Once upon a time, before the world became old and the Zone of my people was young, there lived and died a man.

Perhaps, however, that is not the best of beginnings. . .

Perhaps we should start with -

the first is old and fades in his sleep. the second does not make it a year before the beasts tear him apart. the third is cruel and stupid and the council must make a decision. they debate. they question. they form a contract, ancient magicks. split their palms and whisper. ectoplasm on parchment on marble tabletops. the void carries the contract.

the ancients accept.

ectoplasm is life, and it is death, and life now must be paid for in death later.

but the fourth is strong and noble and has fists carved in granite. he roars. the zone listens.

a king is born.

this king was a warrior in life. strong and broad in the shoulders. he towers and he booms and the keep shakes with the thunder he carries. lightning in his fists. fire in his core. he was once a human but what is dead is no longer so, and thus he must acquire a new name. more fitting for his station, they say. it takes decades. centuries, even, for how does one name someone such as this? it is done in whispers, in fearful glances, in dungeons filled with prisoners of war.

the people call him pariah, king of the dark.

and so he is.

more decades pass and pariah dark rules all. he is bold. he is strong. thunder in his heart and granite in his fists. fire in his crown. the council watches and is pleased. the people bow. the zone is contained. but pariah is not content. he wishes for a queen, someone to share his throne and warm his bed. and to know pariah is to obey pariah, to lay your heart bare upon the stone. to know pariah is to know obedience. and so there is a search for a queen. it takes years, legions of soldiers crawling through lairs. taking girls from their beds, girls who are young and fair and scarred by the hands of their king. but in the end –

it is the king's most loyal warrior who finds her, a soldier named calder with scales on his armor.

she is small and delicate, with eyes too liquid dark and lips that seem to gleam red. she is not beautiful. but only those who have not met her say this, for to know the woman is to love the woman. to know the woman is to want her happiness, see her smile with teeth that are too sharp, and to know that she is beautiful. the king meets her. the king loves her, and his fists like granite are delicate when they touch her fair skin.

they are wed on the winter solstice and he places a ring upon her finger, ruby and diamond, and it glitters like a wicked secret.

the people call her anathema.

the council grows cautious. suspicious. they fear this woman who is beautiful and not in equal measure. but to know the queen is to love the queen. to know the queen is to think she is beautiful. to know the queen is to want to please her. they fall, one by glorious one, husks of souls scattered in the winds.

and the queen smiles.

her teeth are long and sharp and stained green.

there is a warrior, and his name is calder, and he is the king's closest confidant. he is a protector, a mentor, a friend to a man with fire in his soul and a crown upon his head. the people kneel before their pariah but they cheer for his right-hand. they whisper amongst each other in confidence. he is a dragon, they say, a serpent of the sea. he can change his scales. he can change his teeth.

what they do not question is who can save them. there is no rescue from power such as this. darkness is patient, and it is cruel, and there is no hope. but there is fear. there is contempt. there is hatred.

these are powerful things – they can become magick.

once upon a time, they say, there was a king and a queen and a warrior. they were strong, my people whisper. they were glorious, my people hush. they were shone like stars in the sky, my people declare in quiet awe.

they were all this and more. . .

but only for a moment, and my people's smiles are cruel things.

because centuries have passed and pariah is still strong, still brash and loud. his fists are granite and his crown is fire and to know him is to know the lash of a whip upon your shoulder. anathema is beautiful. beautiful and terrible, and to know her is to love her, to fear a benevolent smile full of teeth and stained lips. calder is a warrior. he can change his scales again and again and again. his mind is warping, twisting, and there is madness festering in this one, the people whisper. it's only a matter of

TIME

and in this time, my people are not young. they are not new. they are old and battered and do not wish to be trod-upon. they see a king with granite-fists and resent him. they see a queen with their deepest desires in her eyes and ectoplasm on her teeth, and they fear her. they see a soldier who trades his armor for scales and they hate him. they whisper in hidden lairs, eyes glancing over shoulders to see if the king's shadow looms.

they whisper plans.

they form pacts. ectoplasm on parchment on scarred wooden tables. ectoplasm is not life, but nor is it death, and so life now must be paid for in death later. the zone carries the contracts and the ancients accept. no new king is born, but there is a girl and a boy, and their anger gives them dragon teeth.

