(I've uploaded this to my Tumblr, Shaedero, as well)

To any followers of my GF fic: I apologize for the delay between chapters; depression has been hitting hard and I need some time to get out new ideas and relax. I will continue publishing soon, so thanks for the patience :)

*Contains spoilers*

It all began with an alarming crack.

The large cavern they had been standing in was beautiful. Huge trees were scattered around, vines and leaves tangling together to create a canopy that circled the clearing in the middle. Its high, arched ceiling would have sentenced the cavern to eternal darkness if it weren't for the large hole set in the centre. Sunlight cast through it and onto the packed dirt of the clearing below, illuminating the surroundings and, unfortunately, the large, thrashing monstrosity that the duo now faced.

The creature drew back one of its tentacles and whipped it downward, seeking to smash the two flat. Its movements had grown sluggish throughout the course of the battle as exhaustion weighed down on it. The only thing that kept it fighting was the malevolent, twisting ball of hatred that burned in its gut. It had been created by dark human emotions, and now it had to be defeated. The tentacle crashed down to where they had previously been standing. Diving to each side, they then bounced upright, ready to deliver a counter attack.

One, a tall, slim man with shaggy brown hair, round spectacles and a long overcoat drew back his hand and summoned a Folk to assist him in battle. It manifested around him, sharp blades copying his movements as he rushed forward and hacked the tentacles clean off. It screeched with rage, causing the whole cavern to shudder as it thrashed about.

"Now, Ellen!" He yelled to his partner. "It's slowing down!" He dove to the side as a large rock came hurtling towards him, falling from the trembling ceiling.

"A little busy here!" Came the strained reply. She was fending off multiple tentacles at once with her own Folk, one that formed a shield before her and deflected oncoming blows. Gasping for breath, her energy was already mostly used up in the long, arduous fight. This Folklore had proven to be the most challenging one yet. Her long blond hair, tied in a braid, lashed behind her in the movement, the dark lapels of her coat flapping. As the tentacles paused the assault to redouble their efforts, she quickly dismissed her shielding Folk and summoned another. As the thing's appendages whipped toward her, she made a cutting gesture with her hand. The Folk slashed the tentacles before they could reach her, severing them completely.

The creature shrieked as a glowing, translucent version of itself appeared above it, revealing its near defeat. Once again the cavern shook in its wrath and the ceiling, already beginning to fall apart, now rained huge chunks of rock. The entire thing began to creak and groan, and Ellen stumbled as the ground shook beneath her feet.

Desperately, she threw out a hand toward the creature, hoping to absorb its Id before it was too late. A beam of energy erupted from her palm, meeting the glowing form, and she began to pull. It fought against her, refusing to be separated. Ellen struggled and yanked, but her energy was fading. Her vision began to flicker, and she could just barely stumble out of the way as boulders crashed around her. She bit her lip, drawing blood. Just a little more...

A hand grasped her shoulder, its owner appearing beside her. Ellen glanced up to see her friend, his round glasses reflecting light nonchalantly.

She sighed in relief. "Keats..."

He had a smirk on his face, one reserved for dangerous situations, and held out a hand.

Energy returned to Ellen's limbs as they pooled their strength together. The creature, as resistant as it was, couldn't hold up against the combined power of Keats' and Ellen's onslaught. As more rocks rained down on them, Keats summoned a Folk to act as a shield above, allowing them to focus on the task at hand.

They were nearly there when suddenly a particularly loud crack resounded throughout the cavern. Everything seemed to pause as they looked to their feet. A jagged line split the ground, arching across the floor like a bolt of lightning, right under their boots. With a loud groan and a shudder, the ground broke open. A scream from Ellen and a startled yell from Keats, the two toppled into the abyss.

Ellen, through all the terror, managed to right herself as she fell, glancing up through the jagged hole above them. She gave one final, desperate tug on the creature's soul, feeling it come free and be absorbed. She closed her eyes as dirt and debris floated around them, and they plunged into darkness.

Ellen's eyes fluttered open weakly. Coarse, yellow-green grass occupied her vision, swaying gently in the breeze. Birdsong met her ears, and she was lying curled up on something soft.

Wait. She was outside?

Pain laced through her skull, her neck was stiff and sore. Refusing to lift her head, she moved her gaze downward. A large blot of purple filled her vision. She frowned. Her brain was too tired to comprehend much of anything right now, and whatever this was supposed to be certainly wasn't helping.

