literature

Fielder pt. 4

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It flourished from every direction like a raging ocean storm, biting into my bones with cruel satisfaction and a taste for victory.

I screamed silence, cried emptiness, struggled for intangible darkness like no other, everywhere, everything, a living nightmare of chains of pure black that dug into my flesh and bones like an unholy prison. I screamed, but I had no mouth, and the tension of the moment overcame my mind, exploding with a soundless, roaring, deafening blast of black powder in the soaring pitch of night. No light came from anywhere, like a void, and I couldn't move, struggled ran, didn't move before more whipped around my wrists and ankles and kept me trapped in the darkness and living hells roiled past and called from across the void. I screamed again, put every last breath of air into it, and heard nothing, rattling chains, fighting terror down, forgetting how to walk in this embodiment of my worst fears.

DOES ANYTHING EXIST?!

DOES ANYTHING EXIST?!

The roars came closer, so close I could feel the hot breath of the Shadow on me, tendrils lapping coldly, sliming across the skin of my throat--


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I woke screaming, sitting stock straight in a chair. My face was slick with sweat, and my throat was hoarse thought I screamed again. The howls quieted, and I gasped in fast pants, my whole body shaking from that unholy terror I had experienced. I gripped my face, pulled away a paper with some effort, and allowed frightened tears to fall from my eyes in this surrounding.

In front of me was a desk, covered in scattered documents ll dated and written carefully. Some of those on top were smeared and wet, the ink smudged by something damp when they were fresh. As my breathing calmed, I listened to the sound of the cool breeze outside the open window and the hurried footsteps from somewhere outside. Something hurried through the rooms outside this one, and soon an older woman burst in, face as pale as if she had seen a ghost.

"I-I heard these awful screams, so I came running," she said in a most frightened yet pleasantly kind voice. She looked at me, and my face, and, instead of recoiling in horror or screaming as I had, her face melted to a somewhat amused yet worried look. "Oh, dear, your face is covered in ink! Let me get that." She pulled a handkerchief from her dress and approached me without fear.

Confused, somewhat scared, I protested for a moment, placing a hand on her arm to push her away, but I soon gave up as the motherly old woman began wiping my face gently with the cloth, cleansing it of the sweat and ink that must have been there when I awoke in this familiar place. The lady was familiar, too, and when our eyes met, I saw not even a trace of doubt or fear in her eyes.

She smiled sadly at me again. "Another one of those nightmares again?"

I was completely lost. Nightmares? Oh, of course! That... I nodded quickly, discreetly, and realized that the parched feeling of my jaws had disappeared. I opened them-- a whole mouth!-- and ran my tongue rapturously over my lips. A most incredible feeling! I tried to laugh, but the shaking and the terror of my experience got to me and it came out a guttural sob.

The old woman looked at me with worry and said, "Dear, I believe you are running yourself ragged! You shouldn't work so hard, it's not good for you health."

I sighed, a fluttering, mournful sound, and decided to try my hand at speech. "Uhm...I...well... Who are you, again?" I tried to back up the foolish question with a smile, but failed when the woman smiled instead.

"I know how you can get after nightmares," she said. "I'm Claudia Wheeler. I live in the house next door." She stood back as I ran my left hand through my smooth, clean hair. "I'm sorry to have barged right in without permission."

I blinked, rubbed my eyes. Tried to process all this. "I'll be fine now," I said, my voice giving away a quaver that I hadn't intended.

Madam Wheeler nodded and left with a quick "Good day."

For a few moments after the door had closed, I just sat where I was and looked around with the wide, suspicious eyes of a rabbit. The room was lined with shelves, the shelves lined with books of all sorts: books on modern sciences, astronomy, writings teaching how to navigate by the stars, many old tomes appearing to have been brought straight from the sight of their births, accounts of history and warfare and ancient Roman religion. Some small artifacts inhabited the places where the books didn't go, old pots and brass jewelry.

I stood up on unsteady, painless legs and went to the window. Outside, a storey below me and bathed in rich, golden light, was another world bustling with people. Black-coated men led flamboyantly decorated women down the street, young boys chasing each other across the roads, a dog here, a cat there, sniffing about the gutters. The street seemed boxed in by the rows of old brick houses, certainly each one of them matching the one I inhabited now. The old, familiar name that so long graced my memory weaved forth and gave this place a name: Mayfair.

