CONTENT WARNING: Okay, two things… FIRST, I want you to know that I am very, VERY Christian. There is a character in the next two chapters, though, that does very-much-NOT-Christian things, in the name of Christianity. Basically, he's a complete fraud—you'll see what I mean. I just wanted to make the point here that these chapters are NOT meant to be anti-priesthood, but are meant to be anti-priestcraft. (Priestcraft is… really, really bad!) At the same time, though, in this case, I also want to make it clear that I'm not trying to go into religious philosophy in the story; I am using Christianity as part of the cultural setting of where the action is taking place (Renaissance Western Europe). Basically, in terms of the religion in Ice Alliance: don't try to think about this too hard. SECOND: I re-iterate that this chapter and the next—filling out more of (my version of) Jack's backstory—are about as dark as it's going to get. But, after we get through his backstory (give me a couple chapters—I've already had to divide up this one for being too long), it ends on an up note. I really love playing with the juxtaposition of extreme darkness with extreme light. Just be warned. Love ya all, and please don't hate me for writing this! LIGHTER STUFF IS COMING BACK, I PROMISE!

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31: THE DEMON OF BURGESS

"HELP! Somebody! PLEASE!"

But no one heard him. The gangly, white-haired boy looked frantically around himself in desperation, searching for something to knock over, ANYTHING, to get these people's attention. The woman had gone into labor. She'd actually GONE INTO LABOR, and now she was lying on the floor inside the cottage, completely alone, while the few people in the village who were outside rushed by, completely unaware. The snow swirled harder and stronger, the howling wind swallowing up the screams of agony from within the little house.

He had just been trying to get her to see him.

At first, the peasant woman hadn't noticed the delicate layer of frost spiraling across the surface of the table. When he'd started writing in it with his finger, though, she had startled back in shock, slipping and falling down in terror. And then she was in labor. It had all happened so fast. He didn't even realize it could happen that fast. Jack didn't know who this woman was, but he'd felt such a strange connection with her, with this cottage, that he'd gotten desperate. Desperate trying to make her see him, that was. And now, she AND the child were in mortal danger, while the winter storm raged outside, growing stronger and stronger in the darkness of the night.

How could he have been so stupid?

Jack stumbled through the fierce wind towards a gate near the side of the house, the swirling air ripping at his tattered brown cape. The snow of the growing storm wasn't blinding, but if he didn't act quickly, it would be. He would have gone inside and tried to help her himself, but in his confusing state, unseen, unable to reach out to anyone, there was nothing that he could do but watch in horror as she had fallen.

Catching the edge of the house, he pulled himself beyond it, fighting the growing power of the storm. Looking up, he gasped.

A man was coming towards the gate.

Jack stumbled back a step, frantically looking around himself. There was a pile of firewood by the cottage. Running over to it as the man approached, he threw down his staff and grasped one of the logs towards the bottom, pulling on it with all his strength. As he jerked it out, the other logs collapsed with a crash, rolling across the ground.

Fighting the storm himself, the man clutched his cloak tighter around him, his graying brown hair whipping in the wind as he locked the gate. He had a shepherd's crook as well, tucked under his arm. As he turned around and looked up, he suddenly saw the firewood logs, rolled out from their pile across the ground.

A look of horror swept over the man's face. Jack watched desperately as he then fought his way towards the house through the snow, snatching up a few logs as he went. And then he stopped.

Jack held his breath. They were right next to the cottage. Maybe he could hear the woman inside now. Maybe he was close enough to—

"Hazel?" the man gasped.

Jack moved out of the way as the man's eyes widened. Stumbling back a step, the man dropped the logs, running for the door of the house.

"HAZEL!"

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"How is she doing?"

The tired-looking man collapsed into the chair, running his fingers through his hair and leaning onto the table in front of him. He had a muscular but thin body, with pointed features, his eyes crinkled from years of smiling and laughter.

But he clearly wasn't laughing now.

The first man, wearing a cloak, leaned in close to his friend again, placing a mug of frothy liquid in front of him.

"Is Hazel alright?" he tried again.