She settled for closing her eyes, allowing the pain of her sore muscles to wash over her before beginning to fade away. Easing her position so it was more comfortable, she found a conveniently placed soft thing to rest her head on. Sighing in relief, she reflected dimly on what had just transpired.

She and Keats rarely worked together in the Netherworld. They usually settled for gathering information of the same subject separately then comparing notes afterward. However, the particular Folklore they'd just encountered was known for its extra-malevolent behaviour, so they'd agreed to team up and take it down. And they'd succeeded, more or less. This Netherworld would be happy to know it'd been rid of that menace. Sure, the sacred cavern it'd been housed in was now a complete wreck, but at least the threat was gone. Not only that, but she was glad to have worked closely together with Keats for once, even if he could be rather cold and sardonic at times. It was valuable for him to actually spend time with other humans instead of sitting alone in his office, doing whatever it is one does when they write for a magazine that had stopped issuing for years. She feared he'd spend too much time alone and lose touch with others completely- something she refused to let happen. Ellen had made it a tradition; regularly barging into his office to "interrupt his work" when it was a special occasion or simply to make him tea. She always giggled at the baffled and slightly annoyed expression on his face whenever she did that.

Happy thoughts cycled through her somewhat delusional brain, seeming completely oblivious to where she was, what she was supposed to be doing, and, most importantly, the current location of Keats. Whatever it was that had hit her head succeeded quite spectacularly in flipping around her priorities.

She had almost decided to just go back to sleep when the thing she was lying on groaned and began to move. With a squeak she lifted her head, ignoring the pain in her neck, and realized what was under her.

Keats was sprawled out on his back, glasses askew, tie blown over his shoulder, purple overcoat spread out like a broken wing. Ellen lay draped across his legs, just above the knees, head resting on his arm from where it had previously hung over, making her neck sore. Sense and reason (as well as an avalanche of pain) finally returned, and she winced at the battered state of her body. She could only imagine how Keats felt, being used as a human cushion.

Keats' eyes flickered open as Ellen struggled upright, holding her head. Multiple expressions crossed his face as he beheld her, one after the other: grogginess, incomprehension, recognition, then confusion.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to get off you." With a final heave from her sore muscles, she pulled herself up and flopped down next to him. Now that her mind was in the right place, she was all too aware of the one word every part of her body seemed to be screaming:

"Ow."

"You said it," Keats muttered. He brought a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes.

Ellen pulled herself up to standing, stretching and groaning. She looked at Keats, who had only risen to a sitting position. Worried, she asked, "You didn't break anything, did you?"

"As soon as I get the feeling in my legs back, I'll let you know." He picked up his glasses and slid them on. A cut ran along one cheek, blood pooling and beginning to spill over.

Automatically, Ellen crouched down and reached out to examine it. Before her fingers could touch his face, Keats batted her hand aside. Ellen withdrew her arm, taken aback. Did I do something wrong? She thought, hurt. She knew he wasn't one for physical contact (or any contact for that matter), but she thought he'd at least let her examine a wound.

As if realizing that maybe his response hadn't been the kindest, Keats blinked at her crestfallen face, but didn't say anything. Clearing his throat, he began to rise unsteadily, shaking out his numb legs. "Well, to answer your question, nothing appears to be broken. Which is quite a feat if you consider the distance we fell," he said, gesturing above them. Ellen craned her neck to see.

It was like they'd fallen through a natural trash chute that had swept them away from the cavern and spit them out into the surrounding forest. The gaping hole was completely dark and seemed startlingly deep. It was all made of stone on the inside, but the outer surface appeared to be wrapped in tree bark. Another strange natural occurrence, courtesy of the Netherworld.

Ellen winced at the cold, craggy rock. "It certainly doesn't look pleasant."

"That's a sound enough observation," said Keats, who was now hopping up and down on the spot, trying to force the blood back into his legs. He cursed. "Exactly how heavy are you?"

Ellen stared at him. "That's not something a gentleman would ask a lady."

"Well, good thing I'm not a gentleman, then." He started walking unsteadily. "I'm a reporter. I don't waste much time on chivalrous nonsense."

Ellen giggled. "You know, it's hard to take you seriously when you're stumbling around like a drunk."

Keats sighed. "Oh, for crying out loud. Let's just get moving, all right? We've got to find out where we are."

Ellen beamed at him, walking alongside. "Of course, Sir Keats."

