Erica,
I’m sorry. For everything.
I don’t think I’m coming home. I don’t think you would want me to come home. Ghost is
I’m going to die. I might be the reason
I miss you.
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His wound was healed. The cut, not the rotting. The cut was healed on both of their hands. Malakai doesn’t know why he healed it. The words, the face, everything was just too much. So he had sat there, watching the browning blood on the pale hand as his hand stitched itself back together.
It lagged, at first. And then it was sweet and suddenly that hand was healing too.
It was sweet, but there was something else. Something softer. His magic was there too, he could pull at it and tear it apart but it was his. It was his and it healed the monster that had crouched in front of him with the face of a child.
That was the worst part, that Ghost was a child killer. That was the only explanation for the face she wore. She wasn’t a child. She might have been a girl, but she wasn’t a child.
She only turned into her victims.
That-
That child was a victim. She had killed a child.
She left him alone after showing him her trickery. Humming a soft sune as she rummages around behind Malakai. He loses track of time, cowering in front of a fire with his rotting hands outstretched and mind numb and frozen.
She returns, or he since it was the old man walking around, and deposits a small bowl next to Malakai. Not much time passes before he makes a second trip to the fireplace to drop a blanket around Malakai’s shoulders.
The fire burns.
Malakai sat there and he melted into the fire. Slowly.
Slowly.
So very slowly.
The food in the bowl chills, freezing over. At some point when Malakai blinks his eyes there is a pile of books next to the bowl.
It isn’t until later, when he cracks his skin to pick up the books that he realizes what they are. Books on frostbite. On skin diseases. There was even a book on the godling of frost. Old cures from the old days when medicine was rudimentary.
The monster in sheep’s clothing was nowhere to be found. Not on the quick customary glance he gave the shabby hole Malakai found himself in.
The fire slowly dies, and once he moves Malakai slowly feeds it logs.
Slowly.
He drops the logs half the time, leaving him to stare at them as they crumble to the wooden floor. The fire is never happy with what it’s given, spitting out protests as it suffocates. Malakai tries to nudge the logs, a burning feeling on rotten flesh that eats away at the nerves.
The books are interesting. Technical, bordering on dull, but he could test it and envision the whole process and then the reverse process. His magic was like a blanket of comfort in the forsaken cabin. He doesn’t explore the place, just sits in front of the fire with the books open around him.
The bowl stays untouched.
His hand is still a mixture of black blue, hard and cold to the touch, but he could feel something. Frozen knives going up his bloodstream with every move. Pins and needles consuming the entirety of the rotting flesh.
The fire burns in the worst way possible. He doesn’t dare try to reverse his other hand, fearing the result of two unusable hands.
He fears the possibility of losing his hands. He probably already lost them.
He couldn’t really write, his attempt at writing resulting in incomprehensible letters scrawled across a mauled page. Turning pages in the books was an impossibility that eludes him every time he tries. Well, he could turn pages, just it was more like clumps of pages than a single page.
The next time he sees the monster is after the fire finally dies. His attempts a lost cause when the logs stop making it to the fire and instead find a home on the outskirts of the fireplace.
Malakai cowers, clutching the blanket as tightly as possible to his shoulders. His throat is a dry mess, fingers burning and burning. He gave up on reading some time ago, back when there was still one tiny flame flickering in the fireplace.
Now all there is are dying embers and a drowning kind of silence. The Qleehl’s angry roars died down when the fire’s roars began.
“You should eat.” Malakai can’t help the way his entire body tenses at the words, at the voice. When he turns it is a new face that welcomes him, a chubby man all warm and brown colored with green eyes peering down at him.
Malakai would have spoken if his throat wasn’t so dry. If it didn’t hurt so godling damned much. If blood wasn’t frozen to the roof of his mouth. Instead he just opens his mouth, fists spasming against the blanket he holds.
The monster, the child kille,r simply blinks at him, giving a warm smile that isn’t even his. “Is it not to your tastes? Unfortunately Ivory didn’t really leave a wide variety. She was supposed to be here too, I wasn’t-“ There’s a frown, eyebrows furrowing and green eyes squinting before he continues in a more timid voice, “I was a bit early I guess. I was… I knew his face. Your partner, I saw it before. Or, not me?”