"My wife?" The tired-looking man nodded weakly, pulling in a deep breath and reaching for the drink. "She's alive. I'm just grateful that we were able to get the midwife here in time. But her condition is worsening."

Lifting the mug to his lips, he took in a long drink. The few villagers in the room that had been listening cast their eyes down again, returning to their hushed conversations. They had come to be present for the birth—as was customary in this village, despite the raging snowstorm outside. But now they could see that the father was not in the mood to talk to them. It was apparent in his eyes, what had happened.

The man in the cloak—clearly the father's friend—pulled in a deep breath, his eyes wide with concern. "And the child?"

The father bit his lip, slowly looking up. After a few moments, he shook his head.

Jack's blood ran cold. Squeezing his eyes shut again as the nausea swept over him, he tried to swallow his heart back down. She was—she was a tiny woman, this Hazel, compared to many. And she seemed a little skittish. Maybe she would have gone into labor early anyway. Maybe it wasn't his fault.

It wasn't his fault.

It WASN'T his fault.

…Right?

He had stayed outside the room, nervously pacing and tossing his staff back and forth between his hands, during the delivery. It was apparent that the custom in this village was that men weren't allowed in for the birth, so despite his invisibility, he had stayed outside out of respect. However, just as anxious as the father, he had run in just as soon as the child had been born. He had gone in to make sure that everything, despite his stupidity, was okay. And it was—for about ten minutes.

Then it wasn't.

"Oh, Ezra…" the first man sighed. "I am so sorry."

"It was a boy." The man in the chair shook his head, closing his eyes. "It was a boy. He could have taken my place and led the village, when I was too old. You know… since Jackson can't anymore."

The man—this Ezra—sighed, the pain visible in the contours of his face. The other man pulled his cloak around him, and nodded slowly. "Jackson would have made a great leader."

"Yes," Ezra breathed. He shakily felt the mug's handle, then grasping it and beginning to take another drink. "He would have."

A silence fell over them, as if they were completely alone in the room, instead of surrounded by the villagers. Across from them, Jack silently leapt up onto the table, the wood softly creaking under his weight.

Ezra glanced up from the mug for a moment, his deep eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to locate the source of the sound. Finding nothing unusual, after a moment, he let out his breath, shaking his head slightly and taking another drink.

I feel like I know you, Jack thought, creeping towards them and gazing into the man's tortured face. Why do I feel like I know you?

Readjusting himself on the table and supporting himself with his staff, Jack watched as Ezra slowly moved his head down, a hint of a smile tugging on the edge of his lips as he met his friend's gaze again.

"If you could ever pry the children off of him," he mumbled.

The man in the cloak let out a sharp bark of laughter. "OH, yes," he laughed, "That could have been a problem. Remember that time when half of the youngsters went missing, and then we found them all out weeding Mrs. Kortson's plot at eleven o'clock at night?"

"Because Jackson convinced them it was a game?"

The man drew himself up, waving his arms and playfully imitating a child's voice. "We have to keep feeding the green monster! We have to keep feeding the green monster, and it will come to life!"

A few of the villagers stopped their conversations and looked to him. As they turned back around—having clearly heard this story many times before—Ezra smiled weakly.

"I remember that night," he said softly. "Scared everyone in the village half to death."

"And then they saw what a good job of weeding that the children did," his friend chuckled. "But, a lot of that might have just been Emma. She was young, but she was very set on impressing her brother."

"I suppose that's true," Ezra replied. "Jackson always did specially make time for her."

"And alllllll of the little girls were jealous of her for it."

They both laughed again, the man in the chair closing his eyes, as if savoring the memories. Jack let out his breath. Even though he couldn't really place why, it was such an overwhelming relief to see that man smile. In the midst of everything.

Despite everything.

"Or how about that time that my little Joshua felt so sick that he wouldn't eat?" the man in the cloak started again softly. "And no one in the entire village could make him do it."

"Until Jackson challenged him to a lentil-eating contest."

Both of the men laughed, the memory glowing in their eyes.

"I have never seen a little boy eat so much in my life," Ezra chuckled. He then smiled slyly, leaning in closer to his friend and dropping his voice a few tones. "Or get so SICK to his stomach afterwards."