They were surrounded by towering trees with brown-green bark and thick, bountiful leaves. The little clearing they'd landed in quickly gave way to densely-packed forest, the leaves allowing little sunlight to reach the ground. The pair entered the woods cautiously, looking around for any hostile Folk. It was all very peaceful, with birds singing their merry tunes and animals minding their own business among the trees. Ellen took a deep breath. It was hard to feel worried in such a content atmosphere, but one question nagged at her. Why would this Netherworld be named something as unnerving as "the Black Forest"? Nothing was black, as far as she could see, and while the 'forest' part was accurate enough it didn't seem like a place warrant of such an ominous title. It wasn't as if people would die in it. Not without proper precautionary measures, anyway. She glanced at Keats, who was finally walking better. From his position slightly ahead of her, the light glinting off his round spectacles drew attention to the bird-like quality of his face. While he didn't seem very threatening usually, in battle it was another story. Ellen cringed at the thought of facing him in a fight, and was thankful that they were on the same side.

"By the way," Keats said suddenly, startling her. "Did you ever manage to get the Folklore's Id? It was a close call."

Ellen tugged at the sleeve of her cloak. "I did, yes. Just as we were falling. We are lucky to have survived that."

"Mmm. I just hope we don't face anything undesirable in here. We had an easy time getting to the Folklore thanks to that portal, but we haven't seen what the Folk are like in this Netherworld. If they're anywhere near as bad as that blasted creature we could be in trouble. We're not exactly up for another fight."

Ellen bit her lip. Keats was never one for looking on the bright side of things. He considered himself a pessimist, and made no attempt to sugar coat bad situations, even if it meant crushing hopes or hurting feelings. Blunt, upfront, practical. Keats in a nutshell.

They continued walking for a few moments in silence.

"Er, do you know where we're going, exactly?" asked Ellen. She felt horribly lost, and had no idea how to tell which way was which.

"I've got a pretty good idea," said Keats. "I think if we loop around this way we'll reach that portal we came out of. With the path leading to the cavern being a steep incline, we won't be able to get up like that, so we need to head directly to the portal, which should be in this direction." He pointed ahead of them.

With them being completely surrounded by trees and the bumpy ride they'd just suffered, Ellen had no idea how he knew which direction was which, but decided to trust his judgement. Blinking, she said, "Sounds good to me."

The trees began to thin out around them, forming a tunnel for them to walk through while remaining dense on either side. It was almost as if the forest were opening up for them, clearing a path. As they walked, Ellen noticed a subtle change in the atmosphere. The birds had stopped singing and a cool breeze had picked up, tugging at her cloak. She drew her arms around her, shivering. Slowly, yet much too quickly, her limbs began to grow heavy, as though she'd been walking for hours. Her eyelids drooped, her shoulders sagged. Strange, she thought. Even if I'm injured, I should be able to walk just fine.

Straightening, Ellen rubbed her eyes, then frowned at the trees around them. In the periphery of her vision, she noticed something shift behind the foliage. She turned to face it, but was met only with more trees.

"Keats?" She asked warily. "Are you, um, feeling okay?"

He turned to face her questioningly. "Other than the fact that I'm beat all to hell, I feel just fine. Why?"

Ellen shuddered. "I just...I don't know. Something feels wrong."

"Is it a Folk?"

"No, I...don't think so."

"Well, then, what's the issue? You're not getting tired already, are you?" His sharp words pierced her heart like a dagger.

Defiance flared. She was tired. In fact, she felt like she could collapse at any moment, the way her limbs felt like lead and how her feet ached. But she couldn't let Keats know, and have him belittle her for it. Straightening, she continued walking in silence. Whatever this was, she'd shake it off and keep moving. He merely raised an eyebrow, remaining silent.

But the fatigue only got worse. It was like a weight was pressing down on her, limiting her movements, making her breath come out in sharp gasps. Slower and slower her limbs moved as she fought to keep up, yet Keats walked on ahead of her, seeming completely unhindered. Frustrated, she attempted to quicken her pace.

Ellen was a defiant young woman. She was somewhat timid, sure, and she was always eager to please. But she wasn't stupid. She knew when enough was enough, when it was time to give in and call it quits on the whole I-won't-stop-if-you-don't-stop thing. Something unnatural was happening. She wasn't just tired, she was downright ready to drop dead with exhaustion- and it wasn't just from walking with a few bumps and bruises. Initially she thought it couldn't have been a Folk; who'd heard of a Folk that made people exhausted? Now she wasn't so sure.