He licks his lips before shaking his head and replacing the confused frown with a smile, “But, you’re lucky I found you. Shouldn’t waste that. Even if you don’t like it,” The monster nudges the bowl closer to Malakai before continuing, “you should eat. I can… I’ll get you some water too.”
The frown is back and the monster leaves Malakai’s side. Malakai doesn’t dare move, still trying to make the blanket merge with his skin even though it hurts. The monster isn’t gone for long, he’s back with another satchel hanging out of his hand. There’s a pause, the satchel in reach as Malakai stares at it before the man gently puts it next to the bowl.
“Your-“ The green eyes shift, turning slightly red before they flash green again, “hands. Did the books not help? I’m not- I was never good at the healing part of white magic but I could-“ He’s reaching, reaching, hand outstretched and the sweet taste floats in the air again.
“No!” The flinch is brutal, Malakai’s entire body jolting away from that hand and eyes wide and unseeing and the magic keeps reaching. The monster pauses, pulling back and he shifts, and there’s the girl. Her eyes are darker, greener and heartbroken and-
Bile rises up Malakai’s torn up throat. The sour burn crawling into every frozen nook and cranny. That-
The girl was dead. The face the monster wore was dead.
Her hair, her bleeding hair draped around her, curling into the face that still had bits of baby fat clinging to her cheeks. Malakai didn’t even know when she died. They had no records of the small child, at least not attached to Ghost’s name. She could have died years ago and he’s just looking at the ghost of some child that should be grown by now.
She could have-
“I’m- There’s water. And food. You should…” The monster gestures to the satchel and bowl before folding into herself, “I’m going to- You should eat. I don’t know if- The bond could- You should eat.” She’s skittering back a few steps, casting another wary glance at Malakai before darting away.
A door slams somewhere in the cabin.
Malakai sits there, tremors rippling up and down his body, hands still spasming and he can’t even hold the blanket anymore. All he was doing was pressing stiff fingers against the thick warmth. He sits there until the chill of Qleehl started to creep into his bones, the shivering returns and it hurts.
Everything hurt. The shivering, the tremors, his hands. It took several tries before he could get a log into the fireplace and even then, the embers only wink at him. Nothing happens. They don’t eat the log, only continue to die out. Warmth ending and Malakai has to wonder if he’s even still alive.
The monster returns, the old man this time. There’s a cursory glance and then he’s shifting to kneel by the fireplace, a lighter in his hands. “There’s a fire in the library. That would-“ The fire catches, a small flame claiming life and eating away the log that Malakai had struggled to place. “It’d be better. You could see if-“
He pauses, the gruff voice dying in the monster’s throat before a cough rumbles out of him. “You could see if there’s any other books that could help with the-“ A gesture, the lighter slipping into a pocket on his pants. The old man’s frown deepens when he notices the untouched satchel and bowl.
“Look. You need to eat. I didn’t- I’m not going to die because of you okay? So you are going to eat. Don’t you have… don’t you have someone to go home to?” The words are like a dagger and all of Malakai’s breath escapes him the second the monster stabs him.
He does, he does have someone to go home to. He’s already accepted never going home though, it was a bitter pill to swallow, but he wasn’t going to be going home anyways. He… he was stupid.
He was stupid and he didn’t listen and he followed the cookie crumbs all the way to his grave.
“Because you can go home. I just- I know the way back okay? I grew up here, I know how to- I just needed insurance that you wouldn’t kill me. That’s why- And, and-“ The monster’s face flickers, for a second he sees the child and then it pales drastically, crimson eyes stare at him and the gray hair curls and curls. “You can’t die right now, okay? Not now. I’m- I’m…”
The monster nudges the bowl with his foot, “Eat. I’ll- I’ll get you some more, but you should eat.” He offers one last frown, brows digging deep into his nose and lips pressed thin before he turns on his heel and walk back to where Malakai supposes the kitchen of the cabin was.
The bowl sits there, soup thick and old with a spoon tucked to the side. Malakai’s stomach was ice though, even if he wanted to eat he couldn’t. He’d eat just to throw it back up as soon as it hits the ice at the bottom of his esophagus.
He can’t bring his eyes away from the bowl and satchel though. He can hear the crackling of the fire eating away at the log but he can’t turn his head to see it. He’s frozen, ice crawling up his veins and sticking to his muscles. His brain is sluggish, slowly consuming words that the monster said but-
But-
Nothing made sense. Nothing made sense.