this is the end of kings, of queens, of soldiers with dragon scales.

there is a handmaiden and her name is dorathea. a princess in life and a servant in death and she tends to the queen's every need. to know the queen is to love the queen, to fear her gentle smile. but dorathea has a brother, aragon, who is loud and brash and gnashes his teeth at the zone, and the king has set his terrible gaze upon the boy. she is timid. she is kind. but her spine is made from steel and it is she who slips the poison in the queen's wine.

dorathea cries as the queen called anathema coughs ectoplasm on her silken sheets and cries fat black tears. her hands tremble. but they stop soon enough.

soon enough, she smiles, liquid-eyes and white teeth, and whispers, "sleep well, my queen."

"we heard nothing, my king," the servants say, defeated and bowed and weary.

this is a lie. the queen called anathema had faded gasping, loud and rattling and horrid. begging for a mercy that she had never bestowed, a kindness that would not come.

"we saw no one leave her chambers, your grace," the maids whisper, trembling before their king with his fire-crown.

this is a lie. they had watched as dorathea slipped from her majesty's chambers with tears on her cheeks, a smile on her lips. her hands had not trembled at all. there was a ring between her fingers, and it glittered like wicked secrets.

but pariah dark does not know this. he cannot spot a lie.

pariah is a warrior. there is lightning in his core, thunder in his lungs, and the keep shakes with his roar of anguish. the zone draws in a breath. waits for the rage to come crashing like a squall, soldiers rushing through lairs and crushing souls beneath their heel, led by a king who was a man slathering in his fury. but it does not come.

there is another.

it is a clock-keeper, who watches from lands afar and intervenes only when needed. the people whisper, darkness in their chests, for where was this keeper when they were frightened? when they were beaten and broken and damned by this king chosen for them? but the clock-keeper smiles, and it is wise, and there are millions of centuries locked within ruby eyes. my people do not understand, for how can children understand the machinations of one so terribly Other?

the clock-keeper watches. the clock-keeper chooses another council. powerful ghosts, ancient and terrible as the dawn, and sets them upon the king. it is a battle that shakes the very bones of the zone. but they are many, and pariah is but one, and they seal him in a sarcophagus of the dream-master's making. they strip the jewels from his fingers and the crown from his head and do not tremble when the stars cackle overhead. they send his loyal soldier fleeing, scales gleaming as they melt into the shadows.

he is calder no more, they say, and this is a warning the people do not need.

the queen's ring is taken from dorathea, for she has her own jewels and the magicks that go with them. it rests, guarded by a beast with no name and many faces, a behemoth, and it hordes its treasure jealously. the crown is hidden deep within the cold, for the metal is flame, sparking, and all who touch it burn. the king called pariah sleeps. but he does not fade. he waits to return.

once upon a time, the zone of my people was young, and we were young with it. but that is no more. we are older still now. cruel and contemptuous and jaded. our smiles are jagged. we cannot spot a lie.

we have not learned our lesson.

will you learn yours?

~*O*~

he's alone and there's no one here, nothing but dust and that awful smell and he needs to find them. he just needs to find them, his kids. Penelope – where's Penelope? he doesn't understand, and everything keeps crumbling under his fingers and it burns why does it burn? cold and cold shouldn't burn but this cold does, reaches down into his lungs and scrapes at his nerves until everything is on fire even though he can see his breath and -

walker sees them, tiny bodies twisted and broken and staring towards the sky and their eyes are milky, staring, empty and his stomach heaves and his heart hurts and he screams –

danny keeps crumbling under his fingers and his lips are blue but this isn't what cold does to bodies? this isn't right. nothing is right, none of this, and he can smell iron and mist and scales, like a massive snake slithering down the back of his neck and he just can't stop crying, holding his boy and rocking as danny cracks under his grip and where's pen? where is she?

taylor's fingers are black and he can't get a grip, everything splitting under his touch until there's nothing left of his best guy but those big staring eyes that keep looking at him, scared and alone and he could've saved them what the hell happened? he doesn't understand. can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe just hold them and it'll be alright, he can fix it.

he can fix this.