Raising her head, she began to call Keats, who'd gone a few paces ahead, when a loud snap sounded behind her. Whirling around, she searched frantically for whatever had made the noise. She saw nothing.

Scowling, she rubbed her eyes again, hard. When she took her hands away, the sky had noticeably darkened, as if twilight had suddenly fallen upon them. The trees looked darker, shadows seemed to shift in the forest's depths. Startled, she turned back to face Keats. He had drawn much further ahead of her, fog gathering around his form as he walked, coat swishing behind him.

Panic gripped her. Crying out his name, she started forward, forcing her tired legs into a run. Her cry didn't reach him. A great many whispering voices pressed down on her ears, drowning out all other noises. Keats' silhouette shrank with distance as she ran toward him, as if she were being pulled back by an invisible force. Her heart hammered in her chest, sharp pain stabbed at her lungs. Darkness encircled her vision, creeping over her eyes like a veil until everything went black, a shrieking laughter ringing in her ears.

"Cecilia!" A kindly voice called the little girl's name. She turned, reluctantly putting the grand tea party on pause. She'd been just about to introduce Sir Teddy Ferguson to Miss Beanie Frizzle, and wasn't too pleased with the interruption.

"There's someone I'd like to introduce you to," the adult went on. His white lab coat gleamed in the evening light that filtered through the cloudy glass. His hand rested on the shoulder of a boy in a blue and red uniform. A little older than she, he gazed at the floor, not meeting her eyes. His mouth was a thin line, downturned at the edges, a tired sadness present on his face.

All annoyance vanished, replacing itself with curiosity. Cecilia stood, dropping her toys, and inched closer. As taught by her long-absent mother, she curtseyed politely. "Hello, how do you do? My name is Cecilia," she recited dutifully.

The boy continued to stare downward.

"This is Herve," the adult intervened. "His family just arrived under...misfortunate circumstances. I do hope that you'll befriend him, my dear?"

Cecilia nodded, smiling. There weren't any other children in Doolin, and while this one seemed a little odd she welcomed a new friend.

She approached hesitantly and tugged at his sleeve. "Do you want to play outside?"

He said nothing.

Cecilia paused, biting her lip. "Do you...not want to play outside?"

Again, nothing.

She smiled. "Well, in that case..."

The memory flickered and faded. Ellen coughed, gasping for air, eyes struggling open. Colours swam before her vision, then went black once again.

"Herve, wait!" Cecilia cried.

"No," the boy said angrily. He stalked along the path heading toward the church.

"Why are you always like this? I just wanted to play a game with you!" She struggled to keep up with his long strides.

"I told you, I don't want to play a game! Now leave me alone!"

Cecilia flinched, slowing until she came to a stop. She watched Herve enter the church, shutting the door quietly behind him, as slamming wasn't in his nature. It hurt all the same.

Sighing, she looked down sadly at the little doll clutched in her hand. It gazed back at her, emotionless. Tears began to form in her eyes, loneliness gripping her heart.

Ellen gasped, snapping her eyes open, forcing herself to focus on something before she fell into another memory. Her breath hitched in her throat at what she saw.

The forest had completely changed. The trees surrounding her were black, the leaves as red as blood. Thorns rose from the purplish grass in menacing patterns, ready to tear anything they touched to shreds. A red moon shone down on her from its place in the inky black sky, wisps of cloud floating across it. Fog crept through the foliage, blanketing the area in a hazy white mist.

She was collapsed like a limp ragdoll against a tree trunk, unable to move. In front of her, framed by trees and thorns, floated what looked like a child- but not quite. It had skin that was made of wood, glowing yellow eyes and clothes fashioned from leaves. A wicked grin was stretched across its face, a sound of rustling leaves and tinkling wood chimes filled the air.

"Lonely little Cecilia...things aren't much different now, are they?"

Ellen stared at the thing, searching for her voice. "Who...what are you?" She managed.

"You've always been such a nuisance to others, haven't you? Even as a child no one wanted to play with you."

"Tell me what you are!"

"Nothing has changed. You're just as lonely as you were before."

"Answer me!"

The thing spit in frustration. "Oh, very bloody well, if you're so persistent!" It snapped. Pausing, it took a moment to glare at her, eyes burning evilly. Finally, it spoke again. "I am what your kind calls a 'Folk'."

Ellen scowled. "I already knew that. I meant, what is your name?"

It growled. "I don't have a name! Now, let me-"

"What do you do?"

The thing shrieked in frustration. "So many questions! Just let me eat your soul already, would you?"

