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- CHAPTER 1 -
Sam was gone. He was gone and gone and gone and Sammy was just gone. Didn't come back from Miss Daisy, didn't come home, didn't eat the potatoes with cheese for dinner. Wasn't in his bed waiting to be read his book, wasn't with Sloppy cuddling under the blankets, wasn't whining and bitching about the bright light of his bedside lamp, or the noise the rain made on the rooftop.
Sam was gone.
He was just gone.
He searched for him, of course he did, the stupid bitch was his little brother, but there was absolutely no sign, no trace, no scent of Sam anywhere.
Sloppy was … heartbroken wasn't even the word that could even start describing what the rabbit was. He was beyond sad, beyond tears, would be a broken toy if it weren't alive.
They were all broken, a piece of them all torn away with such brutal force it left them in a shocked kind of pain. It hurt, but it went beyond pain.
Sammy was gone. Baby brother was gone.
Dad was pissed, then he was driven, then he was sad and then he was just resigned that Sam was probably either dead or worse – taken by the Herd to be raised up as an Inquisitor. A Collector.
That had always been a possibility, since his mom had been a Master Inquisitor, so there was always a chance Sam would be – recruited – into the same status, but damn it, why Sammy? Sammy with his innocent soul, with his big brown eyes and a mop of hair and hands soft and tiny and clean of pain and blood and suffering.
Why not Dean? Why?
Why did the Herd take Sam?
Why?
Dean lived long, long lonely years trying to answer that question. He'd watched his dad change his personality from a father to a deflated old man, had watched him sink deeper and deeper into bottles of any alcoholic beverage he could get his hands on until there was nothing of him left but a shattered shell of who he'd once been.
John Winchester, the Hunter.
Dean had tried to talk to his dad, tried to make the man see that what he was doing was wrong and bad and all kinds of messed up and that Sam would never had wanted this. Would be scared and angry at seeing the man who'd been his Daddy succumb to depression and alcohol.
"Dean, my son is gone."
Those were the words that hit Dean like a fist in his plexus, like a serrated knife in his gut; twisted and pierced all the way through the spine. Those were the words that cut him so deep he was positive the wound would never heal and it would keep on leaking hatred towards his dad.
Dad's son wasn't gone. He was right there, picking up the pieces every time his dad got into a fight or killed some(thing)one in his search for Sam. He was right there when his dad could barely get up from the chair to walk to his bed. He was right there to clean the vomit and blood and mop up the spill from bottles that fell out of his dad's limp fingers. He was right there watching his dad bring himself to the edge of death.
His son was gone, yes, Sam was gone, but his son was still there. Listening to his dad rant and scream and plead and beg and cry over Mary and over Sam and over how life wasn't fair and fuck the Herd, fuck the Inquisitors, fuck the Plague and the Land. He was there for his dad, when no one was there for Dean.
He was alone, so utterly alone, he could hear the movement of sand in the hourglass that were perched on top of Sammy's book shelf. But there was no more Sammy to clean the dust off them, no more Sam to leaf through the thick volumes of books. Sam, the little bitch who never wanted to get his hair cut and who insisted on new books every few days, because Dean, 'm bored and I already read this one like seven times, was gone. There was no more little brother to curl up with when the winter nights got colder than a witch's tit, and the wind blew under the window right on his already half-frozen feet. There was no Sam to moan about how unfair it was to eat oatmeal every day, three times a day, when his friends ate bread and sometimes even meat.
He missed that little twerp. Missed him so much and everything had been fine, when their dad was still driven to fight everyone who might know something about what had happened to his youngest son. Everything'd been absolutely fine, when his dad had searched for Sam, believing that the kid would be found and brought back to their little family of three. He had even marched right up to the Herd – heavily drunk of course, because one doesn't simply march to the Herd completely sane and sober – and yelled obscenities at them, shouted questions at them and demands and threats.
The Herd, thankfully, took no offense, didn't act up on it, because it was John Winchester, the Hunter and he was sacred. Respected. Cherished. Needed. But still, they gave him no answers, just scoffed dark gray smoke at him and filled their eyes with something resembling tears.
It took Dean six hours and three quarters to finally drag his dad away from them. He could still see their wet, shiny eyes whenever he slept. They'd been kind, sad, amused even, but not scared or mean.
