That something was wrong was more than obvious now. The throbbing headache hadn't been much of an indication -- even though they had subsided in recent weeks, he had lived with them for many long months beforehand and had long since come to ignore them. The first real signs were a runny nose, but he had passed it off as a small cold, even if it was the middle of summer. Then he found his body aching and weak, so much that he had a hard time just standing up, making walking near impossible. It took him two days to travel what should have been a few hours' journey. A fever gripped him hard now and his entire body was flushed warm and he felt like he was walking on needles. Or stumbling, more precisely.



The residence he had taken up was a tiny cottage hidden amongst thick brush in the middle of the forest. Undoubtedly, it had been the residence of some human hermit long ago, and thus befitting for the fallen prince. There was no clearing around the stone house; the trees grew right up to the walls with branches and foilage obscuring many of the windows. He stumbled through the thickets, exhausted and dizzy. Really, he didn't know what it really mattered if he made it home; there was no one there to help, and if there had been, he wouldn't have gone there. It wasn't raining anymore, and he had lived so long out in the open that the shelter of a roof didn't really add much comfort. Still, the thought of a bed was nice, even if it would still probably feel like lying on needles.



Laruku leaned against a tree, breathing hard. It was mid-morning, and the brightness of the sun was killing him. His vision shifted precariously and he couldn't focus on anything for more than a few seconds before the hammering in his temples berated him for it. The door to the cottage was only a few steps away. As he took another step, something sharp seemed to seize his skull and shake it, rattling everything that was inside. A muffled whine escaped his lips and he fell to the ground, muscles twitching as his hands reached for his head. The thought of wanting to die had come to him many times in the past, but this was first time the reason had been physical pain.

     In one day, the world could change. Ahren had known that long before now, long before he had become what he was now. He had met Hollow’s son in a ragged, run down toy store, and set the boy in motion. There was no justification for such an act, but he felt that someone else had to take a stand. Someone had to do something he couldn’t do, not yet, not ever again. Then, wonder of wonders, his son had contracted some sickness that made him weak and mad. Ahren had dragged him to the place he called home, explained the situation and left knowing he could no longer abandon the boy. Not in the condition he was in. Not while that sickness was in his blood.
     So he had returned, and begun to gather up what small things he had. It wasn’t much—Ahren carried his life with him. It was here though, that the scent came again. A sickly sweet thing, like wilting flowers. The hair along his spine rose. He had left the crossbow with the strange pack and carried only the knife and the army back on his back. Slowly, cautiously, he followed the scent. It began to mingle with Laruku’s and it was only then that Ahren realized with terrible certainty that the same disease in his son was now in his best friend (lover? He didn’t know what they were) and it would kill him slowly, as it was trying to do with Jasper.
     Then all too suddenly he saw him, writhing on the ground, and his breath caught in his throat. Ahren rushed forward, dropped to a squat, and put one hand on his companion’s back. “Hey, it’s okay, I’m here, it’s okay,” he said, just managing to keep the worry out of his voice.

Maybe he should have predicted it. After all, the last time he had thought he had found some quiet sort of peace in the world -- the last time he had thought he was really progressing what might be called "okay," the world had fallen apart as well. Trembling there on the ground then, he found himself thinking that he was grateful that it was something so simple this time, that it was just a disease that would likely kill him, rather than a disease that would have him kill others. He had seen the brink of death before; since the fire, his desire for it had diminished somewhat, along with his fear of it. He almost thought he could meet it with some vague semblance of dignity. But those coherent thoughts and musings gradually eroded as the pain intensified.



He was salivating heavily and half-gone from pain by the time Ahren arrived. Laruku recoiled horribly at his touch, feeling fire and spears; his feverish body had become too sensitive, and everything felt like knives. Get away... from me. A half-whisper, a half-growl. A demon in his head was not contagious, but whatever virus gripped him now surely was. His mouth and throat felt dry, but he could feel the drool clinging to his teeth and lips. Get away from me, he managed again, somewhat louder, more delirious sounding. He tried to crawl away though his limbs felt numb and distant. His awareness of the world seemed to come and go. Maybe he knew he wasn't strong enough to get away or to keep Ahren from him if the other really wanted to approach, but he knew even better that he couldn't bear to have anyone else he cared about hurt because of him. The guilt would be the most potent poison of all.