except he can't and there's a whisper and then a laugh and it's painted in silver, dripping like water off a roof, and he tries to hold on to danny, he tries, but his boy crumbles to dust and there's nothing but the smell of rot and decay and he cries, cries like he did when he was little and his paw beat him with the horse whip 'cause men don't cry get hold of yerself. there's the laugh again, then a whisper, his name jeremiah like a prayer in the church house, and he stumbles up –

and it's penny. gray skin, filmy eyes, and there's a big gash on her throat dripping green, gushing over his fingers and he's screaming now and he puts his hand over the slash, tries to keep it in, save her save her and "penny, honey, I can't lose you too" and he's crying and there it is again, scales on the back of his neck and someone hisses in his ear, "she's not yours she never was" and

she smiles at him. gentle, like the ones she gives danny, and her hand feels like ice when it touches his face, thumb stroking his cheek, and he can see his breath, why can he see his breath, and she whispers,

"you promised."

and he did and he failed and she's crying too, thick black streaks over her cheeks, but she keeps smiling, always smiling, and he wants it to stop, gags at the smell of wet cold dirt and old blood and rot, the smell of old scales, and there's a snake crawling up his legs, wrapping around his chest and it burns and –

"he's coming. be ready"

and there's fangs and penelope smiles and whispers a silver, "you promised" and

Walker sat bolt upright in bed, clawing for air. His stomach heaved, cold sweat plastering his shirt down, and the sheets were so twisted around his ankles he thought they might've been cutting off circulation. The room was quiet. Too quiet. Where were the boys? Pen? Em? It smelled like cotton and cedar.

It took a minute for everything to settle in his head. Even though his core continued to whine viciously in his ears. His fingers were shaking. So he did what he always did. Glanced at the clock – three a.m. of course – and untangled himself. His left leg tried to give out from under him. He ignored the pins and needles, ignored the knock of his knees, and stumbled to the bathroom. No lights. He hated seeing his face. The bags, the bruises, the fear.

Jeremiah Walker didn't do fear. If he ignored it, maybe it would go away. Maybe he could force things to go away.

Pen would have his head in the morning, he was sure. She'd given him this big long speech a couple days ago after the boys had gone to bed. Something about proper sleep hygiene and how sleep deprivation could cause all sorts of psych mumbo-jumbo to go wrong with him. That he needed to vent off pressure about the nightmares. Something was said about a journal after that but he'd kinda tuned out. He was just so tired.

But the jitters still wouldn't go away. Not even after he'd doused himself in cold water and heaved into the toilet. Not even after brushing his teeth and saying a prayer dead eyes flimy eyes staring into the distance and everything smells like rot and she won't move and he's praying just wake up just please not her not like thisthat nothing else would happen, that the boys would stay asleep and everything would stay the same. His fingers kept shaking. His legs felt like Jell-O.

There wouldn't be going back to bed, Walker decided.

The fan was whirring quietly, a click every third second. He needed to fix that. Sometimes, the lair gave him little things to fix when he felt stressed. It helped a bit. Walker glanced down the hall. The boys were still asleep, it looked like, because the door was shut and the nightlight on. There was red peeping from under the door. That meant Pen was probably still asleep, too. Woman slept like a log. . . if logs snored. Well, not so much snored as snuffled? It was a weird sound, almost like a kitten. . .

He needed water. Or whiskey.

Whiskey sounded pretty good.

It was probably telling him something that he'd gotten so good at navigating the stairs in the dark. Walker decided not to think about that either. Instead, he stayed quiet and forced his shaking legs down to the kitchen. Through the living room, between the couch and armchair. Towards his liquor cabinet, where amnesia waited.

Except he never made it because one of the lamps flicked on and he nearly Faded, core pounding behind his eyes, a scream itching to leave his throat.

Penelope lifted an unimpressed eyebrow and scowled. She was blinking muzzily in the sudden light, but her eyes were bright. Too bright. Those were trouble eyes, he'd learned. The ones that showed up right before she tried to tear a chunk of hide out of him, most of the time over something she thought was stupid.

"What the hell are you doing?" she rasped, groggy but lucid. "It's three in the morning, and you don't have to go in until ten tomorrow. You should be asleep."