If Sam was with them, or with the Inquisitors then maybe the kid was okay.
But if Sam was dead or worse, taken to become a slave, or something even darker – caught the Plague … those thoughts always made Dean wake up in cold sweat screaming louder than the howls of the winter wolves. What if Sam had the Plague and was in agony somewhere all along, screaming for Dean, just Dean, always only Dean, needing his big brother to tell him how everything would be okay and hold his hand through the very end. What if Sam was alone and scared and in pain worse than being set on fire. What if …
Sloppy stopped those thoughts when the rabbit spread himself on top of his chest and talked about the good days, the good things, the good memories. The way Sam laughed, the way his fingers felt when sliding through his fur, how he loved to kneel down and talk to the roosters. How Sam breathed when deep in sleep, how his hair always managed to smell of apples or how he loved to read out loud the parts of the book that he loved the most and made everyone listen.
But Sam was gone now. Someone or something had taken his little brother and took from them Sam's laughter and the sound of his voice.
He hadn't had the guts to ask the Herd anything himself back then; he'd only been fourteen, not yet comfortable in his own skin, shy and grieving for both his little brother and his dad.
But all that had changed when he'd turned twenty and his dad had dropped a bottle half full of Whiskey from his limp fingers for the last time. Ever.
He burned his dad on a funeral pile on a hot summer night. He didn't cry; tears had vanished completely from his system years ago. Tears hadn't brought his brother back, tears hadn't kept his dad from slowly, painfully killing himself, tears hadn't even brought back his momma.
Tears were for the ones who still held hope.
With the death of his dad, the title, the status fell on him.
When the embers of the fire hadn't even stopped glowing red yet, when the ash of his dad hadn't even gotten scattered in the wind yet, he became Dean Winchester, the Hunter.
Twenty years old and his life became his dagger, long sword, his Colt and Impala, a huge, black Mustang that he himself had broken in whenever he hadn't needed to keep an eye on his dad so that the man wouldn't choke on his food and the content of the bottle.
His only friend; Impala. Only a yearling when he'd caught her all alone on the eastern pastures. Pathetic in the eyes of everyone in the Land, but truthfully, he didn't want friends, he wanted Sam back. He didn't need friends or people in general, all he wanted was Sam.
All he wanted was his little brother, wanted to see how the kid had grown, wanted to see what the years had done to the scrawny boy. Wanted to see those eyes again, hear that voice again, wanted … to punch Sam's teeth out because what the fuck was he thinking walking home alone that night. He should've either stayed with Miss Daisy or ask someone to accompany him home.
He wanted to wrap his arms around Sam's body and never let him go.
Dean Winchester, the big, bad Hunter just wanted his little brother.
He'd killed, he had so much red hot oily blood on his hands, not even doc's could top it, he'd watched light go out in people's eyes, monster's eyes. He'd broken necks, had stabbed, shot, maimed, tortured … he'd done so many things, fought so many things, that of course, of damn course it would be the Plague that would be his executor. Of course, because that was his life, wasn't it? Sickness and pain and death and fucking misfortune to be the son of Mary Winchester, the Master Inquisitor and John Winchester, the Hunter.
Of course all that he had done and caused would come rushing at him all at once in the form of the disease that had already killed a quarter of the Land and that not even the Herd had any response to. No cure. No magic solutions. Just suffering, pain and death in the end. The Inquisitors managed to stop the spread somewhat, take out the people who tested positive on the Questioning, but it wasn't enough. People were sneaky and they found ways to hide …
But it was okay. Maybe … just maybe … Sam would be waiting for him in the afterlife. Somewhere.
First there was a pinch in his left temple. He swatted at it as if it had been a simple bee sting and then slit the throat of a black dog. Done.
Then the pinch returned and spread all over the left side of his face, tearing up his eye and he was this close to be mauled by a werewolf before he was able to shoot it. Done.
Then the pinch became burning pain that spread down his entire left side, from the tips of his hair to the tip of his toenails. He crawled on all four into an empty house on Cobble Street, breaking his fingernails up wooden steps, until he flopped down on a lonely mattress that the owners must've forgotten or left behind, because it stunk of piss. He was familiar with the stains and the smell, he'd cleaned up his dad more times than he wanted to think about.
