A/N: I'm so sorry for my extended absence. I've been in and out of the hospital. On top of that, the man I thought I was going to marry left me while I was in said hospital. So I've been...broken in more ways than one.

THANK YOU! Thank you to all who left messages and prayers. You don't know how much they mean.

Chapter 27

Feeling awakens before sight; a searing pain encompassing my skull, my body.

Sound follows feeling; the scratching of fibers and rustling of cloth bleed through the dark. A muffled voice preludes an icy sweep of fingers across my brow. The fingers are long and slender, but too large to be a woman's, and the conception they could be my mother's is extinguished. A hope buried deep conjures an image of my father sitting at my bedside, tending to me as he would to his patients. But that hope is dashed too. Too cold. The fingers caress my cheek and they are the current of winter's river flowing over my skin.

The hand brushes over and smooths back hair from my forehead, getting caught on something surrounding my head. The sound of it is like cloth. Bandages?

My aching head, my aching body…

Why—does it hurt—so much?

Words flitter through the dark. A voice spoken by a silver tongue. I don't understand the language of short syllables and clipped vowels. The words float into the dark uselessly, all but one. I'm sure that's my name, but…it's not.

But it is. And it's not. It makes no sense.

I furrow my brow, fight through the black fog crowding my consciousness.

I know that voice. Yet it can't be, because he would never sound like that. So melancholy and…pleading, almost.

Who's…who's calling me like that?

"You mustn't keep sleeping like this. Wake up, my darling. Wake up. You must."

When the words change over to English, I understand them. I understand their meaning, that is. Not why they are being spoken.

He can't be talking to me like that. He can't. It's a joke, right? Or some cruel mind trick. Knowing Ghirahim, it could be both. Anything but real.

Another sweep of the cold hand over my brow and hair. "Oh, darling…"

Something in me snaps. With my head feeling like it's full of rocks and about to spilt open, and my body feeling leaden and bogged down, there's not much I can do to act on it. But there was something in the way of what he said. It dredges up the memory of a song.

"Oh," I slur into the darkness, voice raspy and tongue thick, "my dar-ling…oh, my dar-ling…oh my dar-ling, Clementine. You are lost and…gone for-ever…oh my dar-ling, Clementine."

"That isn't funny."

I peel open my reluctant eyes and behold Ghirahim's snarled faced and snapping black gaze.

That's better. That's more real, and I let myself believe I had imagined any gentleness. A side effect of the pain jolting through me like needles.

"I disagree," stumbles my dry tongue, "I think it's hilarious."

Tinges of relief douse his ire. "I should kill you, you little wretch. Do you realize what you could have done? Do you realize what could have happened?"

"Nancy Drew~" I call out in sloppy singsong, my tone wavering when a new ache manifests. "N-Nancy Drew, we have a mystery for you~"

Ghirahim's face goes completely stoic, a flexing muscle in his jaw the only indication to the massive amounts of rage he's swallowing. "You think this is some kind of joke?"

"The…Joker kills people."

He leans back in his chair, his pallor paler than usual. "I'm going to give you time to come to your senses, and then I'm going to kill you."

"M'kay." I squeeze shut my eyes, feel every molecule of my body against glossy red sheets, and vaguely realize I'm in his room and in his bed. Again. My eyelids peel back open. Blearily I stare up at the crimson hangings of silk crisscrossing all above and around the bed. The color reminds me of… "W-wow, I haven't gotten my period in months. Where did it go?"

Ghirahim stands from his chair and stalks to the door. He yanks it open. "Shii," he barks, "come sit with her." And then, fiercer, "Make sure she doesn't try to move. I'm taking a walk."

My goodbye to him comes in the form of a belch so loud it follows him down the hall. Grace and propriety are the furthest things from my addled head, and I feel no shame in the weak giggling madness bubbling from my lips at my own idiocy.

Shii stands stiff backed a few feet from the bed, green scaly arms crossed over her chest. She sneers. "Upstanding, human. Simply upstanding."

