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William was bleeding, crying, and slowly dying.

"You're not done with me," he said. Red spilled between cracked lips. "I know you're not. I know you want to see more." Tears spilled from eyes, gently cut a path through the gore mattered on white cheeks, and tangled in a trimmed grey beard. "W-we're not done..." Do words make a sound if no one is there to hear them? "We're not done here do you hear me! I'm not dying here!"

But he was. Impossibly, the arrow that boy had shot had hit him, punched through chain mail, and sunk greedily into his lung. Air whistled through his chest, blood welled in his throat, and that boy stood over him; hair long and braided in the style of the natives, skin dusky, and face painted red and white. He looked frightened. But that could be the magic still wearing off. The cursed magic of the witches that led his people. The Fear.

"You can't take him," William realised with a sudden savage glee. "He's already taken! We're not done!" But still blood spilled, still tears fell, and still that boy stood as if caught on the end of a hook and line. Still the power remained still and dead. Gone. Left him to die by the sharpened stone tip of a stick. Panic rose. "I-I can show you much more. You always loved me. The rider, remember the rider? I'll bring him back. You understand?"

Nothing.

"Understand!? You know me! You know what I can do!" Words gargled in blood.

The boy nocked a second arrow and slowly drew the feathered end back to his cheek. His eyes were too wide, jaw too mobile, and face spotted with sweat. The Fear was guiding him. Pushing him forward to kill his enemy and end the mad-stricken cries, end the crazed threat, to destroy and old foe never known. But there was something else touching the boy; a cool dark calculating look that invaded his eyes, a alien skill in which he moved slowly forward, and a low chuckle that spilled from his throat.

"I do know what you can do, William. I have seen it again and again. Oh, how you seduced me when you first fell into life. The runaway mad for vengeance, terrified of his own uncontrollable power, and yet willing to destroy a nation to prove a point. An ugly, brutal, and senseless point. I didn't know you then. And everyday was a new, frantic, chapter in a dark twisted story. You were a maddening muddled road in the dark, and I loved it. But, as you said, I know you. You had your vengeance, you proved your point, and stalked off into the world and slowly, through the centuries we've been together, I've puzzled you out. I know you, William, better perhaps than you know yourself. And you, old friend, are boring. The same old fears, regrets, and broken promises." The boy shook his head and sighed. "Once fascinating, now cliche."

"You can't take him," William moaned. "He's already taken."

"No, he is under the influence of one of my oldest enemies. But Fear, William, hasn't yet infected this body. I can claim him and through him I'll see not a nation fall, no that has been done, but perhaps an empire." The wild terror in the boy's eyes was fading, the shiver in his limbs gone, and the taunt bow held steady. Impossibly so considering how long he'd held the arrow at ready. Instead the cold collective hunger William had grown to know so well was steeling across his features, ringing proud in his voice, and leaving William feeling oddly light headed, and sick.

It was blood loss, he reasoned, as he looked at the puddle now pooled under him. Or perhaps because he couldn't breathe properly. But part of him marveled at this strange feeling. A feeling of emptiness, openness... freedom? He lent forward, spat blood, and then lent back against a rock jutting from the earth.

"You're not done with me," he spoke with a cold crisp confidence as his panic faded. "You're never going to be done with me."

"You flatter yourself." But the arrow remained ready against string. The boy's dark eyes intent. "You, William, bore me."

"You know me," William said again, "I have so much more to show..."

"Goodbye."

William was dead. He could feel the cold heaviness of his body, the despondent flicker of his failing heart, and the listless seep of blood down his chest. His limbs were too heavy to wield his sword, dropped at his side, and fingers too numb to draw and flick a dagger. He was dead. But, by some delayed response, he could still piece a fragile train of thought together, see a blurry image of the boy in front of him, and will up the energy to jerk his leg in a last angry kick.

His heel connected with the boy's shin, driving him down on one knee with a cry of pain, and forcing the magic back so it was, once again, the frightened boy behind painted features. He threw down the bow, screamed something in his own language, and clutched his throat. Then he fell on William, pressing his hands against the wound in his chest, and forcing his rib cage down. William gasped in pain, and then sucked in a second frantic breath of air. The boy was holding his lung closed and yelling at him. Desperate for answers, for an explanation, for anything.

"Sorry kid," William rasped, "but that magic in you... that's mine."

William had done worse things. Perhaps it was the lack of it inside him, perhaps it was because it was so hard without his usual strength, or perhaps he had just lived too long and gotten too old, but killing that boy hurt him in an all to human way. But, even as he crushed the boy's throat he felt the magic leak back into him. Felt it begin to frantically repair his body; protecting its own interests should it be stranded within him once more.

"You're not done with me," he whispered, "and I'm not done with you."

Yet, even as William felt his strength return the boy's terrified face once again lapsed into cold calculation.

"Kill the boy," whitening lips moved, "save yourself." Smirked. "You bore me."

The young body began to weaken, twitch. Line of red spilled from nose. Tears trek through face paint. Nails buried in the skin of William's wrist. Bleeding... crying... slowly dying... Eyes flicking between dark disdain and white panic. Begging... pleading... slowly leaving... You bore me.