Only now did I open the window, letting in a gentle late August breeze which ruffled through my hair and over my clothing and across my sweaty face. I closed my eyes and inhaled the wafting scent of bread and life. A broad grin peeled itself unconsciously across my face. All traces of that terror and confusion melted away as my eyes traveled across the blue sky, the tufts of fluffy cloud, and the golden sun which seared my vision in such a stupidly delightful manner I had forgotten. The breeze's playful hands came around me again, grasping cheerfully at my loose sleeves, the cravat around my neck, tousling my unbroken hair like a nurse would a playful child. I reached after the happy zephyr, feeling it slip reluctantly away from my arm like some infatuated sylph. The smile stayed spread across my face, lips closed to form a gentle grin.

And then the confusion came like ice in my veins.

The smiled faded; I looked at each of my hands carefully. "Flawless, both of them, without a single scratch," I muttered to myself simply because I could. Words felt well to form with a fresh face, mirthful yells from young boys below candy to exhausted ears. But it wasn't right. I stepped away from the window, not bothering to close it, both ecstatic and worried to feel the blissful absence of pain.

In fact, this whole situation was strange.

Operating on a latent knowledge of my forgotten home, I navigated to the washroom and looked at myself in the mirror. My face was completely, utterly human. The skin of my cheeks was somewhat red from the merciless desert sun, and my eyes were ringed with the dark circles of insomnia and nightmares. Just as I remembered last seeing it, despite the residual smudges of ink and sweat. Grey eyes met grey eyes; my expression was one of exhausted fear. I forced a smile, adding a tinge of insincerity to the gaunt face.

All of this was hysterical. Where were the scars, the stitches? Hastily, I unbuttoned my clean green waistcoat, then my linen, and looked at my bare chest. Nothing but the small, horizontal scar on my abdomen I knew with a secretive warmth. I jerked the sleeve gently away to look at my shoulder and found no trace of that godawful wound.

"What is this?" I asked myself quietly, surprised by the quiet rasp of my own voice.

I redid the buttons and left the washroom.

The puzzling situation struck me with more severity as I paced the floors, each step creaking below my booted feet. Was I truly dead, or had that dreadful experience at Brennenburg been a mere dream? Something changed in the room. Startled, I glanced warily around. A book lay open in the middle of the floor, shadows seeming to gather around it. Uncertain as to the reason it was there, or how it had even gotten there, I took careful steps away from it until my back bumped the jamb of the staircase.

I ran back up the stairs, heels clunking dully against the wood, and looked again in my study. Nothing seemed to have changed, but an oil lantern now rested nonchalantly next to an unlit candle on my desk. Another gust of wind blew through, scattering several papers from the haphazard pile and flinging them across the floor. The sylph wanted to play with me again, apparently.

Quickly, I gathered the papers and looked at them, each somehow relating to my excursions in Algeria and Prussia...or so I thought. Many of the words were smudged out, as I had noted earlier, rendering their meanings and purposes unclear.

"Not a very helpful sylph, are you?" I said, entertaining the notion and my tongue.

I returned to my desk, gently pushing aside the chair so I could stand before this challenge. I collected each of the smudged papers and organized them into a stack, clearing the space for those which were legible. Letters from various men who responded to my inquiries, one from Alexander, brief and strange. Herbert's account on the Algerian expedition, but the day regarding my entrapment was missing from the archival, along with any other mention of my name. Notes on the Globus Cruciger, as well as other symbols of orbs and those bearing them, all written in my hand. Through all of this I could find no instance of my name.

I shivered. A cold gust had blown through the room, prickling my body with the dropping temperature. I rushed to the window and closed it. The sylph wasn't playing nice any more. I returned to my desk, just to find all my papers gone, replaced with some work on an expedition along the Nile in Cairo's older regions. I hadn't gone out on that one. I had remained in Cairo strictly to catalogue all of our finds.

I scowled. "This doesn't make sense..." I sat down, resting my head in my hands to think this over. The trip to Algeria had happened, so what of the Orb? I stood, giving the wood cup of tar a cursory glance as I rushed to the drawing room. I threw open the door, and the Orb wasn't there. The cloth that had held it was, but the object itself wasn't! I looked around, underneath chairs, at the tar stains-- still remarkably sticky-- behind a cabinet, inside the cabinet, and found nothing but a trail of subtle new tar splotches left by my own stuck fingers. I sighed, wondering what was going on and what possessed me to touch that tar.