He stretched his aching, burning body on the lumpy mattress and slowly breathed out.
This was going to hurt all the way to the bitter end.
Impala had all his weapons and he'd sent her deep into the woods; the Herd would take care of her, she was safe.
All he had were the clothes on his back and even those would start to hurt soon; itch and scratch and be too hot, when the illness would spread from his left side to his right and then when the boils would come.
He left out a sob and covered his right eye with his palm.
Another sob shaking his entire left side a bit too hard and the shock of pain made him groan.
He didn't deserve this. He'd done nothing wrong. He … didn't want to die.
Another sob, which was all right. His left eye was steadily leaking anyway, so what was some more tears, right? There was no one to see him cry anyway, see his tears. No one to hear him or take care of him.
No one, because there was no Sam and there was no dad.
Another sob and he pushed his palm into his right eye, wishing that he'd been brave enough to shoot himself in the head while he still had the chance – while he still had enough strength in his trembling fingers.
But deep down, so very deep down, he knew this was punishment. He deserved this for leaving Sam to walk home alone that night, for not taking better care of his dad all those years that the man was still semi sober and healthy enough to fight, he deserved this for not strolling up to the Herd and demand answers from them just like his dad had. Because now, he was stronger, better, had his status and an official title, he was feared and respected, people bowed when he walked down the street … he had the right to at least go and ask. But he didn't.
Punishment. The Plague was punishment and he deserved it. He'd go down quietly. He wouldn't beg Death not to take him. He wouldn't resist Death's grip. He wouldn't scream.
So of course when the boils started to rise up out of his skin, all over his arms, chest, legs, back the first thing he did was scream.
Scream his little brother's name so loudly and for so long he felt something in his throat snap and the next time he coughed, he coughed pink spit.
When the boils started popping and stinky pus started running down his overheated skin, he started howling and writhing on the thin mattress.
He couldn't stop even if his throat hurt more than the rest of his body. He couldn't stop.
He just wanted all of this to stop; this wasn't even pain anymore. This was something beyond pain, something beyond suffering. Something that no one had yet described in texts. Something new, fresh, all-consuming, fire and cold in their primeval forms. Pain in its original form.
Something he'd felt only once before; when he found out that Sammy wouldn't be coming home that evening.
He managed to slip his shirt off, slide down his pants, boots and socks too, barely managed to push it all down to the floor. His boxers grated on his dick, but he was too exhausted to pull them down; what would a bit of chafed skin be when he was never going to need his dick again? The stained sheet was like tips of nails on his back, but he couldn't … if he stayed still it was all right, didn't hurt that much, but if he moved the rough fabric punctured the boils on his back, exposing bare flesh to the cool air and that – that made him howl with pain. His eyes had long ago dried up, but his body was drenched in sweat, his piss had glued his legs to the mattress the same as crap glued his ass there too. There was nothing he could do about that, he couldn't even lift his finger on his own volition. Every move his body made was completely managed by pain, lightning his nerves and synapses making his back arch, his eyes shut closed and his fingers fist the fabric underneath them.
A boil popped and he hissed; this one was easy, only felt as if someone cut of a strip of his skin. He could handle that. Had handled it a few months ago, when a pixie wanted some fresh meat. He squashed that son of a bitch like a mosquito.
He breathed out and settled down to the mattress, waiting almost like in limbo, when the pain would come back, when and where it would hit next. There was no way to prepare himself for it; it came and went and hit at places he wasn't prepared to feel it.
It was as if it was playing a game with him. The bitch.
"Dean…"
Bitch, now it was making him hear voices too. Bitch. Bitch! Where was Death when you needed him? Where? Where was the Herd to burn him into a crisp and save him from this miserable agony?
"Dean…"
The voice again. He opened his eyes to slits and no. No!
No!
Now the bitch was making him hallucinate, because if that wasn't a Collector standing right there, almost touching his boil-full chest, then his name wasn't Dean and he wasn't a Hunter. But it was and he was.
"Ppppplease, d'n't ..."
"'m not a doc, see?" he watched as the man ran his hand down a long, blue cloak, showing of the tattoo on the back of the hand.
"See? 'm not a doc."
