Erica,

I think, if you saw me right now, you’d be disappointed.

I joined the CME to save people and here I am, with the ability to kill a disgusting serial killer and… I can’t. I can’t do it. If I do, I’d die and that… that terrifies me.

I could say I’m not doing it because I don’t want to leave you alone. Because I don’t want our child to grow up fatherless but… I’d be lying. Not fully, but I would be. I just… Right now I’m alive and I fear, if what that monster said was true, if I act I’d die.

To be honest, there’s a part of me that doubts I’d be able to kill him anyways; even without this stupid curse. I’ve never been forced to, never had to. I’m a tracker, my job is to watch from the sidelines.

My hands were never to be bloody.

Suddenly, I can make them bloody. I suddenly have this power and…

I can’t do it.

I’m sorry.

———————————————

———————————————

———————————————

Ghost sits for hours with his books. Occasionally, he moves in this rush of movement. Sometimes he even hums. He’s the white haired lad now, demon eyes trained on whatever gibberish he read from. Malakai doesn’t think the monster left his corner for hours, days, weeks.

That’s a lie. If it had been weeks Malakai would have been a skeleton by now. It probably hasn’t even been a day, but all he has to tell the time is whenever the monster decided he was hungry enough to go to the kitchen to fetch food.

He hasn’t. Not since the incident. The sweet tasting magic crawls against the back of Malakai’s neck. As if the magic could check and make sure Malakai wouldn’t dare touch those books. Malakai didn’t dare to touch any of the books.

Not yet, not with Ghost hovering in his corner and so oddly possessive.

Instead Malakai cowers in front of the fire willing his mind to freeze once again.

He left the blanket outside with the vomit and the satchel of water. Shivers wrack his body whenever he starts to melt into the fire’s warmth and his throat reminds him of his thirst after every dry swallow. He could-

He could get up.

Go back into the living room.

Get away from the monster with his books.

He could leave. Maybe, maybe. Would the monster even let him? If their lives are tied, would the monster even let him leave? It was a risk, a chance that Ghost seemed determined wouldn’t bite him in the ass. There had to be a reason, some reason.

Maybe it was false.

Maybe it was all a delusion and he was still dying from hypothermia in the Qleehl.

Maybe, maybe he was dead already.

Maybe it was a hallucination just for Malakai to reason his way out of his cowardice for not killing the serial killer. He has the chance, the possibility. Ghost seemed to be unarmed, consumed in his bubble of books and candles. Malakai could-

He could-

The fire burps out smoke into the room promptly derailing any possibilities. It was as if even the cabin worked against Malakai.

He doesn’t leave. Instead, Malakai sits there and stares and waits.

And waits.

The fire burns, Ghost fidgets.

Seconds continue to pass like hours. Hours like days.

His mind spins like a table top. Ice tripping up any stopping motion as his mind struggles to freeze. To cease to be. He doesn’t…

Thinking was awful.

The silence was awful.

It dredged up every thought, every doubt. Laid them all out bare for him to watch.

The fire taunted with its flames, a welcoming warmth saying that all his issues could just burn away. And then Ghost would move. The rustle of pages being turned so faint yet so loud and startling.

Malakai refused to turn and actually see the killer. He just saw the faint shadow that flickers between colors of red and white and brown.

Another page flips.

Feet scuffle up, a gasp echoing in the room and suddenly there’s a flurry of movement. Malakai can’t move a muscle, ice already crawling up his spine as he cowers.

The fire dances, eating away at its offering.

It’s hypnotizing. Something else to stare at and watch as footsteps grew louder; as books were thrown about before a voice is shouting, “Finally, finally, fucking finally.” A girl’s voice this time, not the child’s. Malakai can’t help but think of a prone body in snow that bloomed crimson.

He doesn’t turn, he doesn’t dare to look.

The fire still burns, licks of flames reaching out as if they could comfort the frozen body before it.

“We can leave soon.” Her voice is right behind him, ecstatic. Something bright and happy and dead. Malakai can’t even flinch, his very bones grinding against each other at even the thought. “Did you- Are you-“ The voice drops, the happiness this dim light of what it once was.