A knock came from the door.

Frustrated now, I hurried over there, stepping carefully over the shadowy book. I quickly undid the locks and opened the door to a young man holding a mailbag.

He cleared his throat and looked at me, quickly breaking eye contact upon seeing my disheveled face. "Is there a," he hesitated, reading the name on a letter, "'Henry Bedloe' here?"

The breath caught in my throat. "Henry Bedloe?"

The courier nodded. "Is he here, sir? Sir?"

I blinked, shook my head. "No, no. I'm afraid not."

"Sorry to bother you," the courier said, then left briskly.

I stood at the open door for a while, staring fixedly into space. Henry Bedloe had been a serious, violent bully to me.

I shut the door, leaning against the back of it.

One day, I had decided that enough was enough. I had beaten him roughly into the dirt and, with the encouragement of the other children, hit him over the head with a stone.

The whole house creaked in a gust of strong wind, and I thought I heard their voices again, wordless but cheering. My right hand flashed hot, felt sticky, stung with acute pain. And then, all was quiet again.

I looked at my hand and stifled a gasp by reflex. It was smeared with fresh, wet blood. Dirt dusted it and the sleeve of my shirt. Small scrapes scored the palm, and clumps of dark brown hair clotted together in the sticky mess.

I shivered with fright and, for a moment, thought I heard footsteps above me. My father? No. Nothing. They faded into oblivion. I looked at my hand again, sickened by the memento left there. Any of the blissful wonder I had felt now decayed away into a slurry of thick dread. "I don't understand this at all," I hissed, for a moment startled by the sound of the childlike murmur that came instead. "Wh-- What?!" My guts twisted in knots.

"Dear lord!" This time, I spoke as myself. My eyes darted around, sweat rolling down the small of my back. "My papers!" I sprinted up the stairway, nearly crashing into a wall, and burst into the study, where a book sat closed on the desk, candle burning bright, night darkening the sky outside. I whimpered, feeling my muscles go loose as fright tumbled through me in a warm wave. Almost too worried to go on, I slowly approached the desk and looked at the cover of the book:

English Book of Monarchs

It sent a shiver down my spine. A thin film of dust covered the tome. I grabbed the handkerchief off the desk and wiped my right hand vigorously, trying to purge my skin of the filth there, but it wasn't working. The stains remained, even after everything had come off on the cloth. Disgusted, I threw it on the floor and stomped on it. A cloud moved, and the moon peered at me through the window. Wind banged at the window, furiously demanding to be let in. I glared at it. I glared at the room.

"This place is cursed," I muttered to myself, hearing the darkness in my own voice.

My fingers found the handle of my lantern, pulling I tight into my grasp. I lit it carefully with a trembling hand and walked down the stairs, carefully opening the door and stepping onto the street outside. A carriage rolled past, pulled by two weary horses. A poor man strolled briskly towards me, yes down. I grabbed his arm gently to stop him.

He looked at me. "What is it, sir?" he asked, worry playing clearly through his voice.

I shook my head. "What's the date?" I asked, praying that I didn't sound hysterical.

"The first of August," the poor man replied.

I bit my lip with surprise. "Uh. Well..." I dug into my pocket with a shaking hand. "H-here. Half a sovereign for your troubles."

"Pleasure," the poor man said with bewilderment, accepting the coins and trotting quickly away, probably worried that I would come to my senses.

I reached back into the pocket of my waistcoat, and realized I had lost not a penny at all on that deal. "This world is operating strangely," I muttered to myself, shifting the lantern between clammy hands. Where to now? The university? The library? Back inside?

The lantern went out quite suddenly.

Startled, blinded, I gasped and bolted back into my house with a fright.

Once inside, I looked down at the book laying on the floor, so deeply surrounded by darkness. It was open to a page written in my hand. I gently picked it up from the floor and read the date.

August 13, 1839

I rubbed my eyes. I didn't remember anything of an entry that day. Even in my amnesiac stupor, the sight of a date usually stirred some foggy deja vu in me, but this didn't.