No, the man wasn't a doc. Doc's were rougher, stunk of all kinds of potions and solutions. No, the color of the cloak spoke volumes and the long sword with the emerald green blade couldn't be mistaken for anything else.
"C-ccc-collector..." he slurred the word and grimaced at the bubble of spit that tickled his lips.
"Yeah, 'm a Collector, but 'm not here to take you. 'm not here to hurt you, Dean."
Dean … Dean … Dean … Dean …
Sam.
His baby brother. He'd grown up tall. No one cut his hair shorter. Grew up as a Collector. As an Inquisitor. Grew up strong too.
The Plague hadn't taken him. He was destroying it.
"Sss'my…"
His lips trembled when they formed the name he hadn't spoken in years, just thought of it every hour of every single day. It felt strange to say it, the air hissing behind his teeth, and the 'm' making him smack his bloody lips together.
Sammy.
"'m not gonna let you die, Dean."
He crossed his eyes as Sam leaned so close to him their lips were almost touching, and breathed out, allowing Sam to taste his breath, make sure that yeah, 'm your brother.
"Not gonna let you leave me."
Don't wanna leave ya Sammy, the Plague's just gonna take me, little brother.
- CHAPTER 2 -
Ruby was a witch. It was her title, her status and she was looked upon as if she was worth less than the sewer rats and more than the sun itself.
People needed her to help with their ailments when doc's couldn't and Healers wouldn't. They feared her because of all she could do, all the power she possessed. Wanted her dead because she was friends with the Inquisitors, one in particular, but they didn't know that she'd been brought into the Questioning herself and released. She'd been healthy – immune. Dean knew that if the people of the Land would come to know that, they'd chop of her head in no time, because why would something so low as a witch be immune to such a devious disease when they weren't?
Fear and anger made people do crazy things, Dean knew all about that. His whole childhood had been made of anger and fear and pain and loneliness.
Ruby and he … they certainly made a pair. A Witch and a Hunter, both broken and longing for something. Ruby for her husband who'd died of the Plague after giving her Annabella and he for his brother.
Always Sam.
She was a strong witch with skin soft as silk and always smelling like freshly cut grass. Her big, round eyes sometimes glowed Whiskey-amber, her voice sometimes made him burn brighter than the sun, made him hide into himself whenever he didn't understand something she wanted to teach him. He felt stupid most of the time, like his brain was too small for all the knowledge she wanted to push into it.
She was the best, he'd never had before.
She was better than his dad had been, better than all the Hunters he'd come across in his life so far, she was better than he deserved.
She taught him how to hold his head up high, new tricks on wielding his sword, tricks about silver and gold and copper, secrets of plants and flowers, secrets of spells and potions that even the doc's would be jealous of. Taught him how to mix herbs, taught him about the secrets of water and soil, taught him how to take a tree's life without telling the tree it was an act of mercy. Trees were too proud for those kind of things; too proud to admit they were suffering.
She taught him compassion and how to love something even if his job was to kill it. All creatures deserved love and comfort before meeting Death.
One spring day when dusk had silently settled over the land and the youngest of the Herd left out a roar of goodnight, she placed him in a circle made of limestones and said: "Let out your animal side, Dean. I wanna see it, show it to me, c'mon," she'd poked him in his chest, "it's right in here," she'd poked him again, before shouting at him, "show it to me! C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, show it to me! You're a damn Hunter, act like it! C'mon, you asshole!"
It wasn't about sex, wasn't about that, even if he wanted it to be, but Ruby made it clear that sex was not on the table. Ever.
No, it was about fighting. Raging. Murdering. Craving. Yearning. Burning.
It was about learning to contain all that in a thing more efficient. He'd been good before, but under Ruby's lessons and teachings he became better than the best.
Under Ruby's teachings his skin stretched all over Dean Winchester, the Hunter. His mind became his title. His hands and his heart became his status. His soul vibrated with who he became.
Finally.
His animal side was roaring and scratching at his insides, pacing up and down his spine, crashing into the walls of his ribcage and he roared right back and fought to escape right along with it.
He pushed Ruby away from him until she fell on her ass, her long skirt and blouse twisting all around her thin body. She started laughing then, laughing in glee right there on the ground while looking up at him with a glint in her eye: "Yeah, there it is Hunter."