Ellen blinked. As amazed as she was at discovering a Folk that possessed the capability of speech, she was having trouble taking this little brat seriously. "So...you lure people into the woods and take their souls?"

It sighed impatiently. "People, not so much. Mostly it's just the memories of the dead- not much of a meal there- but every now and then a real live Messenger comes along." It grinned wickedly at her.

The same weight from before began to press down on Ellen, forcing her back against the tree trunk. She shook her head to clear it, attempting to speak again. "Where's...Keats?"

Her question seemed to amuse it. "Oh, your little 'friend'? Last I saw he was walking away, completely oblivious to your plight. Hm...no, oblivious isn't the right word. I'd go closer to unsympathetic."

Ellen's stomach sank. Sure, he hadn't been paying much attention, but...

Anger surged. She wasn't a child! What did this thing take her for? She didn't need someone looking after her all the time, least of all Keats.

She decided to change the subject. "What do you gain by absorbing souls?"

A miniature shockwave erupted from its form as it hissed furiously. The branches of nearby trees snapped, a frigid wind whipped against her. "Everything! This burning hunger will be sated, this weak form will grow stronger, and there will be one less evil human crossing into our realm for good. Now, I think you've kept me talking long enough." Its form rippled as it blurred ahead, stopping a few feet from where she sat.

An overwhelming despair descended upon Ellen as she struggled to move. This thing was unlike any other Folk she'd ever encountered, and it was dangerous- even more so than the Folklore. She had to escape or she'd surely die.

It took a step closer. At once, millions of little stabbing pains filled her brain. She cried out, pressing her hands to her temples. More bad memories flickered through her head; times she had been left out, been yelled at, or felt completely alone. Their negative emotions hung over her like a cloud, sapping away her energy and leaving her weak. The Folk had entered her mind, accessing the most private aspects of her being- her memories, relationships, feelings. The creature held it in an iron grip, refusing to let her wriggle free. The world faded.

The gossiping of hushed women's voices filled her head:

"The boy certainly has an icy outlook on life, doesn't he?"

"Who can blame him? He's sick, after all. Has been from birth."

"Hmm...they can't find a cure in the big city? And they're desperate enough to look even here?"

"That seems to be the case. My husband says the boy only has a year left, at most."

"The poor child..."

Silence.

"What about that Cecilia girl? She's tried befriending him. Any luck in having him open up a little?"

"None so far. She says he's afraid."

"Well, I suppose it's to be expected, if he's really that sick."

"That's the thing...he seems to not pay much attention to his illness. Cecilia says it's something else, but doesn't know what."

"Really? What else could it be?"

"Who knows? I suppose we'll just have to wait and see."

The voices faded.

"Nothing has changed since you were Cecilia," it hissed. "Your mother was never around, the rest of the adults never bothered with you. Not even Herve would play with you. It's all the same. You'd might as well just give up."

Ellen understood what it was doing. Through the pain and anguish it was causing, she knew that it was trying to get her to give up her soul and die willingly. It was picking at her insecurities, whittling away her self-worth until she felt as empty as a hollow shell.

Ellen tucked in her knees, jamming her forehead against them and refusing to look at the Folk standing before her. She wouldn't give up. "You're wrong," she said thickly. Attempting to block out the bad memories, she tried drawing up the good ones. But she couldn't. Only the bad remained. She had a vague sense that there were happy memories of Herve in there, but she couldn't find them.

Are they even actually there? She thought. Did I imagine them? Squeezing her eyes shut, she grit her teeth in pain.

It cackled. "Oh, defiant, aren't you? Trying to convince yourself? Herve never saw you as a friend...and here's a perfect example of how that hasn't changed."

An image of Keats flickered in her mind. The cut across his cheek, his hand knocking hers aside.

Her heart wavered. "But...Keats isn't Herve. Herve's dead. He's a separate person."

The thing laughed again. "Still in denial? You know, don't you? Keats is a Half-life born from your depiction of Herve as a grown-up. They're one and the same...and he doesn't like you at all. You remember what he said, how he brushed you aside without a second thought. He didn't pay attention to you at all. He just sees you as a helpless girl that's too nice for her own good...one that's not worth his time."

"No," Ellen whimpered. She was fading fast. Her whirling mind was collapsing with vile emotions, expelling any hope and good experiences from her memories.

She'd nearly been forced to give up when something wavered in the Folk's relentless mental onslaught.

"Eh?" It raised its head and squinted, looking into the trees.