She’s moving closer, head cocked to the side and the bloody hair dripping all over the room’s wooden floors. If he looked, he’s sure he’d see that puzzled expression with the wide innocent green eyes. He’d also see the eyes that should be lifeless, the skin that should be frozen and tingeing on blue, the blood that was spilt.

He doesn’t look.

“Is it because of the books? I told you- I told you that you could browse them. Just, not those. I’m…” There’s a pause, this choking silence and Malakai can’t even breathe. His chest shrinking down into itself and she keeps staring. The blood keeps dripping onto the floor from her bleeding hair and-

“Are you hungry? Or thirsty? I can- I can…” Her voice is light, forceful. It’s not the same. Nothing is the same and Malakai is only happy that he didn’t know what the girl actually sounded like. He swallows, throat dry as ever and the air scraping across it as if it were glass.

There’s still a knife burning his hip.

If he could-

If he could just move. Just breathe. He could, he could, he could-

She’s getting up, pulling away. The blood stops dripping on the wooden floor; leaving it clean as if it was never tainted by the deceased. The chance, the opportunity wasted but he can’t even-

The first breath is painful, as if his lungs were being pulled apart. His hands shake, shivers consuming him with a vengeance as the footsteps retreat.

Ghost vanishes, a click of the door and Malakai’s body betrays him. It’s unexplainable, how his body betrays him. How it shook and froze. How just waiting felt like he was put out for execution, the axe rising and rising over his head before finally-

It falls.

It misses.

He breathes and his lungs scream.

A coughing fit as his lungs rejected the oxygen, his chest pulled tight as he suffocates. The knife still burned Malakai’s hip, a possibility. An endless possibility.

Ghost was unarmed, harmless. Malakai held the power, he…

Didn’t hold the power. His magic wasn’t even his own, a betrayal of his own blood. His own mind turning against him and aiding the monster that had captured him.

He didn’t even know if the monster was unarmed. The books of undead and spirits were only the beginning. There was more, he’s sure of it. More and more in hidden languages that Malakai could never hope to read. He didn’t even know what the monster was capable of. What the plague allowed the monster to do.

That’s an excuse though. Everything was just an excuse.

The fire reached out, as if it could burn away everything that troubled him. As if everything could just turn into ash and be swept away into the wind. Except, there was no wind.

Inside there was no wind and outside there was no wind. Outside not a soul moved. Outside the Qleehl rested with her icy grip reaching for the next warm body to dig into and feast upon.

Inside there was a monster that wore faces that should no longer be moving.

Inside, there was a ghost haunting his every thought.

The door is pushed open, the soft sound echoing like a gun. Malakai’s lungs struggle, gripping the hard won oxygen before accepting their fate and turning frigid and cold with ice. Silence sits in the room before it breaks with one footstep.

Then another,

And another,

And another.

Creeping endlessly closer. Malakai chokes down a breath of air, eyes squeezing shut as his body collapses inwards. The footsteps ring in his ear; an executioner coming closer and closer.

It’s silly, he knows it. Ghost already said she wouldn’t. The monster already bound them to one another but it’s there and it’s the only reason he can’t bring himself to grab the hilt of the dagger.

It’s a lie.

He knows it. A comforting, warm lie. Like the fire. Something to comfort and think that there are reasons. There aren’t. Even if there was, he had earlier chances. Other options to take action on that he let flow by him like a river untouched by the Qleelh.

“Here.” The footsteps stop, the voice coming off somewhere to the side. Malakai doesn’t dare to open his eyes. He doesn’t dare to look at the monster with the sour sweet taste of magic wafting off of her. Mihr’s magic would be more palpable now; the rotting preferable to the knowledge of the monster lurking behind the face of the dead.

It’s been a wonder for a while, how she did it. How a nephlim could do such atrocities with only white magic. They even played around with the thought of a hybrid terrorizing the kingdom again. No, that wasn’t it. Couldn’t be it, hybrid magics were unable to stay hidden for long and were easy to dispose of once found. An impossibility playing amongst all of the possibilities.

The books point towards a corrupt knowledge. Creation being twisted into death. Plausible, reasonable.

Monstrous.

Something that made chills ripple down Malakai’s spine.