Malakai was probably dead. Or hallucinating or,
How could someone even grow up in the Qleehl Mountains? No one lives there. The cabin says otherwise, but everyone knows; anyone who knows anything about anything knows that the Qleehl Mountains are the cursed lands. It’s where the exiled went to die and turn into monsters and freeze.
How could-
The bowl is still there and Malakai doubts his ability to even grab it.
The warmth is burning next to him.
Malakai still shivers, these awful tremors that wreck his body. It’s an ache in his bones as they clatter together. The ice makes ticking noise every time he even tries to move. He stares at the bowl and the satchel and before he knows it those monstrous eyes are back.
Crimson eyes, those are unnatural. The eyes of demons they say. Usually those with red eyes are offered up as sacrifice. Especially after Nicholas. Those are the eyes of serial killers, those without morals.
It’s another victim, another that Malakai had never heard about. Another ghost the monster dons as if it were his own skin. He wears so many faces, the amount Malakai saw flash before his eyes before the monster settled on one- It was like he was rolling a dice to see who he’d wear and show off this time.
Another bowl is offered up, steam rolling off the creamy white soup. This time the monster stubbornly keeps holding it out, hovering right in Malakai’s frozen line of sight. “Eat.” The voice is gruff and demanding, the monster shoving the bowl even closer to Malakai.
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He can’t even flinch back, entire body stock still as if the slightest movement will have gravity crashing upon him. He swallows air, mouth dry and with every breath there’s the golding awful pain. His throat constricts when the only thing he offers is the very oxygen that suffocates him.
The monster’s lips tighten even more, nearly becoming white with how hard he presses them together. It’s minutes, hours, days before the bowl is tossed down, some soup spilling out and he’s snapping out, “You have until tomorrow morning and if you still haven’t eaten I will either find a way to force feed you or I will leave you out in the cold to die.”
He turns, growing bigger and bigger and hair turning jet black as he storms away. The door slams as if the world itself is collapsing on them.
Malakai sits there like a statue, frozen.
Two bowls sit in front of him, the satchel just to the right. The mess on the floor is like a taunt.
The fire gurgles its appreciation for its food.
Another forceful swallow of air, lungs stretching so wide it hurts before everything forces itself out. The ice melts, just the smallest bit and Malakai moves. Everything cracks, shards splintering off as he jerks his body into motion.
He spills the soup when he grabs it, the hot liquid burning the tips of his fingers and dripping further onto the floor. He can feel it, barely on one hand and agonizingly on the other. He almost drops it; almost throws it further away from himself as if it’s poison, but he forces his grip to remain. The entire bowl trembles, the soup stumbling from edge to edge as if waiting for the moment to slide free.
He can’t-
He can bring it close to his mouth, but then his joints grind to a halt. He just holds the bowl uselessly in his hands, burning the rot with the uncomfortable warmth. A timid glance back at the door that the monster vanished in and then Malakai fixes his glare at the bowl of soup dangling in his blackened hands.
He can’t eat it. Can’t dredge up the urge to even swallow the soup. The ice sitting in his stomach doesn’t melt, if anything it just grows, pushing further up and taking up more space.
The soup goes cold before he dares to bring it to his lips. The second he swallows it’s as if the soup was steaming hot with how it instantly melts the ice. Suddenly he’s famished and the cold soup is the best thing he’s ever eaten.
He scarfs the food down within seconds, forcing his body to grab the second bowl of cold soup before scarfing that down as well.
It’s on the floor minutes later, his entire body crumbling in on itself as it rejects the substance.
There’s more of a mess on the floor and its smells something awful. Bitter; it makes Malakai’s stomach roll at the mere sight let alone the smell. The bowls are tossed haphazardly to the side and the satchel sits close to the bile.
The fire dies again, the measly log offerings no longer enough to sate the tiny flame before it flickers out. The cold haunts and Malakai’s stomach feels like knives are being stabbed into it. His entire throat burns like acid just ripped through it.
He might have missed the satchel with his vomit, but he didn’t miss the books.