I kept reading regardless:

Nothing falls certain to me anymore; I trust the darkness far less than I had before. Today, it tested me like nothing ever has.

This morning, I woke with a terrible start only to find that every sheet had been flung from my bed in the night. I was shivering furiously, as though some specter had opened a window in the night. For a while, I thought I had come down with some illness, but I was soon proven wrong by the quickness in which I warmed up.

I still shake to think of the event which transpired earlier this day. I was told to come quickly to my sister's hospice; they said that she was rapidly deteriorating. Believe me, I ran there as fast as I could. She was in a bad ways, her pretty face pale, her fever nearly hot enough to burn my hand! But, upon seeing me, she seemed more at ease, and she smiled for the "first time in the longest", as a nurse said. I stayed by her bedside until well after dark, telling stories as I used to.

When I was sure she was fine, I left, facing the threat of darkness and hearing that dreadful voice call to me again. What a night I have had.


I scowled, and the journal snapped shut. Hazel. My sister. "Hazel!" I carelessly dropped my journal, cold shivers running through my body. "Oh dear, how could I forget her?" Muscles twitched in my face. I stalked off to the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea with the already boiled water, going off to the drawing room to sit there and mull this over.

Nothing made sense.

That was my conclusion.

I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I remember is being shaken awake by the kindly Madam Wheeler. Upon seeing her, I gave a startled shout and spilled the last of the cool tea on my waistcoat.

"How...Why are you here?" I stammered, setting the teacup and saucer down on the table on which my feet had been propped. My yes flew across the room, examining each object for any differences. There were none, miraculously.

"You weren't out this morning, so I got worried and found you," the old lady replied. "I trust you're alright?"

I nodded and stood up, brushing the creases from my pants. The woman's expression was one of utmost caring, making me all the more confused. "You...you needn't worry, madam."

Madam Wheeler sighed. "Oh, you just haven't been yourself lately, dear," she said with a hint of disappointment.

I scowled. "I haven't?"

A silence came over the world, and the old woman seemed to freeze. I looked at her with curiosity. When she didn't answer, I said, "Madam?" Nothing. I waved a hand in front of her face. She didn't even blink. "Are you okay?" I walked circle around her, and as I inadvertently bumped into the cabinet behind me, I felt something hot, solid, and slimy slip across my palm. I jumped, gasped in surprise, was suddenly blind. Whatever it was, it was clogging my throat, and I couldn't fight back as it slid through the fingers of my right hand, burning everywhere it touched. Stinging pain sliced up my arm, nothing compared to the gunshot wound, and then everything returned to normal.

Madam Wheeler turned to look at me. "How did you get over there?"

At first, I didn't respond, only holding up my hand to look at the long slice in it. The bleeding cut ran from the soft between my fingers and thumb and ended roughly in the middle of my palm. It hurt, it bled, and I wanted it to stop.

Yet the old woman didn't seem to see it. "Are you alright?"

I shook my head, my breath suddenly breaking into terrified gasps. "I'm bleeding!" I shouted, meeting my wide eyes with her confused ones.

"Where?" she asked.

I groaned to myself, and ran up to her, holding my bleeding hand to her face. "Don't you see it?!"

"See what?" The old woman moved my hand from her shoulder and took a step back. "I'm sorry, if this is a bad time, I just thought I'd return this, too." She held a book out to me.

My heart plunged when I recognized it.

It was my journal, covered in dirt.

I took it gently, looking at the dreadful thing and the darkness it exuded. Suddenly, struck with a blind rage, I cried out and flung the thing at the wall. "Confound it!" I stalked past Madam Wheeler and to the door, snatching my coat and hat from the rack before exiting.

"Where are you going?" the woman asked, a note of fear in her voice.

"To the library," I answered impulsively, then stepped out onto the street.

The sky was cloudy and, typical in England, rain poured down on me from the sky. A cold wind blew past me, and i had to hold my hat to keep it on. No children played outside today, and fewer people passed by than when the sun shone bright. I felt alone in a great world of scowling faces and evil intent. The rain was heavy and frigid, pounding on my shoulders like dropped stones. I buttoned my coat to keep the weather out, which seemed to make it want to get in more desperately. A carriage trotted past in the rain, making me envious of the comfort and security within. People pushed gently past me in the rush. For a moment, I thought I recognized a body, a face, but then it was gone. Buildings towered around me, but I followed the breeze and my instincts until I found the large citadel that bow served as a library.