“It’s food, not anything nice but… And water. I noticed-“ There’s a pause, the voice uncomfortably close and the sound of glass hitting wooden floors. “You don’t- You can read the books. You can. Not mine but the others. There might be-“ She chokes on her own words for a second. Malakai can hear it gurgling in her throat before it escapes, “frostbite. Something on frostbite.”

Malakai can’t open his eyes, his very being too weak for even the simplest movement. There’s pain, as bones clatter together and scrape, muscles tense as he forces the shivering into painful stillness. There’s no sound, no movement. Ghost possibly right behind him, right next to him.

He can’t check, he can’t see.

The dagger burns his hip like the fire burns his hands.

“We’ll leave tomorrow. I- I found something. So we’ll be leaving. You should sleep. You haven’t slept yet and-“ There’s a pause, the silence thick around them and pressing up against Malakai’s skin. “You should sleep.”

It’s a demand. Like everything else has been a demand. Like eating and drinking and moving has been a demand. It feels like acid now, something scorching that eats away at him. Something wrong.

It wasn’t like that before, when it was simply a hallucination. When it was his little girl shoving him to warmth and Death’s embrace. Now it was a monster with claws reaching just like the Qleehl. Something sweetly sour to disguise the rot tucked underneath the corrupted white magic.

A footstep, haltering and cautious. It’s like a step that slides, a thought incomplete. Malakai waits, air clogging his throat and his lungs. His skin is too tight, stretching and breaking all over. The shivers rattle his bones, teasing the edges of his restraint as he listens.

Another step, and then another.

Silence.

When he flickers his eyes open again the flame still reaches. A comfort caged by its own frail body.

Malakai swallows the air, doesn’t look away from the tiny flame and reaches to the side. His hands move, for once they listen and they move.

He can’t feel the log, not through the frozen rot covering his hands. He imagines he can, the rough texture something he’s felt many times before. He drops the log, again. Like before.

Ghost’s eyes feel like the axe. Dangling the threat right over his neck.

His chest constricts, forcing everything out as he waits and waits.

Silence.

It’s stupid. Everything, it’s stupid.

He feeds the flame the log. Watches it grow as it consumes the offering. A beast; a monster in its own right in the home of a monster. A comforting one, with warmth and false promises.

Pages rustle in the background, the weight of the axe dropping to the side as Ghost’s eyes drift away.

The thought of sleep is foreign. Dangerous. Dark. He doesn’t know what would, what could happen if he let his mind slip away. It was barely hanging on as it is.

He wasn’t even tired, not really. He wanted to quit; he wanted to give in, but Death’s embrace seems more like a fever dream than anything else now.

He waits for something, he doesn’t know what.

Air scrapes his lungs on every inhale, stomach twisting and twisting into itself. His hands shake as he hovers them above the tiny beast that ate away at the logs. The monster that provided warmth and comfort and a promise of melting.

Pages rustle, books move about with thumping sounds and clothes brush across the floor. Malakai can’t help but hear every noise as if it was an airhorn. Something loud and obtrusive against the aching silence that otherwise engulfed them.

He doesn’t look though, not even in his peripherals. He doesn’t dare to stare at the monster with her books and her candles and her dead, dead face.

“Are you scared?” It’s not her voice, instead it sounds world weary and male. Not a voice he had heard before. “My dad said- Not mine, someone else’s but- I don’t think you’re okay.” There’s no footsteps, no axe dangling above Malakai’s head. A page turns and Malakai isn’t even certain he heard the monster talk.

He doesn’t dare look. A new voice, a new face, a new death. A killer, he was a killer. Every face confirmed it.

All Malakai had were excuses.

The dagger burns on his hip but he can’t move his hands away from the fire’s warmth. He can only feel the burning in one hand but it helps. Everything about it helps.

“He said… he said people fear the unknown. I’m not-“ Another page turns, stops and then it seems to rewind. Or move forward, Malakai can’t tell. Something changes; it isn’t the same fluid sound from before. “Am I unknown? You… there’s food. And water. And you need sleep and- You won’t do anything. I don’t get it.”