He was exploding on that forest clearing, with a circle of Fae sitting on top of the limestones, watching him, their wings fluttering bright green in the dusky glow.
They clapped their tiny hands in glee when he collapsed on the grass, spent and tired and feeling more alive than ever before. His bones were aching so good, his muscles felt well worked and trembling, his mind so clear he could see the stars even before they had fully risen. He could see the brightness of the moon even through the vail of sickness that had been covering it before. It was so beautiful, so bright, so clear.
All of his senses came alive, so damn alive he was able to smell a wild boar that had come across the clearing. Three days ago.
Annabella ran to him, all long red hair with streaks of black in them, eyes bigger and rounder than Ruby's and jumped on his stomach, making him ooompff with the force the little squirt hit his abs. He grabbed the lithe body around the waist and smiled up at her as she smiled down on him.
"Hunter." she smiled a toothy smile and squealed when he jumped to his feet with her in his hands. He was strong. He felt powerful.
He nodded, unable to speak just yet, unable to put into words what the power surging through him was making him see, hear, smell. The Land was encompassing him, almost making him dizzy with just how much the Land needed him, how much the Herd needed him and the Inquisitors. He knew now. Knew how Sam felt whenever he Collected. Knew how to help the helpless. Protect the Land, just like what Sam was doing.
He grinned, not fazed by the fact that he was leaving bloody hand prints all over Annabella's white Sunday dress.
The Faes squealed right with her when he lifted her up, up to the sky and spun around. He knew the ravens and the owls sitting up on the tree branches would appreciate him showing them a child that was so pure, he could see her soul glitter amber.
Like Ruby's eyes often did.
He brought Annabella to the Herd. He hadn't seen them since he had to drag his dad away from them years ago. They were still the same; huge, colorful, strong, beautiful. Magic and magnetic and Annabella cried.
She cried like rain in the summer; big, fat drops running down her freckly cheeks, her amber soul shining dark orange all around her. She'd wailed since he'd carried Ruby's body back to the cottage and placed her on the kitchen table. Same one she'd healed him on, the scratches his fingernails had caused when he'd fought against the strong hands of his brother holding him down still present. A reminder of what had been and what had almost happened to him. Annabella had run to the still body of her mother, her face already scrunched up seconds away from crying. He'd snagged her up into his arms before she could touch her mom and get herself soaked with blood. She had fought him, small fists hitting his back, but he'd just turned her away from her mom and rocked her to sleep sitting in the middle of the small kitchen.
Anabella never said anything about hearing him cry either. The sadness ran between them like a river, strong current and pure waters.
Being eight at the time, she knew about death. She knew what happened when someone breathed out the very last breath. In the Land where vicious illness took a life every few weeks, it would be strange if she didn't. Knew Death himself as he often brought her daisies and violets so she could put in her hair. For her, death was normal, something that happened, but seeing her mother's bloody and stiff body rocked her world on its heels anyway.
They had no one that would take Annabella in, no one that would take care of her so he took her to the Herd. Put her in front of himself on Impala and they rode through the rotten forest where they both had to cover their ears to not hear the suffering of the trees, rode through the vast sandy desert where they had to pretend not to see skeletons of long dead rodents. Rode up the mountain, across the big pebbles that made Impala's legs buckle, but she was a strong filly now, and she made it to the caves where the Herd were all there, waiting for them to arrive.
The youngest of them greeted Anabella as if she was her sister and the oldest of them as if she was his daughter.
She cried into his neck, hot tears sliding down his skin, making him shiver. Her fingers were holding tight on his shirt, bunching up the fabric that would forever remain wrinkled. He didn't want to let her go either, the past three years had been something that had opened his eyes and his mind to something extraordinary, electrifying, but he needed to let her go.
Ruby's body was ashes scattered around her cottage, the Witch of the Land was dead and Annabella needed to be brought up with the knowledge of witchery if she'd ever do her title justice. And the Herd was where she needed to be; they'd be able to teach her more than Ruby'd been able to, more than Dean even could.
"Annabella, c'mon," he stroked a strand of red curly hair, the only one she had among all the black, "sweetheart, make your mommy proud, hmm?"
"Dean, no." she whispered between sobs that shook her entire body and gripped him tighter, making him hiss when her knuckles touched a big purple bruise on his back.