His hands shake as he goes to grab the satchel, trying to avoid staring at the sour and rotten mess sitting next to him. It’s almost impossible opening things, his fingers unable to get the proper grip and once they do-
Soothing water feels like a balm against his throat. He swallows the acid down and it mixes and everything cracks anew. Not as dry, not as awful and when he swallows it’s not just air. He drops the satchel on the other side of himself and he sits.
And sits.
The blanket is a mess that’s crumbled around him, no longer being held around his shoulders. Malakai pauses, swallowing before he even dares to move. It’s wretched, standing up. His legs have pins and needles and they ache. Nothing moves right. He keeps stumbling down, legs shaking as if he couldn’t even bare his own weight.
He’s certain his hand has touched the bile, but he can’t really feel anything with that hand and he doesn’t dare to look. His stomach rolls at the mere thought. Once he’s standing he’s left staring at his surroundings.
At the dead fireplace, at the dark door that lead to the outside, and when he turns, the door that leads to wherever the monster vanished to. He could leave. He could pack as much as possible and he could leave.
He knows where the kitchen is; he heard the cans of food being shuffled around when Ghost was digging around for food and he’s confident he could find a bag somewhere in the cabin. The black fur coat that the monster had used originally was sitting on a lone couch, untouched. He could just take it and take food and get water and leave.
He’d die.
Malakai didn’t even know how far in the forest they were. He didn’t know his way around and even if he did, the second he made it to the wastelands he’d be lost. He’d die from starvation or hypothermia or dehydration and he already barely scraped by once.
People usually don’t get third chances.
Malakai’s gaze flickers to the other door, the ominous door and the monster that lurks behind it. He’s not even sure if he got a second chance to begin with. For all he knows he’s just waiting by Death’s door, biding his time until the monster finally snaps.
One last swallow of air, the dryness at the back of his throat settling in again and he turns towards the door that only leads to the possibility of death.
Walking is a challenge, his feet trip over themselves and he keeps reaching out to drag his hand across things to catch his weight. He did place his hand in vomit, the slimy substance has rubbed off on the walls and the couch as he stumbles his way towards the door.
He pauses at the door, sucking in a breath and bracing himself against the reality of what he was about to dare to do. It was the last chance to turn back, to sit by the dead fire and by the bile. His last chance to just wait out his sentence. He could do that, his mind was still a lazy fog that barely moves. He was still reeling on not dying out in the forest with the sweet taste teasing his tongue.
He touches the door knob, closes his eyes and opens the door.
It’s dark.
That’s the first thing that crosses his mind when he opens his eyes again. The room is some dark fathom, and in a corner tucked away is a girl. An older girl, but with burning hair and darker skin. It’s…
She’s the same girl he saw in Demsen, dead and surrounded by trash cans. She’s perched on her stomach, feet kicking in the air and her head resting in the palm of her hand as her other hand turned pages in one of the many books sprawled about her.
It’s the first victim he actually knows, all the other faces were strangers. This one, he can still see her covered in snow. He can see the neat cuts in the side of her neck and the black that blossomed out around her.
His stomach rebels, acid crawling up and up.
He chokes, swallowing it down and forces his eyes shut so he can’t see her, see the monster that looked like the girl that was honestly maybe nineteen years old. Some young person that was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like every other kill the monster made.
Malakai takes a step back, further away and he’s about to shut the door and just sit out by the dead fire and the bile and the ice when-
“Oh! You- I wasn’t- Is everything okay? I didn’t think you’d… Not that you can’t- Oh, did- Are you allergic?” There’s footsteps, pages rustling and the words are spouted out in a rush, all out in one breath. When Malakai forces his eyes open the monster stands in front of him with this worried pinched expression.
“You have- There’s some- I could just,” She’s reaching out and Malakai jerks further away, stumbling back. Her hand hangs in the air for a second before dropping like a marionette with the strings cut. She’s frowning, green eyes shuttering into a cold mask. “Sorry, forgot you didn’t like to be touched.”
Malakai is just stuck standing outside the doorway with ice crawling up his legs. He swallows, his throat an aching mess with acid burning into tender flesh before he risks saying, “You said I can go home?”
His voice sounds awful even to his own ears, like nails on a chalkboard and it feels like it too. The words vibrate every open wound and there’s the copper taste of blood at the back of his tongue.