There’s silence, not even a page turning or a book being touched. Instead there’s an axe, dangling once again. The monster’s stare burns more than the fire ever could. Malakai’s hands creep closer, as if he could make one burn take away the other.

The color of his hands are disgusting in the fire. Orange mixing in with the black and purple rot. Something repulsive that would never go away. His fingers crack as they clench together like a chicken bone being snapped in half.

“How can I help if I don’t- No one just does this- I, I-“ The monster sounds lost, confused. If Malakai turned around he’d probably see eyes wide open and innocent. Most likely they’d be green, like most of the other eyes. Malakai doesn’t even twitch in the other’s direction.

“I saved you.” Ghost says the words like they mean something. Like what he did was a miracle.

Ghost had caged Malakai though. There was no saving, only capturing a butterfly before ripping off the wings. Malakai was still waiting for his wings to be ripped apart. For his face to join the others.

There’s rustling, not books this time but clothes brushing across the floor and then a footstep.

The fire doesn’t burn enough, it never will. Malakai is an ice statue, frost dotting his skin and ice sticking his bones together. If he was a butterfly he’d be pinned, unable to even flutter a wing. As it was, the axe just hung heavy over his neck, the sharp tip grazing his skin.

The books were of the deceased, of resurrection and talking to the dead and maybe becoming the dead. He didn’t read enough, he didn’t know enough. But, but-

The bond. The bond, that may or may not be false. May or may not be one sided, it existed. Ghost said he’d go home. A possibility.

Going home could just be Death’s embrace though.

Ghost sits next to him, fat limbs moving in and out of Malakai’s peripherals. Making himself comfortable as if he was going to stay.

Malakai didn’t want him to stay. He didn’t want the monster anywhere near him.

If he could move-

The blade burns his hip more than fire ever would. His fingers too melted and rotten to even try to reach for it. An excuse, like everything else. Malakai can’t breathe, the very air a toxic mix of sweet and sour magic and unfiltered panic.

Not his panic, when he dares to touch it, it isn’t even his panic. The thoughts a swarming mess he can’t distinguish or pull apart, but it’s there. A rush of flowing water to crash into the ice. Breaking bits and pieces off..

Ghost just breathes these soft, calm breaths. As if he isn’t the one with thoughts running a million miles per second. As if his thoughts weren’t acting like a panicked heart unable to stop beating.

“You can’t die. Because I can’t die. I wanted- You should at least eat or drink something. If you won’t do anything else.” Ghost pauses, a fat arm moving into sight and then the sound of glass scraping across wood. “Do you…”

The arm moves again, out of sight. There’s a shuffle and Malakai can see Ghost’s legs sprawl out before them. There’s a careful distance between them, close enough where Malakai can feel the monster’s presence but not where they would touch.

“The dad, he liked to tell stories. Grand stories. He said… he said it made people feel better. Or, me? Or… someone else. He made his kids feel better with them.” Ghost pauses, giving a hum. The foot moves, cocking to the side.

“He said, after a bad day it was always nice to hear that other people have bad days too. And that they overcome it because eventually you’ll overcome it too.” The axe tickles the back of Malakai’s neck, like it’s a tease. Another possibility amongst the possibilities and impossibilities.

“So, you shouldn’t-“ The legs pull back, the shadow looming forward and Malakai forces himself to turn further away. To erase the shadow from his vision entirely. The flame tickles the side of his eye, reaching with promises as Malakai’s hands melt into the fire.

“There was this man. A happy man. He had… a person. A special person. And she got sick. This horrible sickness and... she died. She died and he died with her but he still lived. He still lived and breathed and- He lived. And he didn’t want to because she was dead. So he went to some lake and he asked for help and…”

The voice is soft, mellow and sad. Like tears would be shed if the monster could cry. “He got helped. He was saved, and… He had a bakery. This quiet little bakery that flourished. She was still dead, but he lived. He had a terrible day- a terrible week but…” The pause suffocates as Ghost’s voice drops and vanishes. As if he couldn’t bring himself to finish the stupid story.

“He lived. And he became happy and, and- he lived. If he- You should be able to, too. You had, what a bad week? He had one that was worse and he was able to do it. So, you should eat. And not quit and…” Ghost’s voice is stubborn, stiff and solid.