"Annie Bee, come on. C'mon, let go of me, c'mon."
He carefully pried her off his body, ignoring how she cried out when her fingers got twisted in the flannel of his shirt – he hoped she didn't sprain a finger – and slid her down his chest to put her feet on the sandy ground.
"Make mommy proud and stay here. Learn."
"No!"
She was almost around his neck again when long, thick and sharp teeth grabbed the back of her dark green dress and lifted her high up into the air. She screamed and flailed her arms and legs, but he knew she wouldn't fall. Or be released. Or in any way hurt.
"Behave, Annabella!"
He yelled at her and she stilled as if he'd killed her dead.
In a way, he'd killed himself. He'd miss the little rugrat. But this was the only way.
He turned around and rode back off the mountain, thinking thank you, Sammy all the way back to Ruby's cottage to gather his things.
He'd ride out in the morning.
He patted Impala's flank and whispered: "We've got work to do, baby."
- CHAPTER 3 -
Five fucking years and nothing had changed. It'd been five damn years since he'd left the Land to travel on its edges, explore it and try to find out what it was that tarnished it so. What made it become so weak, riddled with tiny holes and cracks. Maybe it had been the Plague, burning the thin veil with its vileness, its rotten interior and foul exterior. Maybe.
The area near the border wasn't safe; it was filled with soldiers and merchants, mercenaries and clergy … and the Plague. All of them were foul people, maliciousness in all of their eyes, the desire for blood and death hidden like dirt under their skin and yellow tar between their teeth. They itched to step across the border, settle and spread evil over his Land, over something that had once been stunningly beautiful – as stories told – and full of life.
They wanted to spread evil.
Danger.
Disease.
Death.
Of course Death frowned whenever he'd asked him why he let anyone cross the border anyway. The answer had always been the same and it was annoying and frustrating and made him want to stab his sword through the man's wicked heart. Before Death could stab him with his scythe, Annabella intervened by taking Death's hand and making the old man go violet-hunting with her.
Those were memories that kept him going, kept him alive and often times made a smile appear on his lips.
But still, memories or not, the border was filled with violent people and every time one of them managed to cross the line from this side to the other side, the Inquisitors got themselves work.
More work for Sam. More torture for Sam to deliver, more blood to soak into his hands. More pain to tarnish his soul.
He tried so hard to lessen all that, to help his brother, but the border was too vast, spreading around the whole of the Land and it was just too long. He did the best he could, hunted down as much as he could, didn't pay attention what status the person had, paid no attention if it was a man or a woman. Old or young.
They could all be carriers of the Plague; carriers of his Land's downfall.
He couldn't have that.
So he hunted.
If he pressed his palm on the shimmering, swaying bubble that he saw as the border, he could feel ripples on the surface, actually felt whenever something alive breached the line and sneaked into the Land. It always made his heart stutter and hatred fill his veins. Carriers.
Sometimes when he rode near the bubble he wondered if these people here even knew they were sick. No one looked ill really. People here weren't dying like in his Land. People on this side were healthy and wealthy and didn't even have titles or statuses. They were just people, going to work and back home. When he'd first come here it was unbelievable for him to perceive just how different the two lands were. People here didn't even know of magic and that was a surprise that he still, even after five years, couldn't shake. They worshiped different Gods, didn't respect the soil or the vegetation, polluted the rivers, killed animals … these people were savages.
And such differences between the lands just cemented his belief that the lands weren't meant to mix.
It had been how the Plague had come to existence. Mixing of the lands, mixing of the genes, breeding between people who shouldn't breed.
Disaster.
Chaos.
Not love. Not survival. Not passion.
When those three stopped burning and died down, all that was left was disease and illness and death.
Murder, one could call it.
The border was guarded by people like him. People who had no one and nowhere to go or be, nothing to do. People who were nothing and had nothing to lose if something should happen to them.
There were no titles here, no statuses. The Border Guards were all equal, past erased in a desire to not be judged. No questions about why one was here, no questions about what one was doing. They were just people protecting their Land, hunting down whoever or whatever would dare step across it.
He wouldn't call it friendship or trust that ran among them all. No, it wasn't that. It was solitude among the same.
