~o0o~

Meanwhile, just outside the village...

The rich, lush green valley lay ahead, just a few days ride. Of course it was just an outpost of civilization, an outpost here in the common lands. She had been here before, and had no need to suspect, that another valley, Pepper Valley, had materialized on top of the valley she knew.

A lone woman, with long golden hair, riding on her war horse, barely made it to her town. Goblins and their dreaded war hounds galloped along behind her. They were a few miles back, but they were coming here next.

The only way to head them off was to cross the field there and take another path through the trees. But where could she go? She needed food and water for both herself and her steed. Maybe she could get supplies at the farming village ahead.

She could see farm town just over the horizon. But the closer to the town she got, the more nervous she became.

Something felt wrong.

She couldn't place her finger on it. But there were not many people living in this area, what could possibly happen? Her heart beat faster when she saw the entry gates to the village.

And that's when she saw it.

A large group of men, standing outside a large farmhouse.

All talking amongst themselves.

They didn't seem dangerous.

She decided to approach them.

~o0o~

At that same moment, behind the deserted farming village, in the forest along the edge of the valley, beside a quiet stream leading to the lake, was set up a small pink and fuchsia striped silk tent.

Inside the tent slept an elderly Elf with long white hair, wearing pink silk robes made out of the same striped pink silk as the tent. Wrapped up in warm, soft fur pelt blankets, breathing softly and peacefully. The only sounds that filled the air around the tent was the soft trickle of water over stone.

No one was watching when the trees arrives. Huge mast trees, sprouting up like mushrooms, in places where moments ago, not trees had been.

A thick heavy fog, rolled down off the mountains, as the rumbling roar of an angry volcano, echoed through the night.

Something rustled in the grass outside of the tent, causing the elderly Elf to stir.

Strange sounds.

Strange winds.

Ghostly howls.

Quaraun opened his eyes, sat up clutching a fox pelt round his thin bony shoulders, and looked out from beneath his silken curtain. The first thing he noticed was how very many trees there were blocking his view. He felt certain the trees in front of his tent had not been there when he set the tent up a few hours earlier. And the air, it smell different. As if the valley was not the same valley he had pitched his tent in just before sunset.

But Quaraun had no time to question the change in the air or the different trees, for there in the grass stood a large creature, which was almost like a dog but with longer legs, horns, and a pointed snout.

A black dog, with black feathers on it's wings, and cut crystal eyes, made out of blue glass. The dog looked purple in the moonlight, and had a ghostly blue glow.

All around the dog, little miniature fuzzy, wuzzy fluffy white angora bunnies, with long bloody vampire fangs, munched on mumbling mice in the mid-night moonlight.

The dog barked and bounced excitedly. It wagged it's matted braided purple tail cheerfully when it saw Quaraun.

“Hello!" Quaraun said to the strange dog. "Who are you?"

The beast did not answer, Quaraun had not expected it would. Most creatures didn't talk. The dog-creature turned and scampered back into the forest. Barking and yipping happily as it went. And the herd of undead bunnies bounded after it.

Quaraun sat alone once again.

"How odd. And how cold. It was not so cold when I set up the tent. I can see my breath in the air. Oh dear. I do believe it is cold enough to snow. It's still summer. Are we far enough north for snow? I did not think I had travelled that far. BoomFuzzy loved the snow."

Quaraun sat in the doorway of his tent, watching the full moon and thinking about his dead lover BoomFuzzy. After a while Quaraun reached for his cane, braced it firmly on the ground got up and stretched. His joints cracked and popped. Old age was catching up with him.

"Ow! I hate being old. My bones creak worse than a rusty door. If didn't hate using magic so much, I suppose I could heal myself somehow couldn't I? Eh? Why bother. It's not like I have anyone who cares about me. Every one I love is dead. And every one else on the planet hates my and has a price on my head. I wonder how much The Guild wants for my head these days? There must not be any Justice Mages around here. I've not seen a single wanted poster of myself in weeks. Now. That tree. You I want o see up close."