     A long time ago, Ahren had accepted that he was going to die. He had realized this with quiet clarity, and he had been terrified of the thought. Since that time, though, a gentle peace with the matter had washed over him. Several times over he had nearly died, through fool-hardy accidents and his own addictions. His desire to lose feeling was not the same as dying, though a philosopher might argue such. In some small way, he had lost feeling—but what he had lost was the sympathy that kept most men from becoming psychopaths and serial killers.

     He had traded one rush for another. “Shut up,” he hissed, grabbing the hybrid under his armpits and hoisting him up. As delirious as Laruku was, Ahren was pretty certain he would not fight back. If he did, well, then they would both be in trouble. Still, Ahren knew that there was something terribly wrong and he could not treat this. “I’m going to get you help.”

Laruku had never lost his conscience. Even when it seemed like he had, even when he wanted more than anything to be released from it and to go complete crazy, the guilt hung over him like the sky. When the sky fell, he was still surrounded by it; glass pieces stabbed into him when he walked and he could see his reflection in every fragment. When he isolated his thoughts and emotions, when he buried them behind walls and ghosts and monsters, the guilt remained and was his only solace from the taunting laughter. The guilt was his only testament towards sanity and what he felt to be his only salvation. Perhaps it was the sliver of his mother that had yet retained. It was a double-edged sword of course. The guilt would likely kill him someday, if this physical poison did not.



He wanted to thrash out; he wanted to forcibly push Ahren away, but the idea of drawing blood, of reaching out to touch him, of dirtying him, of infesting him, was more terrifying than anything else. The hybrid believed in others in place of himself, and he believed that Ahren would do everything he could to try and save him, out of friendship, perhaps, or out of obligation. Fighting him would only hurt them both. His logic and reasoning faded with every touch -- it was fire -- but so did his strength. He couldn't fight back even if he wanted, so hung limp in the other's grasp, arms like lead. Besides, Ahren, like Gabriel, was heavier and more muscular than he. What can you do? he didn't remember asking.

     No excuses, no apologies, no regrets. He had lived by that once, and perhaps he would be able to live by that again. Ahren felt no guilt for the terrible things he had done. He knew what he was doing. He had known all along, even if the path was covered in gasoline and blood. It was going to drive him to madness, if he was not all ready there. A crooked grin crossed his face at the question, and he let out a half-laugh, something full of desperation. “Get you help,” he said lowly. Lord knew that Laruku, of all people, needed that.
     He moved and hooked Laruku’s arms over his shoulder, and then managed to get the hybrid onto his back. When he had done this with Jasper earlier, it had been much easier—his son was smaller and lighter, and so out of it he could barely move. The heat radiating from the hybrid was like a living fire. Cautiously, Ahren began to move, doing his best to take an easy trail that would cause less strain on himself and the scarred man on his back.

They were moving. He was being carried. He immediately disagreed with the plan. The saliva dripped slowly from his jaws, but it was there. With his head pressed against the other man's back, he could hear both of their heartbeats. Of course, they did not match. His own was a thunderbird, quick and panicked, pumping too much blood through his body too quickly, perpetuating the disease and rising the temperature of his body. The wolf's, though quicker than normal, was significantly calmer, steadier, and more regular. It was strangely comforting and confused him because there was no reason to be comforted by anything that was happening at the moment.



You're going to catch it, he whispered sadly, wiping something from his mouth and trying to rub it away on his own body. He couldn't really feel his arm when he moved it. His brain prickled, like all of the needles that had been attacking him before had converged to one point. I don't want you to die. A child's words and a child's plea, but really, that's all he'd ever been.

     “No I’m not,” he said, more to reassure Laruku then himself. He had been diseased before, been through hell and back, tortured by his own body for reasons few knew. A chunk of his hair fell into his face and his jaw opened, panting heavily as they moved along. The heat from the hybrid was much worse then the now cooling air. It was past twilight now, and breezy. It was going to rain. More then likely, they would be caught in it before he made the few-hour long hike back to where his son was.
     He kept walking with the stubborn determination which had driven him to the point he was now. “They didn’t kill me, the dragon didn’t kill me, no disease is gonna kill me.”