The boy sucked in a sharp, pained breath. Fingers clasped neck.

William rose, spat, and turned to leave. Magicless and mortal.

"William?" Not the boy. "William! What are you doing?!"

The arrow was still in him. Pained him with every slow, shuddering breath. With a grunt he snapped off the shaft and dropped it at his feet. It was a long way to the nearest healer but he'd gathered enough power to stitch together the wounds and mend his body enough for his body to survive the journey. Dimly he recalled where he'd left his horse.

"William!" A hand on his shoulder. "Answer me, what are you doing?"

"Get off me."

"Where are you going? What are you doing?" Frantic. Angry. "Damn you! Why didn't you kill the boy!?"

"Get off me," William repeated a shade darker.

"No! Why didn't you kill the boy? You always kill to save yourself. You always do! You were desperate. You wanted me! You begged for me!"

Silence.

"Answer me!"

"Go destroy your empire. I hope it's interesting. Just like the tens of other empires you've built and knocked down. Just like the hundreds of nations you've erected and destroyed. Just like the millions of people you've killed. I hope you find that interesting. Goodbye."

The boys face was contorted into a bestial mask; teeth barred, nostrils flared, and brows furrowed. "No! I'm not done with you! And you, you're not done with me! You're going to kill the boy. You always kill to save yourself. You always kill." Realisation. He stepped back, folded his arms, and curled his lips in satisfaction, sure he'd figured out the game, sure he'd solved the puzzle once again. "You're not done with me."

William knew his hunger showed. His desperation for that poisonous magic touch. He wanted it... Maybe it was the boy, doomed to carry the sweet curse until death do them part. Too innocent to murder. Maybe. But that was too easy. Too good. William hadn't been good for a long time. They both knew it. Even as the magic stood, confident of William's next violent action, William felt the dirty truth settle in his stomach. He had never been driven by nobility. Never.

"You're not done with me."

"No," William said, "I'll never be done with you."

A mocking grin. Head tipped back, bruised throat presented.

"You'll hear of me," William continued, "as you rot of boredom in that pathetic little life. You'll hear of me." Voice dropped to whisper. "But I'm sure you know this. I'm sure you've figured me out down to the motives and reasons for my every action. You won't be surprised by any of the stories you hear. You won't be left wondering why, who, or how. No, you know me too well for that." His lips curled. "Nothing I can do could possibly be interesting to you."

William turned, hugged his wounded side, and left the boy, the magic, standing still and silent behind him.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

William was bleeding, crying, and slowly dying.

"You're not done with me," he said. Red spilled between cracked lips. "I know you're not. I know you want to see more." Tears spilled from eyes, gently cut a path through the gore mattered on white cheeks, and tangled in a trimmed grey beard. "W-we're not done..." Do words make a sound if no one is there to hear them? "We're not done here do you hear me! I'm not dying here!"

But he was. Impossibly, the arrow that boy had shot had hit him, punched through chain mail, and sunk greedily into his lung. Air whistled through his chest, blood welled in his throat, and that boy stood over him; hair long and braided in the style of the natives, skin dusky, and face painted red and white. He looked frightened. But that could be the magic still wearing off. The cursed magic of the witches that led his people. The Fear.

"You can't take him," William realised with a sudden savage glee. "He's already taken! We're not done!" But still blood spilled, still tears fell, and still that boy stood as if caught on the end of a hook and line. Still the power remained still and dead. Gone. Left him to die by the sharpened stone tip of a stick. Panic rose. "I-I can show you much more. You always loved me. The rider, remember the rider? I'll bring him back. You understand?"

Nothing.

"Understand!? You know me! You know what I can do!" Words gargled in blood.

The boy nocked a second arrow and slowly drew the feathered end back to his cheek. His eyes were too wide, jaw too mobile, and face spotted with sweat. The Fear was guiding him. Pushing him forward to kill his enemy and end the mad-stricken cries, end the crazed threat, to destroy and old foe never known. But there was something else touching the boy; a cool dark calculating look that invaded his eyes, a alien skill in which he moved slowly forward, and a low chuckle that spilled from his throat.

"I do know what you can do, William. I have seen it again and again. Oh, how you seduced me when you first fell into life. The runaway mad for vengeance, terrified of his own uncontrollable power, and yet willing to destroy a nation to prove a point. An ugly, brutal, and senseless point. I didn't know you then. And everyday was a new, frantic, chapter in a dark twisted story. You were a maddening muddled road in the dark, and I loved it. But, as you said, I know you. You had your vengeance, you proved your point, and stalked off into the world and slowly, through the centuries we've been together, I've puzzled you out. I know you, William, better perhaps than you know yourself. And you, old friend, are boring. The same old fears, regrets, and broken promises." The boy shook his head and sighed. "Once fascinating, now cliche."

"You can't take him," William moaned. "He's already taken."