The monster perks up, a smile flashing across her features and eyes crinkling at the side, “Yes! I’m not going to be here long so you can stay with me and- I mean, with the bond you kind of have to but-“ She releases a chuckle, “it doesn’t have to be that bad. It won’t be that bad. I promise.”
The words are sickeningly sweet and they make Malakai’s stomach turn and twist. Malakai braces himself for the pain of speaking before asking, “What do you mean bond?”
He thinks he knows what she means. The cut on their palms- his magic mixing with the monsters and healing her. Like she was some thief who took away his magic the second he started using it. She blinks at him, face wide and innocent and wrong before,
“If I die, you die. Our wounds are shared. A life for a life. Magic for magic. I know you didn’t-“ She frowns, licking her lips before trying again, “You didn’t exactly agree but… It’s not that bad.”
Malakai can’t hear anything over the blood rushing through his ears, over the words if I die, you die. He’s choking on his next inhale, the air exploding inside his throat and he can’t-
“Why?” Why, why, why? He’s not dead, but-
She blinks at him and suddenly Malakai is staring at the old man with the battle scars rippling across his dark skin. “Because I am not stupid. I know what-“ His voice is rough, dark and pointed and he pauses, straightening out his back and dwarfing Malakai before continuing, “You are with the CME. I chose to save you, I could have let you rot out in the mountains and there’s nothing you could have done about it.”
Malakai never should have risked opening the door. He should have just sat by the dark fireplace and horrible stench of vomit and just waited for his time. He can’t even move now, muscles locking up as he stares up at the monster looming over him.
“Are you-“ There’s a frown, mouth thinning before the monster turns away, gesturing to the room, “Your hands are still messed up, if you want you can see if you can find any beneficial books for that. I-“ A stilted silence, broad shoulders tense before, “My magic doesn’t exactly cooperate with healing so I can’t help with that.”
Dark eyes look over the shoulder to watch Malakai. As if the monster is expecting him to jump at the chance to read through piles and piles of books. As if Malakai even cares about the books to begin with.
Malakai lets his eyes drift away from the old man, taking in the dark expanse of the room, the corner that the monster had abandoned and on the other side of the room there is a fire flickering as it eats away whatever offerings the monster had given it.
When his eyes drift back to the monster he’s staring at the girl again. Not the child, he didn’t think his stomach could handle that, but it’s the other girl. The girl Mihr had found in the snow of some alleyway. It still made his stomach turn, but he was able to swallow the acid down every time it rose.
Really, if he had any doubt before all he’d need is to see that face to know the truth. This monster, this serial killer, this child killer, was Ghost. He knew when he tried to pull the knife out, when the thought of spilling burning hot blood in the cabin was a possibility and not just a delusion. He knew, but he didn’t know. It was a suspicion, it was a hunch of things that just couldn’t be a coincidence, but seeing that girl’s face…
That girl’s face sealed the deal. It confirmed the inevitable.
The monster is the ghost of all his victims after all. Every single face was a victim whose life he destroyed and ended. Malakai wasn’t even sure the monster had a face of his own. He doubted it, people like that aren’t really people. More like demons or monsters released from Qleehl as she waged her war against the godlings.
There’s a thought tickling in the back of Malakai’s mind. About a life for a life, about what that might entail and-
“I could kill myself.” Wounds seemed to be shared after all, even if their lives weren’t. Ghost all but admitted that he couldn’t heal himself even if he was injured. If-
If Malakai actually killed himself, the monster would die with him. They would both die in the middle of the monster filled mountains. They’d both die and the serial killer could no longer terrorize the rest of the kingdom. It would be for the best really. If they died.
But-
“You won’t. You have something to live for don’t you? I can tell, I’m really good at reading people.” The monster turned around, walking straight up to Malakai and staring at him with eyes that weren’t her own.
Malakai never noticed the girl’s eyes color before, her eyes were closed when they found her. They’re green. Like the fat man’s. Like the child’s. A different green, a sharp, bright green, but still green. The killer seemed to have an obsession with that color if her victims had anything to say about it. The eye color was too rare for it to be a mere coincidence.
She cocks her head to the side, “Go sit by the fire if you aren’t willing to do anything else. I don’t have enough to supply two fires even if my time here is less than originally planned.” She takes a step back, gesturing with one arm towards the fire as if that’s suddenly going to make Malakai tear his boots off of the frozen floor.