“I’m not unknown. I’m not-“ There’s shuffling and suddenly there is a face staring up at Malakai. Wide green eyes with fat cheeks and dark skin. Different from the other dead faces.“You shouldn’t be scared, if you are. Nothing is going to happen. I just- Everything is going to be okay.”

The pinned butterfly wings flutter, Malakai flinching back and taking his rotten hands away from the burning warmth of the fire. Away from the axe and the monster that would pluck off his wings and leave him out to die. Away from the burning dagger on his hip and the fact that he still can’t grab it.

His hands can’t even flinch in that direction, whenever they do he remembers his magic in the air healing the monster. A betrayal of the worst kind; how could he be expected to trust his own hands when his own mind would betray him?

He doesn’t even know if he could hold the hilt of the blade. The pencil he used always slipped out of his hand when he wrote letters that would never be read. The logs he fed the fire always fell. The blade would surely tumble out of his grasp and clatter onto the floor and then Malakai would be defenseless and-

It’s an excuse. Everything is an excuse because-

The books. The books of death and the faces and the white magic that suffocates the very air he breathes. How could he be expected to function? How could he?

“That’s- That’s stupid.” The story, the words, the fact that the monster seemed to be trying to comfort Malakai. All of it was stupid. The words were hoarse, something ripping out of his chest without even a thought.

His throat collapses into itself as he waits.

The monster blinks, blinks and then gives this horrible smile. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”

Ghost ducks away, back to whatever sprawled position he was in originally. Malakai doesn’t dare to look and check; instead he just stares at the small flame eating the log and pretends he doesn’t see the fidgeting shadow out of the side of his eye.

“We’re going to be stuck together for a bit. It’s- I’m, we are going to be going to the capitol. Or, somewhere nearby. Maybe a research facility first? We are going to need a map for it too. But, we’ll be stuck together, so we should get to know each other. Or…” There’s a foot sneaking horribly close to Malakai. He watches as it cocks to the side, brushing against his pants.

Malakai forces his leg closer to chest. Further away from the monster and his touch. Ghost pauses before sliding his foot closer to the fire and away from Malakai.

“So, what’s your name?” The monster’s voice shifts mid question, turning softer and lower. A melody being sung rather than an old man’s sorrows being told. The leg is smaller, her clothing drowning the smaller limb.

He tries not to look, he tries and tries but his body betrays him. Everything breaks like an icicle being snapped as his head jerks up and he stares at her. A new face watched him, wisps of black hair crowning the dark skinned face. Brown eyes large and consuming most of her wrinkled face.

He knew her too, an older lady. Her husband had reported her missing and then they found the body. Malakai had gone to the funeral, dressed up in black as he watched a stranger be mummified so she could become one with the godlings.

She didn’t look the same. The monster got bits and pieces wrong, Malakai had stared at her face long enough at the funeral to notice the minute changes. The nose was too small, upturned at the wrong angle and her jawbone was too broad. Barely noticeable but she was the first victim Malakai had seen of Ghost’s and Malakai knew that face.

It’s even more sickening than the other girl. Than the child with the bleeding hair.

He didn’t have to see a child cry for either of them. He didn’t have to see an entire family break apart as they put a mother to her final resting place.

Acid burns the back of his throat and he tastes the distinct copper flavor of blood as he bites down on his tongue. Malakai doesn’t dare to say a word, his throat a mess of broken ice shards digging into the soft, tender flesh. He can’t breathe, can’t even think of forcing his lungs to expand in his chest.

She blinks at him, Nia was her name when she was still living, before the smile drops. She looks away, brown eyes no longer watching Malakai and she says, “I’ll call you Midnight. You… you look like a Midnight. With the black hair and the skin. I used to-“ Her face twists into something mutilated before flattening out again. Brown eyes flicker up and the monster continues in her voice,

“I had a cat. Called Midnight, black, gorgeous little thing. He had to- black magic didn’t agree with him. He didn’t have any scars though. You- your face-“ She pauses, lips flattened into a thin line before she jerks her head up. Brown eyes stare straight at Malakai, lower on his face to the mauled skin he’s had since he was young.

