Somewhere in Germany. 19XX. New Years Eve.

Breath hitching in his chest, the man woke to the sound of drums.

It had snapped him from his half-conscious daze. A banging sound. Wood against wood. Metal against metal. Aching, throbbing against his skull.

Grumbling and rolling his sandpaper tongue, he managed to open an eye to look around him.

There was no light in the cabin now. The trembling limbs of trees scraped noisily against windows and cast grotesque outlines lines onto the floor. Wind whistled through the various holes in the wooden walls, uprooting years old dust and dirt in its path. Then there was that damned sound of drums, a consistent noise coming from somewhere nearby.

Eyes shifting languidly in his skull, he observed the rest of the desolate lot. The fireplace was dead, spindly logs black and cold. The round, plain rug by his settee had been torn in half and, upon further inspection, he found his small bed and bookshelf had been thrown and overturned, downy feathers from his pillows fluttering across the floor.

All in all, a complete and utter disaster.

With a single eye still open, it took the man a few moments to observe how strangely tall everything had gotten since he was unconscious.

It only took him a few moments more to realize that the growth was not miraculous and he was simply laying flat on the floor.

Face pressed against the floorboards, the man was sprawled akimbo, arms and legs bent at odd, uncomfortable angles. The top of his head, he noted with a start, was facing the only entryway, the door to his cabin banging wildly on its rusted hinges.

The sound. The drums.

Indeed, a wind rushed through the rectangular opening, swinging the door back and forward and ushering a small drift of fallen snow over the threshold.

Humming under his breath, he began to rise to close it.

The bit of movement, however, brought him down to his stomach again, gasping.

A sharp, fresh pain shot down his spine, followed by the stinging sensation of reopened wounds.

The man screamed into his clenched fist, exposed back burning with the chill wind through the door. He shivered violently at his lack of shirt, hand gracing over a torn and bloodied remnant of his dark winter coat.

He had to close the door. He had to.

But the man found he simply couldn't move, a gurgling whimper filling his mouth as his limbs protested to push him up to stand.

It was too much. Too much.

And, shaking, he laid his head down once again, his sweat lined brow sticking heavily to cold floorboard.

The man stared into the darkness and sighed.

He knew it would come for him eventually, that creeping figure of Death.

He had expected it sooner, really. Out on a mission, in the middle of crossfire, by the bare hands of another.

Late in the game for a man of his occupation.

He had been lucky.

He mused over the past months as a few flakes landed in his salt and pepper hair.

Of all places in the world and all things I could've died from, this is a bit pathetic.

Hypothermia. Trauma. Sheer stupidity.

Closing his eyes, he waited for the end to come, for the slow approach of a hooded form to sweep him off the ground and carry him out that pounding door.

Then, as quickly as it started, it all stopped.

The wind. The banging. The painful chill in his spine.

A presence made itself known in the house, feet brushing across the creaking floorboards, creeping closer.

He inwardly groaned, body shifting in a hopeless attempt to rise.

Not him.

Not again.

A voice, silky and warm, spoke his name. A hand pressed firmly on his shoulder, managing to push him back down at the slightest touch.

The man expected the worst — for teeth and claws to bite and tear at his exposed, vulnerable flesh.

It never came.

Instead, he was surprised to find a pair of gentle hands tracing the wounds on his spine, feeling along the piercing gashes that tore through his coat and back. He flinched under the touch and the voice spoke to him again, tone suddenly urgent. The man strained to hear it as his body grew heavier against the dusty floorboards, ears stuffing with freshly picked cotton.

And like many things on that lonely winter night, he found that this was quickly falling beyond his control.

He was sinking into that darkness and away from the desolate cabin, the biting cold, and the hands pressing against his wounds.

And for the first time in his fading life, he willingly fell in.