Walker scowled right back and clenched his fists. "Getting' somethin' t'drink. What're you doin' down here?"

A hint of a blush lit Penelope's cheeks, and she set her jaw. "I slept here in case you did something stupid after our talk. Like, oh, I don't know, come downstairs after a nightmare to hide instead of sleeping?"

"I'm not hidin'!" Walker hissed. "I jus' needed a drink! What are ya, my mama?!"

He was tired, and his nerves were fried, and he just did not want to deal with her mouth right now. So Walker decided he'd feel bad about the stung look on Pen's face later. Then she lifted her chin and crossed her arms over her chest, eyes glowing in the low light, and he realized he'd opened up a whole can of worms. His fingers still wouldn't stop shaking.

Why wouldn't they quit?

"No, I'm not your mother," Penelope ground out. "But I'm pretty sure at this point you'd agree we're friends. I'm trying to help you, jackass. Now let me!"

She'd been awful nice earlier, when they'd talked, if not a bit preachy. And the last couple of days had been pretty quiet, all things considered. Walker had kinda wondered when the boot would drop. Well, there it was. Steel-toed and pissy, just like everything else Pen did. And it just ranall over him.

"Ya wanna help?!" he snarled. "Go t'bed an' leave well enough alone! 'm fine!"

"Bullshit!" she spat. "You look like hell! For fuck's sake, Walker, you're shaking!"

He was. The fact that she noticed made him mad. His fists and jaw clenched tighter. "Leave it alone, Pen. I mean it."

Sometimes, he forgot how tall Penelope really was. But it didn't take much tip-toeing for her to get in his face. Walker blinked. When did she stand up? When did she even move? All he could see was green, streaked through with red as her temper flared. She was in his space. Why was she in his space? He didn't want this. Didn't like it. She'd see. Pen always saw what he didn't want her to.

"Jeremiah Walker, don't pull this shit on me. Don't you dare pull this shit on me! For once in your life, let me help you! Why won't you just let me help?!" She sounded fed up and worried.

Walker ground his teeth and tried not to lose it. "Penelope. I'm serious. Leave it."

The red flared, and she tossed up her hands in disgust. "How the fuck am I supposed to leave it when you leave here every morning looking like a walking corpse! Dammit, Jeremiah, you can't just. . .!"

His nerves were absolutely shot, and the swearing was just grating on every last one. "If I have to tell you one more time t'watch yer mouth, I swear, you'll regret it."

That wasn't meant to be a threat. It wasn't even meant to leave his mind, much less growl out at Pen. But Walker knew the moment it left his lips that he'd screwed up. Penelope blanched and reeled away like he'd smacked her, and. . . crap, her eyes were watering. He didn't mean that. He didn't mean anyof that. God, he hated it when she cried. It was like his heart broke every time, and he just couldn't figure out how to fix that? Or her feelings?

He was bad with feelings and this was not what he wanted to be doing at three in the morning.

Walker felt guilt crawl all over him, and his shoulders slumped, hands still trembling by his sides. "Pen, sugar, I didn' mean that," he whispered. " 'm just. . . tired. 'm sorry."

Penelope's bottom lip got trapped between her teeth, arms wrapped tight around her middle. She wouldn't look him in the eye.

"It's been a long time since you threatened me," she rasped, voice thick, but she tried to smirk a bit. It looked more like a grimace. "Old habits, I guess."

Penelope was shaking. She was trying to make him feel better, or at least figure out what was wrong, and he'd gone and scared her. This just. . . he wasn't. . . Walker felt like he could puke.

"Honey, 'm serious. I'm sorry – that was uncalled for. You're just tryin' t' help."

Penelope finally looked him in the eye again, shoulders slumped forward. "I just don't understand why you won't let me! Jeremiah, you nearly fucking Faded just to keep me safe a few months ago. You've always got everything sitting square on your shoulders. Let me take some of it for once. I'm a big girl. I can handle it."

That was the thing.

Walker knew she could handle it. He'd seen lesser ghosts shatter under the pressure that Penelope had been under in less than a fraction of the time she'd been in the Zone. She'd been beaten, gaslighted, and forced to feed off misery for decades. She dealt with a deeply traumatized four-year-old boy daily, handled every panic and tackled problems that made his stomach hurt without flinching. And she might've complained constantly, but Danny (and Tay) absolutely adored her, thought she hung the moon in the sky. Penelope Spectra was one of the strongest people he had ever met.