It’s a stare he’s used to, morbid fascination at the way the skin breaks around his cheek, pulling up at his lips as if string was attached. Usually, people either stared directly at it or avoided looking at him entirely. Ghost was one of the former, her gaze snagging on the scar tissue.

“It doesn’t match Midnight at all, but-“ Her eyes drift away after a pause and then she chirps out, “It’s okay. Because you aren’t actually Midnight. If you told me a name, it’d be easier.”

Malakai just stares at Nia’s face. Any words he had were already mixed up with all of the bile rising up in his throat. His mouth is full of blood, teeth clamped tightly around his tongue. The pain is shocking, like the ice that shatters around his body; the shards digging into his fragile skin.

“It’s okay if you don’t though. It can just be… Midnight and- what does the media call me? Ghost? Midnight and Ghost against the world. That sounds pretty…” Her face changes, morphing back to the child with the bleeding hair as she talks. Dark green takes over the honey brown and baby fat develops on her cheeks. “ Awesome, doesn’t it?””

“I’ve always wanted to be in that kind of story. With the heroes against the world. I-“ She stops, clambers onto her feet with her gaze fixed on the fire.

Before, Malakai didn’t want to watch. Now he can’t help but stare at the monster in a child’s body. Ghost doesn’t even pause at all the clothes that drowned her and dragged on the wooden floor. A shirt too big touching what should be her knees. A necklace with fat chains dropping past her rib cage before ending in a golden skull.

“Sleep is good. Dreaming is- And you still haven’t eaten. I-“ She’s turning, eyes locking into Malakai’s face for a second before she skitters away. “I’ll leave okay? And you can… not be scared. Because the unknown part won’t be here, right?”

Words still choke Malakai, clogging his throat and mixing with the acid and the blood. He swallows the awful mixture; his throat burns as it dips into every open wound and crevice left from the ice.

Ghost doesn’t wait for him to say anything, she’s already walking back to her corner. He watches as she closes books, stacking them to the side before leaning over and blowing out the candle. She’s soft, quiet. Nothing like a child would be.

Ghost wasn’t a child though. Ghost was some monster that just killed a child. It doesn’t fit; the child’s body didn’t fit anything that she did. Children wouldn’t quietly pick up books and blow out candles. Children wouldn’t give soft smiles before ducking out of a room and shouting out, “Go to bed! I’ll be back in the morning so that we can leave.”

Children didn’t do that.

Ghost wasn’t a child, so of course she didn’t act like one. She wasn’t Nia either. She wasn’t a mother or a wife. She wasn’t someone’s daughter. She wasn’t anything she appeared to be.

He knew that.

It didn’t make seeing the faces any easier though.

The door clicks shut, the room bathed in darkness. The small fire was the only thing protecting him from the encroaching darkness. He reaches out, embracing the glowing warmth with frozen hands. Cowering closer and closer and finally, finally,

His body broke. Ragged breaths being drawn in before they are violently thrown out into the room. His body an earthquake, bones scratching against each other and-

Oxygen could never be enough. Not with how his lungs burned. With how his skin felt too tight, too cold. His mind draining of all thoughts as he stared at the fire.

Time ceased to exist.

Frost creeped into the room, the air still and frigid. He suffocated on it, his chest unwilling to expand and his throat cried in pain at every inhale. His nose burned, wetness tickling the top of his lip and his vision blurred.

This-

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Nothing was supposed to be like this.

The dagger burns his hip. A reminder of possibilities that he still hasn’t taken advantage of. A reminder that he sat here, cowering from some child- some monster. When he could have acted.

It’d be easy.

So easy.

And he couldn’t do it. He didn’t even try. Instead he sat there, and let the monster talk to him. Let himself think of the words and interact and he let himself breathe.

His hands shake as they leave the warmth of the fire. His left can’t even feel the hilt of the blade, he’s forced to watch as his fingers struggle to grasp it. His grip keeps sliding, knuckles cracking at every movement.