And he was good at being alone. He was good at belonging to no one but himself. He was good at being good, he was better than the best.
He was Dean Winchester, the Hunter, taught by John Winchester, the Hunter and Ruby, the Witch. He was the brother of Sam Winchester, Grand Master Inquisitor, son of Mary Winchester, the Master Inquisitor.
He needed to go back home. He needed … he needed his brother. The need, the want hit him out of the blue. Like a lighting zapped through him and he leaned harder on his sword's handle to push it deeper into a merchant who'd tried to cross the border. The man's eyes bulged out of their sockets and his heart slowly stopped under his sword when the thought of Sam entered his mind.
Just that.
Sam.
It was weird watching the man's light be snuffed from his eyes while being overcome with … Sam.
It was like a punch to the gut and it made him release the handle and stagger backwards.
He'd been having dreams lately of what had happened eight years ago. They were memories and flashes of seeing his baby brother and how he'd grown … of feeling his hands on him, of feeling Sam's breath on his skin, of hearing his brother's voice whisper to him that everything would be all right, of having his baby brother carry him to Ruby and healing him … he needed to see Sam.
He needed it. The feeling wasn't rational, it wasn't sane, it was probably something he would regret and have his heart split apart, but he needed it. It was a thought that had been festering in his mind ever since his dreams became all about his brother. Sure he'd been feverish, the pain making him see everything in a blur, hazy images and misshaped figures, but the way Sam had looked that day was imprinted in his mind and that image invaded his dreams about a week ago and got stuck there.
He needed to see Sam. He needed to touch him. Speak to him without fever and blood making his words slurred and his thoughts insane.
He pulled his sword out of the man with a squelch of blood, saddled Impala, hit her flanks with his heels and galloped straight through the border, knowing that the bubbly substance would allow him to enter, as he was the Land's child. It was his birth right, and that right would heal the spot where he burst the bubble. He knew the people he'd been protecting the border with would try to hunt him down and kill him, but he didn't care.
Sam was more important. The Land was more important.
He wasn't friends with the other Border Guards. They were just people sharing the need to not be seen.
He ducked sharp arrows and fought another rider that came alongside Impala's left flank, with his sword, finally cutting the man's head off when he stopped Impala too fast, while the man galloped on.
A trick Ruby taught him.
Ruby, the Witch.
He wondered what Annie Bee was doing. She was … thirteen … now.
So that would mean that he was twenty-nine and Sam was twenty-five.
Time passed fast when one was protecting the Land. When one was hiding in the shadows, exploring and learning. When one was trying to help his little brother by killing as many sons of bitches who tried to cross the border.
He pressed his heels deeper into Impala's sides and she picked up speed, almost making him choke on the fast moving air that rushed into his mouth. He brought up a scarf from around his neck, hiding his mouth and nose with it. He needed to keep his mouth empty of flies and an occasional pixie.
Five years were enough of being away from the only person whose blood was the same red as his.
Five years were enough of missing, as the heart could only take so much.
He leaned down, all but lying on Impala's broad back, loosened the reigns and allowed the sound of his cloak fluttering in the wind and Impala's hooves hitting the ground to carry him home.
The cottage was just as he remembered; open fireplace on the wall opposite the front door, a door to the sleeping rooms on the left, a small window on the right, a wooden table with four chairs right in front of him.
Small, delicate and his home. He'd spent his childhood here, right here between these four stone and wooden walls, he'd watched Sammy play right in that corner under the window, he'd read to Sam sitting right there in a rocking chair standing in the other corner below the window. He'd eaten meals on that table, sat on those chairs, cooked over the fire in the fireplace.
He'd watched his father clean his guns and his knives sitting right at that table too, watched his dad's nose buried in his journal with only one candle lightning the words and sketches.
He'd seen his dad die in the rocking chair.
The room looked like time had just skimmed it with its finger; covered with cobwebs, dust and dead insects whose tiny, dry bodies crunched beneath his boots as he made his way to the rocking chair.
He'd wait for his little brother there, rocking back and forth and enjoying the view outside. The window was dirty; mud and dried rain drops, bird poop and guts of flies making the trees outside a blurry, gray picture, but it was all right.
He'd wait, because what was a few minutes more in a sea of so many already?PART I _:_ PART III