"H-ha!" I turn my act to a new victim. "Hahaha! Captain Sparkles, ha!"

"Keep still, you fool."

Shii doesn't have to tell me twice. The small jolts of laughter and the resulting cry from my muscles is all I need to stop.

"Has…" Essil appears from nowhere. "Has damage been done to her brain as well? Do you think—?" She cuts herself off to nibble her claw tips nervously.

"Her brain was damaged long before she ever came to us," Shii drawls.

The larger but uncertain Lizalfos curls in her shoulders. "But what if—?"

"Ha! Ba—nana!"

And just like that, I forget pain.

Essil lowers her claws. "Erm…"

Twisting my body, I look up at them with the astonishment of a child. "Do lizards have vulvas?"

Silence meets the question. After, my body reminds me why I shouldn't be moving. I freeze up, a gurgled cry catching in my throat.

Shii sighs. "Essil, give her a sedative. Or anything, really. Just make her go back to sleep."

Back in another life, I see a lonely farmhouse on a far-off hill. It's a few hours' drive from the glaring lights of the city. As my mother and I drive along, the towers of concrete gliding by the car window thin out to hills and valleys and trees. The winding black road we followed took us far over the mountains. Grays are gone; shades of green reign.

The home of my Aunt Pitty could have been a pretty one. Two stories tall with faded blue siding, black shingles, and a wide front porch. Too bad the shingles were falling apart, the porch was in disrepair, and…well, everything was in disrepair really. Chipped paint, splintered railings, cracked windows. But I know how it got that way.

Or rather, who made it that way.

And it wasn't Aunt Pitty.

When my mother and I made it from the car to the porch, Pitty was already there waiting. Or resting. Or hiding. Maybe all three. She sat on the porch in a creaking rocking chair, her hair frazzled, her head down. It looked as if she was trying to make herself as small as possible with how hunched she was sitting.

We could hear the yelling coming from inside the house, hear the boom of a bottle as it was thrown and shattered against a wall.

My mother marched up to the porch, her heels beating like a war drum on the steps. She stopped beside Pitty's chair and looked down at her, her nose wrinkled.

"Why haven't you left him yet, Patricia?"

I barely heard my mother's hissed words, but I knew them. She said them about every time we went there. But for some reason Aunt Pitty never listened.

My mother went stalking into the house, picking up the first object she could get her hands on: a vase, which somehow escaped the drunk man's wrath.

"Pamela…" Aunt Pitty whispered desperately.

I wasn't worried. Mom always won. Uncle Lewis was drunk stupid and Mom took cheap shots.

I heard the vase crash against Lewis' head, and his body hit the ground shortly after.

Mom would kick him in the junk for good measure.

I followed in my mother's path, sneakers treading softly where hard heels had left dents in the dirt. I came to a stop in front of Aunt Pitty. Her hands clutched the arms of the rocking chair for dear life, white knuckled and afraid. Her slow motion, each punctuated by the chair's keens and groans, belied that fear. But it was plain to see, even for twelve-year-old me.

I reached out to her, put a hand over hers.

"Come home with us."

She lowered her head further at my voice, her dark shaggy hair obscuring her face. My family said I resembled her. Strong build, thick hair the color of blackish swamp mud and darker eyes.

She didn't answer me. She never did.

I couldn't understand why she stayed.

When I went to follow my mother into the house, Pitty's hand darted out and snatched my wrist.

I looked back at her. She didn't look at me.

We stayed like that for a few moments.

"Don't end up like me," she finally rasped.

Then, she turned her head. And I saw her face. The swollen black eye. The ugly bruise along the bottom side of her jaw, purple and yellow. There were marks old and fresh. Tears sprang to my eyes.

Don't end up like me, she whispered into the dark of my consciousness.

Tears fell, but more came to blind me. The colors of her bruises all melded together with her face, now a distorted mask of shadow. Then her voice warped, mournful and garbled.

Don't…end up—like me…

I startle awake. A memory in the form of a dream of a life lived and cut short.