And he just. . .

"I don' wanna be another problem t' deal with," he growled. "And 'm tired of always havin' one more problem t' deal with. I need a break. You need a break! 'm sick of everythin' bein' this endless friggin' fight to be normal!" His chest heaved, trying to catch a breath. "So maybe if I just stick it out, if I jus' pretend like Nocturne ain't gettin' on my bad side, there won't be anything else dropped on our plates. Does that sound good t'you?! Huh?!"

There was something burning his eyes, and Walker wasn't sure if it was tears or not, but he didn't want to find out. He swallowed around the lump of iron in his throat. Why couldn't he stop shaking? This was ridiculous.

Penelope stared at him for a second, all big eyes, and gnawed at her lip. Then she sighed. "Please don't make me regret this."

Walker very nearly growled again. But just as he went to, Penelope wrapped both arms around his middle and squeezed tight. He froze up. She just squeezed a bit tighter, head tucked under his chin, and he could feel her hands clench in his sweaty shirt. The burn in his eyes got worse. His throat clenched.

Slowly, he hugged back. God, tall as she was, Penelope was tiny. He felt like he'd break her in half with one good squeeze, so he gripped his forearms tight to keep that from happening. Walker buried his face in her hair. It wasn't just his hands that were shaking now.

"You're a big, noble idiot," Penelope huffed against his collarbone. "Honestly, what's one more problem in the grand scheme? You try to fix everything for everyone else, Tex. Just. . . let me do the fixing this time. Okay? Please?"

Walker felt his breath hitch, and he squeezed harder. "I hate this," he mumbled thickly. "I hate it."

"I know you do, honey."

"I just wanna sleep." It sounded closer to a whine than he wanted, but God he was tired. He was so friggin' tired.

Penelope pulled away just a tad and smiled at him sadly. "Let's go to bed, then. We've got plenty of time before the boys get up. You could probably even get away with sleeping in."

One hand slipped into his and tugged, and his fingers weren't shaking anymore. Walker didn't even care about getting his whiskey anymore. He wasn't even really sure he cared about anything anymore. He followed Penelope without a word, ignoring the light flicking off and trudging back upstairs. She didn't let go of his hand once, a thumb rubbing over his knuckles.

She paused on the landing, eyes bright in the dim. "Do you want to check on the boys?"

Walker thought about it for a second tiny bodies cold dirt you didn't save them oh, God, the smell but shook his head. "Nah, let 'em sleep. They've got their own nightmares t' deal with."

He thought she was rolling her eyes but couldn't quite be sure. Penelope yanked his arm until he stood in front of her. Then she shoved him into the bedroom. It almost made him laugh. She was always so impatient. Except with the kids, who probably could've murdered someone and got away with it. Figuratively, anyway. Pen was actually kind of the disciplinarian? It was weird not being the one that was yelling to pick up toys or wash hands and. . .

Since when was he back in bed?

Walker frowned as Penelope pulled the covers up over both of them. "What're ya doin'?"

"Going to sleep," she breezed, like it was something they did every night. "Lift up your arm, I'm cold."

He probably would've argued more if he wasn't so stunned. As it was, Walker let her snuggle up under his arm and did his best impression of a statue. Penelope curled tight against him, head resting on his shoulder, and grabbed for his other hand. It made him tense a bit more. But then Pen sighed heavily, squeezing at his knuckles.

"Relax, Tex," she soothed. "We're grown-ups. I just didn't want you to go back to sleep alone."

Walker swallowed thickly. "How'd ya know I don' wanna be alone?"

"Because I never want to be alone after a nightmare," she answered quietly. "Sometimes I go check on Danny after having one. It helps a little."

He'd known that. Mostly 'cause she'd been doing it since that first week or so. He was pretty sure she'd slept in the boys' room for about a week straight after Danny's energy build-up scare. But listening to her explain it out loud kind of hurt. No one should've had nightmares the way she and Danny her eyes are dripping black and she smiles in silver and whispers "you promised" had. It was sick. Walker gave her hand a light squeeze. They were quiet for a long time. And he was so tired. But his eyes wouldn't close because he just. . . couldn't make himself.