"No, he is under the influence of one of my oldest enemies. But Fear, William, hasn't yet infected this body. I can claim him and through him I'll see not a nation fall, no that has been done, but perhaps an empire." The wild terror in the boy's eyes was fading, the shiver in his limbs gone, and the taunt bow held steady. Impossibly so considering how long he'd held the arrow at ready. Instead the cold collective hunger William had grown to know so well was steeling across his features, ringing proud in his voice, and leaving William feeling oddly light headed, and sick.

It was blood loss, he reasoned, as he looked at the puddle now pooled under him. Or perhaps because he couldn't breathe properly. But part of him marveled at this strange feeling. A feeling of emptiness, openness... freedom? He lent forward, spat blood, and then lent back against a rock jutting from the earth.

"You're not done with me," he spoke with a cold crisp confidence as his panic faded. "You're never going to be done with me."

"You flatter yourself." But the arrow remained ready against string. The boy's dark eyes intent. "You, William, bore me."

"You know me," William said again, "I have so much more to show..."

"Goodbye."

William was dead. He could feel the cold heaviness of his body, the despondent flicker of his failing heart, and the listless seep of blood down his chest. His limbs were too heavy to wield his sword, dropped at his side, and fingers too numb to draw and flick a dagger. He was dead. But, by some delayed response, he could still piece a fragile train of thought together, see a blurry image of the boy in front of him, and will up the energy to jerk his leg in a last angry kick.

His heel connected with the boy's shin, driving him down on one knee with a cry of pain, and forcing the magic back so it was, once again, the frightened boy behind painted features. He threw down the bow, screamed something in his own language, and clutched his throat. Then he fell on William, pressing his hands against the wound in his chest, and forcing his rib cage down. William gasped in pain, and then sucked in a second frantic breath of air. The boy was holding his lung closed and yelling at him. Desperate for answers, for an explanation, for anything.

"Sorry kid," William rasped, "but that magic in you... that's mine."

William had done worse things. Perhaps it was the lack of it inside him, perhaps it was because it was so hard without his usual strength, or perhaps he had just lived too long and gotten too old, but killing that boy hurt him in an all to human way. But, even as he crushed the boy's throat he felt the magic leak back into him. Felt it begin to frantically repair his body; protecting its own interests should it be stranded within him once more.

"You're not done with me," he whispered, "and I'm not done with you."

Yet, even as William felt his strength return the boy's terrified face once again lapsed into cold calculation.

"Kill the boy," whitening lips moved, "save yourself." Smirked. "You bore me."

The young body began to weaken, twitch. Line of red spilled from nose. Tears trek through face paint. Nails buried in the skin of William's wrist. Bleeding... crying... slowly dying... Eyes flicking between dark disdain and white panic. Begging... pleading... slowly leaving... You bore me.

The boy sucked in a sharp, pained breath. Fingers clasped neck.

William rose, spat, and turned to leave. Magicless and mortal.

"William?" Not the boy. "William! What are you doing?!"

The arrow was still in him. Pained him with every slow, shuddering breath. With a grunt he snapped off the shaft and dropped it at his feet. It was a long way to the nearest healer but he'd gathered enough power to stitch together the wounds and mend his body enough for his body to survive the journey. Dimly he recalled where he'd left his horse.

"William!" A hand on his shoulder. "Answer me, what are you doing?"

"Get off me."

"Where are you going? What are you doing?" Frantic. Angry. "Damn you! Why didn't you kill the boy!?"

"Get off me," William repeated a shade darker.

"No! Why didn't you kill the boy? You always kill to save yourself. You always do! You were desperate. You wanted me! You begged for me!"

Silence.

"Answer me!"

"Go destroy your empire. I hope it's interesting. Just like the tens of other empires you've built and knocked down. Just like the hundreds of nations you've erected and destroyed. Just like the millions of people you've killed. I hope you find that interesting. Goodbye."

The boys face was contorted into a bestial mask; teeth barred, nostrils flared, and brows furrowed. "No! I'm not done with you! And you, you're not done with me! You're going to kill the boy. You always kill to save yourself. You always kill." Realisation. He stepped back, folded his arms, and curled his lips in satisfaction, sure he'd figured out the game, sure he'd solved the puzzle once again. "You're not done with me."

William knew his hunger showed. His desperation for that poisonous magic touch. He wanted it... Maybe it was the boy, doomed to carry the sweet curse until death do them part. Too innocent to murder. Maybe. But that was too easy. Too good. William hadn't been good for a long time. They both knew it. Even as the magic stood, confident of William's next violent action, William felt the dirty truth settle in his stomach. He had never been driven by nobility. Never.

"You're not done with me."

"No," William said, "I'll never be done with you."

A mocking grin. Head tipped back, bruised throat presented.

"You'll hear of me," William continued, "as you rot of boredom in that pathetic little life. You'll hear of me." Voice dropped to whisper. "But I'm sure you know this. I'm sure you've figured me out down to the motives and reasons for my every action. You won't be surprised by any of the stories you hear. You won't be left wondering why, who, or how. No, you know me too well for that." His lips curled. "Nothing I can do could possibly be interesting to you."

William turned, hugged his wounded side, and left the boy, the magic, standing still and silent behind him.