The red drapes hanging above are blurry, and I find my eyes and cheeks wet.

I breathe deep and rapidly blink.

Don't—end up…

Gritting my teeth, I try to push the last images and sounds of the dream far away. Of course, it doesn't work. I shake my head for good measure, only to feel a dull ache in my neck. I try to think why, then…

I bolt upright, grimacing afterwards.

I'm covered in bloody bandages! No, really bloody and…

Wait, that's not blood.

Gingerly I sniff the stained wraps covering my forearm. Smells tangy, with a hint of unpleasant spice. I think I know what it is, but I'm not sure…

God help me, I'm going to lick it.

Doing so confirms my suspicions. Red potion, not fully dry so maybe applied recently—oh, yuck! It's got a nasty-ass aftertaste!

Composing myself, I corral my thoughts.

The burrow. The cave-in. The rocks. The blood. Ghirahim's face filled with shock and…fear.

"What the actual shit," I whisper in English.

"Classy choice of words," Ghirahim responds in kind. He looms in the open doorway. "Did you forget you taught me that secret tongue of yours?"

"Most of it," I grumble, referring to the few words I haven't taught him.

"What was that?"

"What? Nothing. How long have I been wrapped like a mummy?"

His eyes narrow. "Long enough."

Essil appears behind Ghirahim, ducking into the room. Her purple scales flash in the candlelight as she scurries over to me with an earthen bowl filled with some weird red goop. She promptly shoves it in my face, right up to my mouth.

Smelling it, I sputter and jerk away. "Is that the same stuff you put on me?"

Essil pushes it further, insistent. "I added v-various herbs to make it longer lasting. You n-needed healing effects that would linger. Please drink—er, or eat."

The goop definitely isn't too drinkable and the aftertaste is so much worse with this amount. I move to pull away.

"Make her finish it all," Ghirahim says, "Shove it down her throat if you must."

I glare at him, letting out a pitiful excuse for a growl. But I finish the slime, 'cause if I don't, he'll probably make due on those words.

"Is your m-memory okay?" Essil asks.

I think.

I think some more.

Then I spew out the little remaining goop onto my lap. "Oh my God—you eat people!"

Ghirahim draws in a breath, slow and deep. "I suppose that answers that." He glares. "You're a foolish twit, focusing on matters eons old; humans haven't been devoured in a millennia. Think no more of it."

"You can't expect me to forget—"

"Be silent!" His shout echoes in the chamber, louder than thunder.

I freeze up, hushed.

He takes another breath. "The situation is being rectified. You are not to aggravate your injuries, do you understand? Essil, scape up what she spit out. Make her eat it."

The only person you can change is yourself. I learned that from Aunt Pitty.

Don't end up like me…

I learned long ago never to think I could change, or fix, anyone but me. I heard if a man hits you once he'll hit you again.

I know Ghirahim's cruelty. He won't think anything of it. I can prove it.

I provoke him. I demand what 'situation' is being 'rectified' and why did he take that tiny little bite of human—I'm sure I heard him say that—and why doesn't he just kill and eat me, or, you know what? Punch me in the face! Just punch me in the fucking face!

He stops his pen mid-stroke, looking up from the scroll where he writes.

"Are you menstruating?" he pointedly asks.

My jaw goes slack. "What?!" I squeak. "No! What the f—"

He ignores me, finishes whatever he's writing in that scroll. Soon Shii is summoned to take it.

Before Ghirahim lets go of it, he smiles at Shii dangerously. "You know what to do should anyone disobey. Don't fail me again."

Again?

Shii bows low, Ghirahim releases the scroll to her grasp, and she goes as quickly and as quietly as she came.

"Again?" I say aloud.

"She let you get out of the castle and into the wastes." He leans back into the couch. "Truthfully, such failure should result in a death, but I'm inclined to show mercy. This once. She's been a good commander of the Lizalfos. Hopefully she reinstates that talent."

"It wasn't her fault." I say quickly. "I went crazy—I mean, I—"

"It doesn't matter. Shii was in charge when it happened."