"Everyone keeps dying. In the nightmares." Walker rasped before he could stop himself. It felt like it echoed. "I'm alone and then I find the boys. But they're already gone. I try to hold 'em an' they just. . . crumble? They turn to dust an' I can't do anything."

His eyes burned again, and Penelope huddled even closer. "Walker, that's not going to happen. That's what you went and got these for, remember?"

She let go of his hand and ran her thumb over the edge of a glyph on his shoulder. Walker swallowed, and it felt like gulping down cement. "I know that. But. . . it's the eyes. They've always got the same eyes and you. . ." He trailed off, choking on everything that had spiraled down on him.

"I what, Tex?"

"You were dead, too. Everyone was dead."

It was a cop-out, but he couldn't bring himself to describe everything in the nightmares filmy gray corpse eyes and long fangs dripping venom and the sound of scales on skin and rot. Not when she'd finally stopped having them so often herself. Penelope didn't say anything for a second, just ran her thumb back and forth over his knuckles. She snugged her cheek tighter to his shoulder. His breath caught, and Walker turned to bury his face in her hair again. It smelled like mint and rosemary, her new shampoo, still a little damp from her shower.

"That's not going to happen, Jeremiah," Penelope whispered again, and she sounded so sure of herself. "Because you made a promise. And you don't break promises, right?"

Was her hair wetter all of a sudden?

"Right," he choked out.

"So go to sleep," Penelope soothed again. "None of what you saw will happen. Because you're a stubborn cowboy, and I know you're not going to let it. Okay?"

"Tell that to Nocturne."

"Fuck Nocturne," she growled. "Go to sleep – he doesn't know shit."

Walker couldn't help but cough out a surprised laugh, and he squeezed her tighter. His eyes just wouldn't stay open anymore. It was warm, and comfortable, and the room smelled like Penelope. Her head actually made a pretty good pillow for his cheek.

"Night, Pen."

He was nearly asleep already, so he couldn't be sure, but he thought he might've felt a pair of lips on his cheek, a nose rubbing along his jaw. "Sleep tight, big guy."

There were no more nightmares that night.

The sky is open and the boys are playing with their friends, war-cries in the air, and everything is warm and Penelope smiles at him, all big green eyes, and he winds her hair in his fingers and she whispers, "you promised"

and he answers "I kept it"

~*O*~

Bertrand is very old, and he is very strong, and walls cannot keep him from seeing.

He watches, eyes in the shadows, and hears the whispers those little monsters that creep in the night. The Zone is an ancient place. It is full of magick and has its favorites. It protects those which feed it, those which do not fear the darkened corners and scorched earth and an endless abyss. Bertrand is not his name. Not the one he arrived with.

But the Zone does not recognize names.

So he watches.

The jacket they have him in is confining. It holds his arms behind his back, and he cannot move them. The muzzle keeps his teeth blunt, his mouth small. His nose is strong, but not long, and there is no power to his jaws anymore. He feels like an artist gone blind, so much less than Before. And, still, he watches. Listens to the shadows.

For the shadows are patient. They have all the time in the world, all the time in the Zone, and they will gather him unto themselves when the moment is right. All he need do is wait. Watch. Listen.

There is a lair, on the edge of the Zone, near where the dark is strong. The monsters watch the edges. But they cannot go in. Magick, they tell him, it burns the warden's skin. Wards that are black and thick and harsh, bright fire that scorches all they touch. They protect a whelp, a boy, a princess, an idiot. They protect a warden.

They protect a star. His zvezda. Precious and bright and everything he needs. And his shadows cannot get close to her. They cannot touch her. They cannot brush her hair in the night, and they cannot whisper what she needs to hear, and they cannot make her stronger anymore. All the pretty wicked things are bereft of their brightest light, and the knowledge damns.

Bertrand is not his name. Bertrand is a craven, a mummer, a spider that weaves a web. Spider, oh spider, pray why do you spin? Your pretty white web, so fine and so thin. They catch fat flies and turn them into pies. . . Penelope is a scalpel and a star and a spider. Beautiful and broken like a mirror-dagger, with a smile that can shatter a heart. Bertrand taught her all she knows of the art of webs.