Quaraun tottered over to a tree, leaning heavily on his cane and trying not to trip on the tall wet, night grass. It was the biggest tree. The one that was nearest to where he had been sleeping. Quaraun walked around the tree several times, running his gold plated fingers across it's bark, felling it's ridges, smelling it's leaves, listening to it's branches, and finally pulled down some moss, which covered the bark.

"No, you are most definitely an actual tree. For a moment I thought you were a mimic, or a monster, and an enchanted Faerie forest coming to haunt me. But you are an actual tree. Nothing magical about you. Odd, I can not you remember you being here. I am getting old. And senile. How did I ever set my tent up next to such a large old oak tree and not notice you here."

Quaraun should have been looking at the two pine trees to either side of the oak, or paying attention to the fact they two of them were particularly careful to always stay behind him, no matter which way he turned or which way he looked.

Quaraun would have noticed the two uprooted trees that were lumbering around behind him, had it not been for the shriek of a dying mouse, that startled him and attracted his attention away from the trees.

The old Elf turned and looked to see a rabbit standing there watching him. A freshly killed mouse hung limp from it's lips.

"You look like one of BoomFuzzy's marshmallow vampire bunnies. And your ears are longer than mine."

Quaraun began laughed loudly at the thought of the rabbit's long twitching ears and how much they resembled his own. Humans often called Quaraun by the nickname "Rabbit Ears" for the foot tall long thin ears that he held high over his head. The rabbit heard him laughing, and the creature's own long ears flattened against it's head and it took off running.

"Oh dear. I did not frighten you away. Well, we've a busy forest tonight, haven't we? Too bad none of you are someone I can talk to."

Quaraun left the tent flap tied open so he could see outside. Then he crawled back into bed. He laid on his side, looking outside the tent.

Outside there was nothing but trees and bushes.

Bushes and trees.

Nice.

Quiet.

Peaceful.

Relaxing.

Grass and leaves.

Moss and mushrooms were scattered here and there. He closed his eyes thinking about the strange creature he had just seen.

What was a it called?

He did not know. After some time he fell asleep again.

Weak and delicate.

The smell of decay and death was overwhelming. There wasn’t anything that could save them. He knew this because he didn't know how to live without his family, they were everything to him. Strange creatures had come to take him away. His mother was dead, her blood staining the carpet and flooring in front of the fireplace. Her head shattered, he brain smashed. The jellyfish inside slaughtered. His father had gone crazy from grief. She'd never be coming home again. The tears came easily as he held her broken body, sobbing silently into her hair as he cried.

"No... No... No..." he whispered over and over as his sobs became louder and more desperate, his voice shaking as he begged for a miracle. But there was none to be found. He'd been living like this for weeks, now in the desert of the Di'Jinn, in the marshlands along the desert, but it still hurt.

It still ached.

He felt empty inside, as if he was dying slowly while she was still alive.

ZooLock had always told him not to cry about things he couldn't change. And maybe ZooLock was right, but he was also the one who had brought this upon himself.

His father was gone, his mom too, leaving nothing but chaos behind. There was no hope left, no point in holding on to the life he had before.

Moving forward.

Forward.

To something new.

No.

Gone again.

More death.

Now BoomFuzzy too.

Quaraun lived his life in mortal terror, fear to love anyone or let anyone love him, terrified that they would die if he loved them, that they would die, if they loved him.

Sleep was the thing Quaraun dreaded most. His nights were plagued with thoughts of death. His mother. His children. BoomFuzzy. All dead. All bloodily dead.

Red. Just red. That's all you see.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

Trapped in a room with red walls.

There's a desk with red papers on it.

Red was the colour of death.

And the colour of blood.

It stains his hands.

More red. More blood.

Blood that can never be washed away.

He closed his eyes. But all was red.

So much blood.

Blood that stained the floorboards and the bed sheets.

But also the bed itself, as well as those who slept there.

Four children laid in a row. All dead.

Covered in blood.

It was the same blood that was spilled in front of him in his nightmares.

In his dreams, he is back there.