"No, wait," I say, "there were other Lizalfos that let me run out the door—"

"All of whom Shii was in charge of," he says with finality. He sighs. "It's late. Go to bed, darling."

I glare. "How was she supposed to stop me? You know I blasted open the front gates."

"Yes." He rubs his eyes. "With that…unsettling energy of yours that appears and disappears on a whim."

"Sometimes my God deigns to be with me, I guess." I scoff.

Ghirahim peers over at me. "Is it your God's power?"

"A spark," I hiss. "If that."

"You call that massive surge a spark?"

"Yeah."

Ghirahim stares at me for what seems like a long time. "To bed," he says quietly.

I stand my ground.

His brows knit, an irritated smile taking shape. "Do you want me to tuck you in?"

When I don't move, he does so. Not so gently. But not once does he hit me.

Days pass. My injuries continue to heal.

And I continue to give Ghirahim the cold shoulder.

The night he put me to bed, I hadn't realized how tired I was. Sleep came quickly, but the nightmare of Aunt Pitty's melting bruised face came just as fast. I woke screaming. It seemed Ghirahim appeared instantly (he probably did, what with his crazy teleportation magic) and tried to soothe me. I wasn't having it. I was starting to hurt all over again, bad. So, he held me and wouldn't let go. He kept talking at me, trying to get me to focus. I babbled, may have said something about my room in another world, about the little creatures that made pleasant rumbling sounds in their throats and slept on my pillows. How I wanted them back.

The sound that came out of Ghirahim almost drove me into another frenzy. If a panther purrs, that's what it would sound like, I thought. Swords do not purr. People do not purr. So whether he's one or both or whatever, he shouldn't be making that soft growling noise.

But he did. He held me, and it seemed like a giant cat was rumbling away beside me, content and calming.

My body hurt…a little less.

Now fully cognizant, I wonder why he would do something so ridiculous. Never mind the how—I stopped trying to understand the hows a while ago. What does he have to gain by coddling me so? He could have thrown me in the dungeon and beat me 'til I talked. I could still be up in that tower, shivering and sick.

Above all, why did he look so scared when he thought I was crushed by the rocks?

It's a trick. It has to be. There's no way…

I go between avoiding and lashing out at him.

"Fight me! What happened to the way you tossed me about before?"

He is only incredulous. "Do you miss our little sparring sessions? So sorry, darling. You'll have to wait longer. I'm afraid you're not quite healed up yet."

I think the only way I could get him to snap would be to talk badly of his master. But I don't. I'm stupid, but I'm not that stupid.

He pours over the maps, looking for new areas to search. Day and night he does this, checking on me every now and again.

"I trust you're not getting into any mischief, my darling?"

Darling, darling, darling. When did he even start calling me that? It was nothing more than a mocking endearment back then. But now…

When did he start saying that word so warmly?

If I'm nothing more than a book of prophecies and answers, he should've been nothing more than angry and disappointed to find me crushed, maybe dead. A valuable book, but still just a book. Instead I found pure abject fear in his eyes, on his face. I can't believe it, so I can't understand it.

In the dead of night, I try to find answers.

"Why do you call me darling?" I ask crisply.

He stirs from his doze, knocking a rolled-up map and a tome from the couch with his knee. "Mmm? What are you talking about?"

"Why. Do you call. Me darling?" I enunciate the question like angry slaps.

He stretches and smiles like a lazy cat, not once opening his yes. "Darling," he murmurs, "you've always been my darling."

I glare at his sleeping form. Someone seems to have forgotten his prior treatment of me. Well, that's fine. Let him forget. I haven't.

I never will.

Patricia Stalnart used to be a girl filled with courage, determination, and fortitude, my mother had always told me. Until she met that man and threw everything she was away trying to 'save' him.

When I was ten, my mother started taking me with her to go see Aunt Pitty. At first, she was hoping to lure Pitty away from Lewis and back with us by using my childlike charm. Later, it was so I could see the damage, and hopefully never end up the same.