He didn't believe him, but didn't question it verbally. Plenty of men fell to the forces they had always triumphed over previously; that was why they fell in the end. No one could stay immune forever; it was arrogant and admirable to think the contrary all at once though. His temperature only seemed to rise, but the cooling evening air felt like ice against his back and for a moment, he felt as if his fingers were frostbitten. Where're we going? he wondered. His voice had become a strained whisper against his friend's ear.



Time went by, but he didn't notice. The sunlight was out of his eyes now, at least, and he felt better. Let me walk, the hybrid mumbled, I can walk. He wasn't entirely sure of this claim, but was suddenly aware again of how much strain he was causing the other. He'd never wanted to be a burden, to anyone. Self-reliance. He'd never wanted to depend on anyone either; no, that only led to sad stories and sunsets and fires that smoldered with endless smoke.

     Ahren shook his hair from his face, but it fell back in a heap. “Esper Hollow. Jasper has the same thing you do and they can help. We’ll get you guys better.” Somehow. Somehow they would get them better and everything would work out. If not, Ahren didn’t know what he would do. Lose his mind, probably. Let that rabid dog off the leash. He paused, gave Laruku a hoist, and readjusted the weight. He would make it. He had to make it.
     “Shut up,” he said sharply, continuing on. In a few hours, they would be there. Long after the moon rose high and distant, uncaring stars came to light the way.

He obliged to quiet without argument, forgetting a moment what his request had been to begin with. His memory had been poor for months, perhaps a year or more; the virus was not helping it. His mind was a buzz with sounds that were not really sounds; his heart beat at twice the rate of his companions in a strange, irregular rhythm, lulling him into some drowsy half-consciousness. But he didn't want to sleep, for whatever reason. An escapist that didn't want to dream.



Are you okay? he wondered vaguely. The longer they went, the less differences there seemed to be in the pair of thudding hearts he was listening to. His was slowing; the seizure had subsided for the while. Ahren's was speeding, likely from overexertion. The night wore on.

     They had gone maybe a third of the way now. Ahren didn’t know anymore. He kept staring at the road ahead of him and his feet, conscious of his breathing shortening and his heart pounding. Between the overexertion and his bad lungs, he would be lucky if they made it back to Esper Hollow in one piece. It was Laruku who seemed to sense this, and Ahren nodded. “I’m okay,” he lied, panting heavily. Of all the things he did not want to do, stopping was one of them. If he stopped now, he would lose time. Time was the only thing keeping the infected males alive.

It was a lie, though he was surprised at how sure he was of that. Lies were a part of life, and the obligatory deceptions did not burn so deep anymore. He pulled a limp arm up to use as a buffer between his muzzle and his friend's back and nuzzled it without thinking much. Laruku could see nothing in the night except himself and the ghosts in his head. The darkness was a mirror, he'd told that man in the bookstore. Had he been given a name? He couldn't remember. In the darkness was a red-eyed beast with a thousand teeth. All the same, he was glad the sun was gone.



You carried Jasper too, didn't you, he said, piping up at odd intervals as they ventured on. Awareness of his own consciousness came in the same odd intervals. He did not want to sleep. I'm sorry, he told the other. We're almost there. It wasn't something he could know. Laruku had no idea where Esper Hollow was; hell, he'd already forgotten the name of the pack and the fact that it was their destination. We're almost there.

     There was a solid, singular purpose in his walk. It drove him along despite the fire in his lungs and the battery acid in his legs.
“Yeah,” he said, keeping his eyes locked ahead. Laruku kept talking, and Ahren knew that he was delirious. Hopefully he would not see the demons or the terrible things that Ahren had when on drugs; sometimes, even when not. Hopefully he would see nothing but the darkness around them, and the darkness would be quiet and soothing.
“Yeah, we’re almost there,” he said quietly.
“We’re almost there.”