The man in the cloak threw back his head and let out a hearty, booming laugh. A few of the villagers in the room turned again, and then, realizing that the conversation was still a private one, resumed their own discussions. The man in the cloak looked back to Ezra.

"Ah, yes. That Jackson did have a bit of a naughty streak in him," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Always another trick up his sleeve."

Ezra fell silent again, leaning onto the table and taking another drink. His friend leaned in close to his ear.

"You know… Joshua still has that toy donkey that your son carved for him," he said quietly. "That was the prize. And Jackson's little contest was probably what saved him from dying for want of food. My family will always be indebted to your boy for that."

"We all will be." Ezra shook his head, shifting uncomfortably in the chair as reality fell upon him again. "It just—it isn't right. None of it is right."

A wave of confusion swept over his friend's face.

"Ezra," he said softly, "What do you mea—"

"—It isn't RIGHT," Ezra burst out suddenly, slamming down the mug and leaping onto his feet, "For a man, in MY position, to have lost his ONLY SON!"

The room suddenly went silent as the villagers' conversation ceased, everyone turning and looking to Ezra in shock.

His eyes tearing up, he looked down, shaking his fist slightly. Jack watched in horror as blood rose to Ezra's face, his pale features going slightly pink. Stumbling a step back, Ezra slid his hands into his hair, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head.

"And now—another one!" he choked.

Everyone watched as Ezra collapsed back into the chair, leaning forward and burying his face in his hands.

A few moments passed in silence. Jack, frozen as he crouched on the table, felt his heart leap into his throat again. This man's pain was so palpable… it was like it was cutting HIM, personally. He just felt so close to him.

Why did he feel so close to him?

Jack watched as the man in the cloak pulled out another chair at the table, sitting down with a sigh. The others in the room, sensing the need for privacy again, turned away. As the soft chatter filled the cottage, Ezra's friend leaned across the table, staring into his eyes.

"Ezra," he began again carefully, "I think you should know that—there's someone that can help you. A specialist. A man that has—experience—with this type of thing."

Ezra paused. After a few seconds, he then slowly looked up. "What type of thing?"

The man in the cloak shifted uncomfortably in his seat, staring at the table.

"You've been telling me of—strange happenings," his friend said intensely. "I—there is a dark presence here. There's no other explanation. Furniture moving on its own. The sheep getting spooked. Mysterious writing appearing out of nowhere—"

"—An exorcist."

The man in the cloak bit his lip. Ezra pulled in another breath.

"The man. He's an exorcist," Ezra shook. "Isn't he? You think we need to get an exorcist."

His friend nodded. Jack crept another inch closer, straining to hear their hushed conversation.

"He is—expensive," the man said. "But consider the circumstances. Something must be done."

"How expensive?"

The man leaned into Ezra's ear, whispering something that Jack couldn't make out. He saw Ezra jolt, startling back as his face went pale.

"I can't pay that kind of price!" Ezra choked. "You know how hard things have been, since Jackson passed! It was bad enough, as it was. But now, I'm having to get hirelings to watch the sheep, and trying to keep the village from starving, and—"

"—Ezra, you simply CANNOT keep avoiding reality!" the other man interrupted. "First, there was the infertility for all of those years. Then your eldest's death. Now the child. What will it be next?"

Ezra put down his now-empty mug, wiping his wrist across his mouth. As he stared determinately at the table, his friend leaned close in to his face again.

"WHO… will it be… next?" the man in the cloak whispered.

He glanced towards the door to the bedroom, where Hazel was struggling to recover. Ezra's eyes widened, his face going pale.

After a few moments, he drew himself up.

"Fetch the man. Whatever the price," Ezra choked. "I will pay it."

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There was a knock at the door.

Ezra looked up, staring across the room through Jack's body. He then shakily got onto his feet, pushing out the chair and setting down the now thrice-drained mug. Most of the villagers had stayed, some to offer support, many hoping to catch a glimpse of this specialist—this exorcist—in action. Not much was to be found in the way of entertainment, in this village, and many of its inhabitants were eager to see something different from the usual daily grind and stormy evening. As Ezra walked over to the door and reached for the handle, a wave of dark excitement swept the room.