In front of all the people he killed that day. His father. His uncle king. His wife. His four beloved children. He sees them again. They stand in front of him, all bloody and lifeless. Blood on their clothes, blood in their hands. Their mouths open, but no sound comes out.

No matter how hard they try to speak, nothing happens.

Reaching out to him, they walk through the fog of the Swamp of Death.

They watch him, laughing at his pathetic attempts to defend himself.

Laughing at his failures.

At how weak he is for even trying.

And then, one by one, they step forward, towards him, raising their hands.

Their fingers pointed straight up.

His breath hitches, his vision blurs.

He tries not to blink.

He doesn't want to miss any of what they do to him, the way they touch him and hurt him.

Touch him with bloody hands.

Touch him with bloodied lips.

With bloody eyes.

With bloody hands, holding him down, forcing his head back against the floor, crushing his skull with their fists.

He can feel the blood trickling down his neck and over his shoulders, onto the bed sheets below.

It is red tears that fell from red eyes.

From black eyes, turned red, from shedding too much red.

Red and black.

A black cat, with the same colour stripes as the night sky. It's eyes red, it's paws black.

Waiting for Emmett.

Two soul tat met for the first time.

One red.

The other black.

Two soul mates both born from the same stars in the sky.

Two soul mates, their destinies to intertwine for eternity.

"Are you alright?" The came from behind a pair of deep brown eyes.

Red.

The colour of blood. The blood of a child.

It falls to the ground, landing on the cobblestone road.

It glitters in the sunlight and for a moment, it seems to reflect back the sun's rays.

It is a beautiful sight to behold.

Red, glistening blood.

In his eyes, the red letters shine with an almost supernatural glow. And that make him feel sick. He looked away from it, looking to his feet where he can still feel the heat radiating off them.

But his feet are red too, soaked in the blood of his children, but they aren't glowing, instead they are covered in a thick layer of ice.

"This isn't my doing," he muttered turning around and running off down the street as fast as he can go. "No! It wasn't me. I didn't do that. I couldn't! I wouldn't!"

He needed to get away from this place; he just wanted to be alone. He doesn't want to think about this anymore.

To forget.

Must forget.

If only he could forget.

He wanted to forget about the blood.

The blood of his children, in the writing on the wall.

So much blood, tainted everything in this town.

And yet... they keep returning, like a plague.

The memories.

Every time he closed his eyes, or breathed deeply, he heard their screams echoing through his head. He wished he could do something to stop them, to make those sounds go away, but there was nothing he could do.

All he can do is run away and try not to think about it.

The red blood of his children, covering over everything.

He ran through the village. People scattered in all directions, screaming. He tried to stop, but he couldn't. It was like he was made of stone.

Red.

Stone stained red. Soaked in their blood.

The accursed colour red. Colour of blood.

And all he can do, every time, is look at it, and wonder if he'll ever see another colour again.

Because even when they were gone, the blood still remained.

He wished he could forget it, too. But he couldn't, no matter how much he wanted to.

Because it wasn't just his fault, was it?

It was theirs. The villagers. They deserved to die so that the blood would stay clean. So BoomFuzzy could return. That would make him feel better, wouldn't it? Make things better.

But it didn't.

It didn't help at all.

The blood remained on every surface; it stained the floors of his house.

The nursery.

His clothes.

His hands.

Everything.

It made everything seem more real, more vivid.

It made every moment with them, the times he'd spent with them, hurt more than anything else.

He wished it would all end. But he knew it wouldn't. No matter how many times he tried to erase everything, he knew he couldn't.

No matter what he did, the blood stayed.

So he ran. And ran. He tried everything he could think of to escape the memories, but it never worked. The blood would always come back. Even after he'd stopped thinking about it.

The blood. The blood on his hands.

On his clothes. On his face.

Red. Red blood.

The blood of his children.

Words on the wall, written in their blood.

Written in their blood, with his own hand.

A red light.

A red letter.

Red.

The colour of blood.

As one gets closer to death.