Ancient Roman architecture was the first thing to cross my mind as I ascended the stairway into the library, casting my eyes around the great hall with a shiver. It was much colder in here, and the air itself had a different texture than the outside. Rain pattered like a dream of small mice beyond. I was uncomfortable. Each step I took seemed to echo inside the large chamber, and I quickly moved on to the section on mythology.

I must have never been back here, for my latent knowledge provided no clues to the navigation of this place. On all sides were bookshelves, pressing in around me like a crowd of giants. The ceiling was far lower. I moved in and around the shelves, not really sure what to look for but knowing I would find something eventually.

And I did.

Completely unsuspecting, I turned another corner and found myself by a window where a chair and table sat comfortably in the light of a candle. On the table was a small, dirty book. The shadows here were darker, the air shadier, and a strange draft wafted away the safe light of the lonely little candle.

"No, not again...." I stifled a miserable moan and, hands trembling, picked up my journal from the small wood table. It snapped open, nearly causing me to drop it, and cycled quickly to the pages until it came to a blank one.

I stared, silent.

No noise came from the world around me, and the cold was unbearably close, so tight that my breath was icy fog.

Maroon letters dripped into existence on the page, written once again in my handwriting, now corrupt and sprawling viciously.

August 28, 1839

I shivered, images of monsters and mangled corpses flashing through my racing mind.

I am a Gatherer. I am a Gatherer now. Can't you see? Can't you accept? Am I not here, killing these terrible, nasty, noisy creatures for Master?

The words seemed to echo through my mind, spoken by my own voice, etched out by my own lips, right there on the paper. Dark splotches appeared along the margins, and the fingers of my right hand began to tingle.

I don't understand why you don't believe what your own eyes see. Look! The girl is not moving. Gone! This is her blood, right here on my fingers. Right here on the paper. Look.

Lines spread out across the paper in great looping sweeps, colliding and bleeding together, shooting offspring from equal ends, areas filling in. If I could have screamed, I would've, after seeing the little drawing of the clawed hand dripping blood.

Something warm and thick spilled plentifully down my own hand, dripping off my fingers down to the floor. My heart raced, pounding furiously in my ears.

She is gone. She won't move again. Gone. Gone! Don't you remember? You cried for her. Why are you silent NOW? Well? You always talk, little voice! Talk now! TALK NOW!

The erratically sketchy disconnection of the handwriting stopped abruptly, followed by a simple, small sentence:

I am no Gatherer

I hissed, I gasped in sudden pain as something split the tips of my blood-dripping fingers, the pain quickly fading as it all came together, the writing, the words, the silence:

I am a Gatherer. Master is calling. Goodbye, word-taker

The journal began rustling in a sudden breeze, and the room was full of voices, suffering screams, pathetic begging, malicious laughter, the sobbing of children, the moans of men. Each page of my book began to tear out, floating away in the wind, disappearing in green fire until only the cover was left, and it was blown away too--

Everything returned to normal in a bare second.

The rain pattered. I stayed where I was, gasping for breath, heart racing, eyes unable to blink. Almost too scared to look, I raised my hand to my face. It was the one I had in Brennenburg, the claws shiny and fresh, still dripping with dear Agatha's blood. The hand shook. I shook with it, or maybe it trembled with me. A tear, salty with terror, slid down my cheek.

"Is that you?"

I almost screamed, whipping around to face the man's voice, cutting big scratches across my face as I did so. My suspicions were confirmed. Before me stood none other than Herbert, clad in blouson and tall boots as I remembered him. He gave me a curious look. Stuttering, I tried to compose myself, try to appear sane despite my hand and what I had just seen. "H-Herbert! Uh, wh-why are you here?!"

My colleague smiled and chuckled. "I came to find a book. Why else, my boy?"

There it was again: something was off, that I couldn't quite place my finger on. My boy? "Herbert, you...you never say that," I said, still shocked. Before he could respond, I continued. "Well, what about the expedition to Algeria? The tomb of Tin Hinan?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," Herbert said, giving me a confused look. His eyes traveled to my clawed hand, around to the wet scratches on my face. "How in the world did you get those cuts on your face?"