Jack stood up on the table, peering over the villager's heads with curiosity. Standing in the doorway, in a dark cloak, was a stout, aging man. His hairline was receding, above his wrinkled face, and a heavy cross hung on a rope about his neck.

As the man drew himself up, his icy glare seemed to pierce straight through the room. Despite his smaller stature, his deathly expression, twisted and dark from years of hatred, was cruel enough to make even the bravest cringe in terrified obedience to his words.

Many of the people had stayed in the cottage, and a few more had since come, to see a spectacle. And it appeared that the villagers were not going to be disappointed.

"I have received word that you have been having problems with a demon," the exorcist said coldly.

Ezra said nothing, but nodded, stepping gravely to the side and gesturing for the man to come into the tiny house. The wind swishing the cloak around him, he did so, snatching up the torch from outside the house and taking it inside with him.

Jack had stayed by Ezra for the previous few hours, crouched on the table, wishing with all his heart for nothing more than to comfort the strangely familiar man, to embrace him, to tell him that he was sorry. Sorry for everything. He was sorry that the man's son had died. He was sorry that Hazel's condition was worsening. He was sorry for—

It wasn't his fault.

It WASN'T his fault.

Maybe if he repeated the phrase in his mind enough times, he would eventually begin to believe it.

Ezra had gotten up and gone in to see his wife a few times, but the midwife had shooed him away, after a few minutes on each visit. Hazel was trying to sleep. She needed to sleep. After giving birth too early…

Jack's heart leapt into his throat at the memory.

It wasn't, wasn't, WASN'T his fault.

Was it?

He jolted suddenly, realizing that the exorcist was at the table, Ezra next to him, the villagers gathered around.

"I am not accustomed to receiving this kind of summons in the middle of the night," the man snarled, "Yet I came, despite the weather and the hour. I am a charitable man. That, fortunately, works in your favor. But the price will be higher than usual."

Ezra's face went pale. "Just—just do what you need to—"

There was a loud clatter, and both men suddenly snapped their heads up.

As he'd tried to scoot himself a little further back on the table to watch, Jack had felt something tug on his cape. Whipping his head around, he realized what the noise, and tug, were from.

He'd accidentally pulled over Ezra's empty mug.

The villagers gasped, some turning and pointing. The man in the dark cloak leaned in closer to the table, glaring at the mug, his eyes narrowing ferociously. He then began to slowly reach for the cross around his neck.

"The demon," one of the women whispered. "It's—it's here!"

Jack sucked in his breath, leaping off of the table and inching his way, as silently as he could, along the wall. He then looked back and realized that the exorcist, the heavy cross swinging in his hand, was creeping forward towards him.

Straight towards him.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE (original, November 2015):

1. I just want to say that you guys have no IDEA how much your kind words and interest have meant to me. Basically, what I haven't told you en mass (I've been pretty open with the people I've been PM'ing) is that I have some—issues—and that writing is really helping me to deal with them. For as long as people seem to be reading it and enjoying it (What? People are reading this? Really? Oh, rejoicing!), I can then justify continuing. Again, you have no IDEA how much it means to me that you're, um, HERE. Thank you SO MUCH for being awesome; you have no CLUE how much this whole fanfic thing has been helping me! (BTW: Happy three months of Ice Alliance! Well, actually, that was last Monday, but… yeah. I broke down and started writing this in the end of July, and then joined fanfiction-dot-net and started posting in the middle of August. These last three months of my life have been INSANE, and I'm SO GRATEFUL for all of you guys giving me this escape!)

2. To Guest Reviewer Theena: Oh, I'm glad that Jack's calling her "Snowflake" is growing on you! Just wait a few chapters until you find out why… ;)

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AUTHOR'S NOTE (added June 2017): Three months. Back before I was drafting like mad, and my quality was way lower, so that I could actually write that fast... ha... ha ha ha... (Re-drafting the first chapter through about here took 14 months, LOL) XD