But Calder is a serpent. Calder is a warrior. He is coils of scales and fangs and fire rising from the deep, and he takes what he wants. Fire and cold ocean spray and blood on the ground. Ectoplasm on teeth. Calder is a monster.

"Chow time, fuck-head!"

Calder snarls as the guard shoves a platter of gruel through his door. It is small, an opening just big enough for the tray of slop. Not enough for even a shifter to slither through. Serpents are sleek, yes, but they are not liquid, not entirely. And the jacket is a cage, and it clamps around his gelatin bones. Makes them solid. Makes him weak.

But. . .

Outside there is a star and she burns and the shadows whisper that she grows brighter every day. She smiles at a boy who is not her son, laughs with a man who does makes her weak. It makes his blood boil. His teeth grow long and they gnash behind their guard. His nails are claws and they do nothing against their bonds. All is light. All is weakness. He wants to crush them, break them, grind them into dust before her eyes and watch the star go supernova.

Here is Penelope, he will say, and all shall tremble before her.

Here is Spectra, and the Zone will adore her and despair.

And he gnaws on food that tastes little more than ash upon his tongue and dreams of the screams of dying men. Sees a queen whom he adored, who had his deepest secret in her eyes and ectoplasm on her teeth. He sees his queen from eons ago, with her hair like a sunset and her laugh like glittering bells, and tastes despair. Feels scales slither into place upon his skin.

He has lost one, this dragon of a dead-star.

There will not be another.

Calder is not Bertrand. They are the same, and they are not, and here they lie in wait. Trapped and watching, listening to the pretty little liars that crawl through their shadows. They see their zvezda and she is. . . she sleeps with him, the warden with his magicks, and how DARE SHE?! She is content and curled safe and the false-children crawl in behind her and they are weak, insipid little things who would be murdered in their beds, heads dashed upon the walls, and he can feel the dragon waking. It is hellfire and cold sea-spray and untamed fury.

It is power.

Here is Calder and here is a knight long lost to time.

Here is Calder and the dragons of stars long-dead rage within him, crying for a queen who died with poison on her chin.

Here is Calder, trapped and broken, so much less than he was. A painter blinded. A composer deafened. A warrior paralyzed. The dragons rage and they scream and there is nothing to do but listen to the shadows as they croon. Listen, they whisper, and wait.

We will come for you.

They shadows are patient. They are generous. Calder burns in the furnace of his own heart and his dragon roars, but he eats this food like ash and does not retaliate. He bides his time.

He watches. And his zvezda sighs in her sleep and curls tight against a man who is not him. She burns bright in the darkness, and he can remember the way her eyes shine like gemstones when she cries. The softness of her lips, how they split against her teeth. The quick cut of her wit and the savage bite of her temper and the venom in her tongue. Her smiles are white and there is not a drop of ectoplasm to be seen.

Calder burns. Bertrand watches.

The shadows whisper patience.

And so they listen.

A/N: I have crept out of my cave post-finals and decided to gift you with this cluster-fuck of a chapter. I don't know whether or not you'll thank me. Mostly because it's got Bertrand in it and he's. . . yeah. He's fucking creepy. A total nightmare of a person.

Mostly, this chapter was kind of me getting back into the swing of writing after, you know, scrambling desperately to finish the semester. Fuck Zoom-University guys, honestly. If I never have to listen to another lecture on pharmacology, it'll be too soon. But either way, I'm kind of proud about how this turned out? Dunno if it works, especially in that first section, but whatever. If I end up hating it later, I'll do some editing. I had fun either way.

Concerning poor Walker and his nightmares. . . listen, I have some pretty intense nightmares. And I have to say, the ONLY thing that ever seems to make them better is snuggling with someone until I go back to sleep. Someone, typically, is my dog. However, in this situation, I'm pretty sure a person is more beneficial. Also, they Full-Ass Grownups who can cuddle if they want, and Penelope is going to snuggle the FUCK outta that cowboy. I don't make the rules.

Anyway, thank you all so much for all the support and love you've shown me! I can't believe this story is already over a year old?! Leave me all that good feedback, and I'll see you guys in the next one!