In the end, she never left him. She was saved from him only because he got behind the wheel of his truck and drove it into a tree.

I don't want to end up like her. I won't.

I keep Ghirahim at an emotional distance. Cold is the way I have to be. I can't deny the twinges in my heart for him at times, can't deny that I like being around him. So, I have to keep him at arm's length. For my own sake. For my own fortitude.

He is distracted by his search. He goes out into the world to find the missing second gate.

I breathe sighs of relief when he's gone. He can't affect me if he's not here.

Healthy enough to walk and run, I seek out Shii. I have apologizing to do.

I find her in that dome-shaped training room, spinning and lashing out at an invisible enemy only she can see. She keeps on her toes, jumps and doges, stabs and slashes with her daggers. Noticing me, she stops and stares. Or, really, glares.

"…Look, I'm…sorry you got in trouble for me freaking out. I didn't think—"

"You rarely do, human." Shii sneers. "You rarely think of anyone but yourself."

I stand stock still. "That's not fair. Anyone in my situation would have trouble—"

Shii bares her needle-like teeth. "What situation? Is being cared for and adored by one of the most powerful demon lords troublesome for you?"

I open my mouth. Close it. "…He…doesn't adore me."

"Doesn't he? Are you blind, daft, stupid? All three?"

I lower my head.

"Listen to me, human. I've never seen my lord that way with anyone. Open your eyes and stop living in willful ignorance!"

I say nothing. I can't. She wouldn't understand.

Shii sighs. "I'll give you undeniable proof, then. There's a balcony on the southeastern sector. I want you to meet me there tomorrow at high noon. Come, I'll show you how to get there."

I have no choice but to follow her. I walk behind her, watching the green scales of her back, watching her wispy tail flick back and forth along the floor. I wonder if any apology will ever do.

"Here it is." She leads me through a large, heavy door. The other side boasts a view of sprawling hills and forests up to the horizon. Mist and dabbles of showers dampen the view. "You'll come here tomorrow. High noon."

"Okay… Shii, I really am sorry."

She stands silent, not looking at me.

I shuffle awkwardly. I want to change the subject. I want an invitation to her companionship again. "You…you were training with daggers earlier. Could you teach me anything?"

Seconds drag by. Then she snorts. "I suppose I could show you a few things."

Translation: apology accepted.

I keep in her good faith by doing as she says. Both in training and in appearing at the balcony the next day.

Through the heavy door, I am greeted by much the same sight.

Except for the hundreds of smoke plumes rising into the air from the lands below.

Ghirahim and Shii stand at the balustrade.

Shii glances back at me. She refocuses on Ghirahim, who stands before her, his back to her and me. "All was done just as you commanded, my lord. Your orders were delivered. All books, scrolls, and any other paraphernalia containing human consumption burns this day."

Ghirahim doesn't turn. He seems transfixed by the smoke as it rises to meet the gray clouds above.

"Burning…?" I say.

Ghirahim whips around. "Darling, what are you doing here? Back inside, before the smoke reaches here. I won't have you coughing up your lungs and dying after all that trouble I went through to get you better."

"I'll escort her, my lord."

Shii guides me back inside. Once we're in, she looks me dead in the eye.

"For you, human. He's had them all burned for you. None but the greater demons will remember the taste of human flesh."

I sit on my bed in my room, staring at the hearth I'm sure wasn't there before. It helps cull the air's chill.

But that's not what's taking precedence in my head.

For you, human.

Don't end up—

I shake my head violently. Why, why, why? It can't be. He can't— A trick? But how far does a trick go? This is beyond that.

Tears fall into my lap. I don't know what to do, or what to think.

Water falling from my eyes. Water falling, water falling…

And with that, I have my next course of action. The only thing I can think to do. To keep myself safe—to keep myself from falling into that demon's arms.

What could be the harm of showing him now? He's gonna go there anyway, I think vehemently. It's time to show him what really lies beyond the waterfall.

A/N: I'm sorry if it's wonky. I tried my best given the circumstances. Thank you for reading.