The ice shatters around Malakai’s legs as he takes a step forward. He obeys, mind still dripping with thoughts. The door softly shuts behind him and seals his fate. His second chance, tied to a serial killer and gifted with the ability to rid the world of one monster anytime he decides to take the task upon himself.
He sits by the fire, back towards the killer and he cowers.
He wishes he had died in the forest. Never to have this chance, this choice to make because Malakai knows himself. He knows himself and despite what he knows is better he-
His hands shake, shoulders folding into themselves and he soaks in the warmth of the fire.
The killer sits behind him, reading his books about whatever and surrounded by candles. The knife burns Malakai’s hip, but he hasn’t dared to touch it since the first time he tried to grab for it.
Acid still burns his throat, still coats his unfeeling hand and the stench is still there. An ever present reminder of everything so he can’t even close his eyes and pretend. So he just sits there, same position, different spot, different fire.
He sits and waits.
The only sound is the turning of pages and the roaring of the fire. If Malakai focuses he can hear the soft breathing of the monster. He tries not to focus.
There’s footsteps, the door opening and closing and then silence. A drenching kind of silence and the room is suddenly so much bigger than it was before. It’s not so suffocating, the weight on Malakai’s shoulders all but vanishing with the monster.
He waits, counting his own breaths before he dares to move.
Curiosity has him, prickling at his brain and tugging at his feet. Why would someone need so many books? Need to be reading through so many books? Ghost had piles and piles open by the candles and Malakai just couldn’t resist the temptation to peek at them.
Maybe he’d see something useful.
Maybe he’d see nonsense.
It’s-
He doesn’t even know what exactly he’s looking at. Different languages sprawled out right in front of him, some have pictures, others diagrams. There’s a selection that he can read and their focus is more on the godlings. On Death and Qleehl, on the spirits of the dead roaming the kingdom.
He reaches out to pick one up before he can stop himself. Skimming through the words, the ceremony because that’s what it is. It’s instructions on raising the dead. He reads through another that depicts ways to summon souls, to talk to them, to control them.
There’s another one, tucked underneath another pile that’s open. The thing that caught his eye was the word bond in bold letters. Nudging the other books out of the way Malakai picks up the book. It’s ancient, the pages golden and torn and nicked with the writing faded and missing in some spots. It’s hard to get a grip on the pages, fingers shaking too much for a proper grasp and the pages too thin and old for him to just slide through them without fear of tearing.
It was a book on bonds, or at least that chapter was. Malakai flipped through the pages, skimming through the words he could read. It’s a ceremony, some old marriage ceremony people would do in front of Liphe. Blood offerings and oath swearing and-
The door opens and Malakai freezes. He doesn’t even dare to lookup, to see the monster and his hands tremble on the book he’s holding.
“What are you doing.” It’s the old man’s harsh voice again, spitting out the words as if they were rotten. Footsteps storming closer, growing lighter with every step and when Malakai does look up he’s seeing the bloody eyes of a demon. “Don’t- Don’t touch those.”
In any other scenario Malakai would be sorely reminded of a child. With the pouting and petulant voice and the wide, wide eyes. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was staring up at the face of someone who was already dead he’d probably laugh. Instead his muscles lock up and he’s unable to look away from the crimson eyes.
He’d have probably dropped the book if his hands were functioning instead of being the stiff, frozen hunk of flesh that they were.
Ghost reaches out, yanking the book out of Malakai’s hands before quickly fretting over the other books, snapping out, “You could have ruined- What if- Don’t touch my- If you were bored-“ He’s whirling around, white hair swinging through the air as the monster turned to stare up at Malakai, “You can read any other book in here, but those are off limits. Don’t, don’t touch them.”
His face changes as he speaks, scars popping up before vanishing, eyes changing to a dark blue then swinging to green before sticking to the bloody mess they started off as. Malakai swallows, hands falling to his side as he watches the monster.
“What,” Malakai’s throat is horribly dry, the words scraping along like sandpaper, “what are those for?” Books on death and resurrection and ghosts. It could be something awful. Something horrifying. It could-
Ghost pauses, taking a breath before suddenly he’s the child again. She looks lost, wide green eyes and her voice is soft and gentle as she says, “I’m fixing my mistake.”