He lay in the middle of a battlefield on his back, looking up at the sky.
He was covered in blood. Most of it was his own- his throat had been slit and he'd bled out.
But he hadn't died.
He couldn't die.
He could feel the cut close up. He nearly retched.
Two ravens swooped down from the sky and landed on the ground next to him. They cawed and pecked at him until he stood.
Once standing, he looked around. He was alone. He was surrounded by death. Bodies lay scattered in all directions, as far as the eye could see. There was no movement anywhere.
He bent down to retrieve his knife. He wiped the blade off an some dead man's cloak.
One of the ravens picked something up off the ground and lifted into the air. When it was several feet up, it dropped the object. It fell, end-over-end, catching the few remaining rays of sun.
Instinctively, he caught it. He hissed as it burned his hand, but he held onto it. He examined it: a silver cross. He recognized it. No wonder it burned.
It fell to the ground.
As he looked up again, he realized that something was wrong with his vision. It lacked depth.
He reached up, gently feeling his right eyelid- at least, where his right eyelid should have been. His fingertips met leather- a leather eye patch.
When had he lost his eye? Why couldn't he remember it?
What was his name?
Closing his remaining eye, he thought.
Sigmund. His name was Sigmund.
Power, raw power, rippled through his body. The blood…it contained this power…
Something intruded in his thoughts.
"Are you, are you coming to the tree? Stranger things have happened here, no stranger would it be, if we met up at midnight in the hanging tree?" someone sang. It was not his own voice, Sigmund was sure. He could not carry a tune like that to save his life.
But who was it, then? There was no one else.
His surroundings changed in an instant.
He recognized this place. A basement. Lukas feared it, but Lukas feared many things. Like the blood that gave Sigmund his power.
Whatever. Sigmund was glad that Lukas was gone. Lukas and his weaknesses made him want to retch.
"But they are part of you," a voice whispered.
"Shut the Hell up, Erik."
"I am part of you, too."
That voice, Erik's, was entirely too cheerful.
Now, what had happened to the singing? It seemed to be gone…for now.
If it came back…well, the person singing could be a threat.
Sigmund still held his knife. He carved a small symbol into his thumb. The pain was slight, but delicious, and the sight of his own blood welling up was the most beautiful thing he'd seen in a long time.
He used his blood to draw a circle around himself. Blood was the strongest thing he knew; it would protect him.