I gently placed my right hand over the wounds and wiped the blood away, not really caring about the big smudges. "That's beside the point. Herbert, you weren't supposed to be back for another month at least!"

Herbert came closer, giving me a concerned look. "Are you feeling alright?"

I nodded, suddenly aware of the inconsistency. "Look at my hand." I held it up to him, flexing the claws, stretching the sutures with a felt tug. "Do you see anything wrong?"

My colleague tilted his head and said, "No, not at all. What's going on with you?"

That blasted avoidance! "Herbert, please, just say my name," I appealed, nearly pleaded.

But, to my frustration, Herbert stared blankly at me as though I had not said a thing. I wanted to scream, shout, kick him or something, but then it dawned on me that it wouldn't help.

I wondered if Hell was something like this.

Holding down every irrational reaction like a child on a suitcase, I sighed and shook my head. "You wouldn't understand" was my half-hearted white lie.

"Ah, the nightmares again," Herbert said, almost to himself, and I gave the changed man a plaintive look of despair. His face suddenly brightened up. "Well, my boy, I'd best be getting on," he said in an attitude only to be described as chipper. he held out a right hand, and I took it likewise, getting a vicious idea. After a brief, enthusiastic shake-- completely thanks to him-- I pulled slowly away, drawing my claws through his flesh like butter and leaving two nasty cuts from his wrist to the top of his palm. I brushed past him, and he waved to me with a hand pouring blood, completely and disturbingly oblivious even as it poured out on the floor.

I quickly approached a librarian and said, "Excuse me?" I continued when he looked up. "I...I believe I may have a book overdue."

The librarian nodded. "Wait here a moment, sir. I'll check in a jiffy." He slid the last books into place and swiftly walked off.

I just idled there for a while, looking at the words embossed on the spines of each book. It was a section on...alchemy and archaic sciences. Normally, nothing of this sort would interest me, but that...man from Brennenburg-- Agrippa, that was his name-- had caught my interest. Why not learn a bit while I was here? I carefully looked over each name, tapping the spines lightly with an index claw.

The librarian was simply back. "I'm afraid you don't...Can I help you find something?"

Startled, I backed away from the books. "Um, yes. I'm looking for something by a Cornelius Agrippa."

"Who?"

I sighed, repeated: "Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa."

"Pardon me," the librarian replied to my chagrin, "but I've never heard that name."

"Of course," I sighed, aware of the confused looks I drew from the older man. "That will be all."

"Pleasure." The librarian resumed counting books, and I slipped away. I was alone in this great world, and any decision I made would be my own. It wouldn't affect me at all. I hurried down the street, careful not to knock anyone over in the cold rain or the puddles gathering around their feet. Maybe my sister would say it, that thing no one seems to know now.

An image of the hospice crept into my mind's eye, filling me with certainty and a sense of control. I kept moving, knowing what to look for, finally found it as the rain began to slow. I was thoroughly, soaked, and as I wrapped my fingers around the handle, I bolstered myself for that which was inside.

The unknown was back.

"Daniel?"

My guts collapsed in on themselves and cold dread tingled down my spine like tamed lightning. I gasped. I knew that voice, that small, quiet, kindly peep from the lips of girl.

But all the kindness was gone now.

I turned slowly, accepting the growing quiet, the way everything seemed to stretch and distort as I looked on the shadowed face of Mitzi, her eyes wide and dark as she stared up at me. Everything about her seemed to bleed hate. She was so perfect.

"You're the one who chose the damned, right?" she asked, not a note of anger in her voice, just a coldly subdued scorn. "You're the one whom God commanded?"

The world around me began to fall apart, each piece flowing away into total, absolute darkness, but I just kept my eyes fixed on Mitzi the way she was fixed on me. I dreaded her next words, spoken in her voice, in perfect English. Sweat poured down my brow, through my disheveled hair, mixing with the dried blood and fading illusion as she opened her lips.

"You're the one the Shadow got."

LEAVE ME ALONE!

With a guttural scream, I was running again, even as the luminous mirage of that dear little soul was fading away. I could hear the Shadow roaring again, the way its heart pounded around me, could feel the flesh of the beast digging into my bare toes, the way it reached out and touched me as I ran through the darkness. It was my waking nightmare, fear incarnate, eternal punishment for barely brushing the boundary of humanity.

Is this how it is, Alexander?

