, I know I can't quite kill you," he paused, his grin growing even larger, "but I could leave you here. With nothing and no one to eat, or to stop you from eating when someone shows up to find out what happened to the General and Lindus."

Boyd didn't have to say anything. His resentful glare was answer enough. Perhaps not quite broken, but Ives had finally managed to crack him. "Come on," he offered his free arm, "I've got a small shelter not too far from here. I didn't expect to have to use it again so soon, but you've got a bullet wound to see to."

"What?"

"You didn't honestly think I slept out in the snow when I first showed up here, did you, Boyd?"

"I don't trust you."

Ives laughed, pocketing his knife as Boyd finally leaned against him, throwing an arm around his shoulder.

"Well, that can't be helped, can it? I wouldn't trust me either."