He looked around the room in despair, the same room where he used to play with his cousins and pretend that his parents weren't...

When he opened his eyes, he felt like he hasn’t slept at all. That’s not true. He had actually slept for a few hours. But that was the last thing he remembered before losing consciousness again. Or, more accurately, being woken by someone poking him in the shoulder. He groaned quietly and turned over to see who it is, but the person moved away from him quickly so he couldn’t see their face.

He sighed.

There are two people here with him?

That is a problem.

Usually he would be able to recognize one of them immediately, but they must have blended into the background during his sleep, as usual. He knew them well enough, though, and that meant he recognized this person too.

The name didn't ring any bells, nor did it seem familiar. They don’t look like a friend or foe, either, so maybe he should ask?

If there were enemies here, why didn’t he hear any fighting when he woke up? That would mean they weren’t enemies, right?

Right.

Maybe.

Red.

The colour of blood.

Blood that can never be washed away.

No more tears.

No more blood.

Just red.

"Quaraun!"

"Huh?"

"Weak. I feel very weak," Quaraun said, closing his eyes and putting his hands over his face. "Where are you?"

"Ah, Quaraun, you are finally here."

"Huh?"

"You are the one I have chosen to accompany me on this quest. What are you doing here?"

When Quaraun awoke it was dark. No. There was no one there. It was only a dream. No one was ever with him. Every one he loved was dead. He was alone, as usual. Quaraun got up and went outside, looking around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at first, until he noticed that the sun had set. He began walking towards his tent, when suddenly someone called out to him.

"Excuse me!" a woman's voice called out. "Can you show me where the livery stables are?"

"Stables?" Quaraun asked, looking around and seeing no one there. "Stables? There are no stables around here."

Unfortunately, Quaraun's ears acted somewhat like antennae and he could pick up sounds from many miles away, just as clear as if they were standing beside him, and he assumed this was the case now, for there was no woman to be seen, and this far out in the middle of the forest, there was no possibility of a literary in the area. He laid his long ears back, tucking them under his impossibly long twelve foot Rapunzel hair.

There was a village nearby, down in the valley. Quaraun had seen it the day before. He could have gone there and looked for a room to rent, a bed to sleep in, so as to not have to sleep on the cold hard ground. Quaraun preferred to sleep in his tent, in the forest, away from Human populations. He was the last Elf. Few Humans these days even believed that Elves had ever been once real, so it was generally best to avoid Human villages until scouting out the beliefs of the local cultures and knowing their thoughts on magical creatures, like Elves.

Sadly Quaraun knew he could never live among the Humans. They were quick to judge anything deemed different, and he was certainly different. He knew most people feared him, some even hated him, sometimes simply because he was an Elf, other times because he was a mage.

A wizard.

A necromancer.

The Pink Necromancer no less.

And yet, many respected him, mostly for his power. Tales of The Pink Necromancer were legendary and there were few who would dare risk his temper.

Now that he was awake again, Quaraun could not get back to sleep, so he took to writing.

"...a black mirror, a silver dagger, and a white feather. A white bird's wing, on its head, and a white cloth with black lines over it as a bandage for a wound.

A white dress, black feathers on top of each head, black clothes, and white boots.

A black crow carrying something in it's talons, feathers ruffled like they had been through wind. An empty cage, with its contents long gone.

The three children who had been playing with the ravens before, now standing beside him. They were no longer laughing or screaming as they used to, but their eyes seemed dull with grief and despair, tears running down their faces, hands shaking as they looked around at what was left of the forest they had once known so well.

There were trees and flowers everywhere, birds singing, animals running through the field, rabbits hopping from tree to tree, butterflies and butterflies flying in the air. The raven in front of them, though, was still just dead; nothing was alive anymore. There were no life, no movement, no life except for that one little, white feather floating in the air, drifting up and away until it could no longer be seen. He watched as it fluttered further away into the sky.

He felt like he should be angry or sad about this..."

Quaraun stopped writing and read what he wrote. Than puzzled and wondered why it was he had written the words he had.