The voices were around me again, and I could feel my flesh ripping as they clawed me--

Please, stop touching me

--grabbed me with their cold, dry hands, some sticky with drying blood. I saw one--

Alexander get away Alexander

--glowing like the moon in the darkness, but nothing else could penetrate the darkness of the Shadow itself--

I'm trapped here forever

--just like in my nightmares from so very long ago. This was my nightmares, and the Shadow was speaking to me in its otherworldly tongue from a time before time began--

Why have you forsaken me God why

--and I could understand it, oh how I could understand it! A tendril of raw, cold flesh wrapped around my bare ankle and I fell to the organic ground, screaming as it solidified into a clod metal chain. The hands of all those I killed--

I killed for Alexander, nay, killed for myself

--clawed at my skin, ripping and tearing layers away. I screamed again as I was hoisted to my feet by chains, dangling, bare to their fury. I howled for mercy, pleaded with the dead--

CAN'T YOU SEE WHAT YOU'RE DOING GOD HELP ME PLEASE HAVE MERCY

--but my cries were cut off as my lips were pulled shut by coarse string. My screams were reduced to piteously grunts and moans of despair and fear and agony, and the hands kept ripping me apart with needles for fingers, everywhere stitching the wounds too deep shut--

I'm a doll I'm a doll I'm a doll I'm a doll

--and then I realized it wasn't the Shadow talking, but it was Alexander and Mitzi, both speaking the Tongue of the Guardian to me, hateful words, and I couldn't respond.

I was helpless.

I gave up, stopped moaning, fell limp to the groping hands. The patronizing voices had stopped. Soon, the hands receded. Confused, I looked up.

Two people had appeared. Alexander of Brennenburg stood before me, his body holding its silver glow all to itself. The other one there, less noticeable in the darkness, was Mitzi. No hate shone in her eyes anymore.

They both stared into my eyes.

Are you...here to end me...?

The chains melted away, and I almost floated gently to my own feet. The stitches remained, so all I cod do was meet the old man's hard eyes.

Well...?

"You should understand now why we are both doomed," Alexander said, voice leaning towards a disappointed inflection. He spoke as though he were scolding a child. I pulled my hands together into fists. "You should have just obeyed like the others, you miserable wretch, and none of this would have happened."

I felt weak, and I released my hands, sinking to my knees and lowering my head as though ashamed. Something deep within me was, too. It was sorry that I had done this to Master, and it wanted to make it right.

Don't think like that... That is the darkness....

I heard footsteps. "Don't listen to him, Daniel." It was Mitzi. She spoke in a firm voice, one that made me look up once again and meet her eyes. Her body bled a kind, gentle pity, and she came close to me. "He's just a mean old liar and you know it."

I was confused.

I though you hated me, Mitzi....

I think I was crying.

She smiled sympathetically. "Daniel, I forgave you. Don't you see?" She gently gripped my face like she had that fateful day, the day she accepted me. "I don't hate you anymore." She brought a finger across my lips, each suture dissolving like smoke in the wind.

I smiled a genuine smile for the first time in a long, long time. Loosening my tongue for the ancients' language, I murmured, "Thank you."

Mitzi nodded and held out her hand. In it appeared the most comforting object I had ever seen: a lantern. "Are you ready to go, Daniel?"

Trembling, I nodded and accepted the brightly glowing lantern from her hand. "Yes. Let's leave. No need to wait this time." I lifted the little girl into my arms and walked towards the opening door and the golden, shimmering light beyond.

Alexander yelled wordlessly, and I turned to look at him.

"Daniel, my child," he said, such a mourning expression on his face, "can you find it in your heart to forgive me?"

I sighed and looked at the old man with eyes that felt innocent once again. "Maybe someday, Alexander. Forgiveness is just too much to ask for."

--
Well, here it is. The fifteen-page finale to Fielder. I enjoyed this and indulged, as you can see. Lemme take this opportunity to say that there will be no more Mr. Stitches stories like this. I might type something short featuring him (which I may or may not upload), but otheriwse, this is the end.

But I'll still draw stuff with him, I'm just not gonna write anymore novels, the term used loosely.

Cheers :-}

EDIIITTT: I think I've fallen in love with the preview XD
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tomcat-tango's avatar
whoaaaah, didnt see this coming...