He didn’t even try. That’s the worst part. He didn’t even-

He froze, his body betrayed him and now it broke and he can’t even breathe and there’s no reason for it. He was-

He was in a house, safe or safer than before. Warmer than before. He had food, the plate Ghost brought still next to his side and he had water and oh, how his throat ached with the thought of water. There was no reason, no reason for anything. He could of-

He could of­-

The dagger is shaky in his hand, slipping at every jostle. The tip was a threat, dangling over a thigh and it’d be so easy to just drop the blade. A life for a life. Wounds for wounds. It’d be... accidental.

So easy to just,

Just to see-

He could. He could. It’d be confirmation. It’d be what he needed, to prove the delusion or hallucination. It’d be-

The perfect excuse.

He doesn’t, he’s not that stupid. Not that desperate. There’s other alternatives, other options. Mutilation was a dangerous one, an obvious one. There was-

The book. The old book that talked about bonds. Ghost probably had it, she grabbed all of her books after all and that was one of hers. He dares to peek over, blade trembling in a grip too weak as his thoughts drag him away. The candles are still there, dark and gloomy.

There’s books, shoved into a cubby at the bottom of the bookshelf. It’s hope that stabs, the thought of possibilities. More and more possibilities for him to have, and more for him to waste. To be just another moment where he is too cowardly to dare.

He dares, the blade clatters to the ground as he forces his body up. His legs shake, vision swimming in front of him and his lungs scream. It’s a mistake, as everything dips into blackness. A stilted step and his vision flickers, amber light filtering in from the side.

His stomach revolts, crumbling into itself and his knees nearly buckle. Another step, his vision flickers in and out and-

He dares.

He shuffles through the books slowly, sliding them across the floor and squinting at them as if he could make out the black letters in the darkness. He can’t. He could-

He could move them. Bring them closer to the light but the thought brings back the furious face. Of Ghost spitting out words with her monstrous faces. Of the axe that dangled every time she looked at him, as if daring him to disobey.

He cowered then. He cowers now.

His hands press against the cover, the pages. As if being able to feel the age in the paper. There’s nothing of course, just the phantom feeling of paper on skin as he watches his hand. There’s three of them, two thick ones and a thinner one. He couldn’t remember the thickness of the original book.

He couldn’t even remember a cover, just the delicate paper between rotting skin.

It was a waste. He shouldn’t have-

The floor creaks somewhere else in the house, complaining against whatever weight was stepping on it. The air distinctly sour.

The door doesn’t open. Light doesn’t flood in and Malakai still sits there, crouching over three books and falling apart. It’s rash when he looks down at the book and then peeks back at the door. A possibility amongst possibilities.

He grabs the books, huddling them close to his body as if that could prevent his slippery grip from letting them slide out. It’s a risk, they aren’t his books after all. They were in the distinct pile of stay away. The pile that Ghost got in a frenzy about with his wide demon eyes as he spat out threats.

The fire reaches out, welcoming and warm. It promises safety in its embrace as it sheds its glow on Malakai. The books tumble out of his grasp, sprawling out in front of him. The dagger hides underneath one of the thicker ones.

His legs collapse, his body finally caving in to its demands. Fingers trembling, Malakai brushes through the pages. One was in one of those foreign languages. The scripture more like glyphs than anything else. The other two were readable, but neither seemed to be what he wanted. One talked riddles of the godling Nephlim. The other spoke of Qleehl and her children. An origin of nothing of importance.

A risk that was wasted.

A possibility that ended up being an impossibility.

His lungs cried, gasping for breath that he couldn’t draw. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, blocking everything he wanted. Inflamed from teeth and bile and blood, blocking his lungs from the oxygen they desperately searched for.

The dagger was still there, another risk still open and-

With his shaking right hand he grabbed it. He could imagine the feel of the hilt, the distinct mark of leather and steel mixing together and-

He bleeds.

He bleeds and bleeds, his left hand crying black blood that stained the once pure dagger.

It…

It doesn't feel like pain. It doesn't feel like freedom. It doesn't feel like anything.

It just feels like a risk that wouldn’t change anything. Another possibility that would fall into an impossibility. It felt like giving up, of accepting Death’s embrace without a struggle. It felt like walking out of his front door and never looking back.

His hand bleeds and he doesn’t even know why he thought it was a good idea to begin with.