The little gap in its offense allowed a small memory to leap forth in Ellen's mind, drawing her into it, blocking out everything else.

"Herve!" Cecilia bounded down the aisle of the empty church happily.

The boy in question, sitting on the front most pew, hunched his shoulders. "I don't want to play!" He called back, annoyed.

"It's not that! Mrs Lester's Loganberries are finally ready!"

He turned to face her, giving a confused look as she halted before him. She presented a handful of slightly squashed berries. "Here, try one!"

After much hesitation, Herve selected one and held it dubiously. "It looks like a raspberry."

Cecilia planted herself on the pew beside him. "Mrs Lester tells me they're a cross between blackberries and raspberries," she said excitedly. "Go on, try it!"

Herve stared at the fruit. It'd been freshly washed; tiny droplets of water clung to its surface and it gleamed a healthy red.

Cecilia watched him excitedly. She could tell his curiosity was overwhelming, and paid close attention as he popped the berry into his mouth.

He screwed up his eyes immediately as he chewed. "It's sour!"

She giggled. "Yeah, but isn't it good? They get sweeter the more you have." She nudged him. "Kinda like you, huh?"

He stared at her, dumbfounded. "How?"

She laughed at his expression. "Well, the more I talk to you the more I know you're not a mean person. Deep down, you're actually really nice. You just push people away 'cause you're afraid."

He frowned. "Afraid of what?"

She shrugged. "That's what I want to know!" She looked at him kindly. "Look...I know this village isn't much compared to where you came from, with tall buildings, a whole bunch of cars and...and a gazillion pigeons. But, everyone's nice here! We make each other happy when we're sad and play together when we're lonely. So don't feel like you have to be all grumpy by yourself all the time! I'm here for you, all right?"

Herve blinked at her, hands fiddling nervously with his sleeves. For once he didn't turn away, didn't scowl, didn't snap at her to leave him alone. He merely said, "You...you mean that?"

Cecilia smiled at him. "Of course! Let's be friends, okay?"

Ellen's consciousness returned to reality. She smiled softly. "You're wrong," she said again, this time stronger. "Herve was my friend."

The Folk's assault on her mind began to weaken, confusion ebbing away at its power. She'd found her footing, the loophole in the Folk's offense. She wouldn't let it beat her.

"But you're also right. Keats and Herve are the same person- more or less."

More confused thrashing, the dark emotions and memories fading from Ellen's mind. She opened her eyes and faced the creature defiantly. It was now looming over her, stick-like fingers reaching for her face.

"It was precisely because I was 'too nice' that Herve came around. And it's also why I put up with Keats, for all his flaws- and why he puts up with me for all of mine."

The Folk hissed in frustration. It'd met its match. "Why won't you just-" A noise within the trees drew its attention yet again, head snapping up to face the source.

Silence. Then an earth shattering boom as a figure exploded from the trees, rushing straight for the creature. The Folk shrieked as the newcomer grabbed it around the throat, lifting it into the air.

"Picking away at someone's insecurities until they're nothing, eh? And I thought the press was bad for that."

The Folk scrabbled at the massive hand enclosed around its neck before being hurled into the ground. Another shriek and the sound of breaking wood as the figure drove a fist into the thing's gut. The defeated Folk's Id emerged from its battered body, but the assault didn't stop. The newcomer picked the creature up again and drop kicked it, sending it hurtling into a tree trunk yards away. It shattered into pieces, falling dejectedly into the grass where it fizzled into a red vapour before fading away. The figure straightened, pure white hair gleaming in the red moonlight, purple markings running along his gray skin. He turned to face Ellen. His glowing purple eyes fixed on her as he took an earth-trembling step in her direction. The pressure from the Folk's power finally lifted and, unable to hold herself up any longer, Ellen collapsed into the grass. As her vision began to flicker and dim, a face appeared above her- pointy nose, long mop of brown hair and round spectacles betraying him.

Relief washed over Ellen as she managed a smile. "Boy, am I glad to see you," she murmured weakly, and blacked out.

Ellen opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, frowning. "Why here?"

She was lying on the clinic bed inside the church of Doolin, wrapped up in white sheets, a pillow propped under her head. Morning sunlight streamed through the stained glass window, illuminating the small room and a figure standing at the far side.

"Well, well, good morning and all that. Glad to see the Sleeping Beauty has finally returned to the rest of us mortals."

Keats stood in front of the stove, placing a kettle on the old burner. Flicking down the whistle cap, he strode over to the bed and sat on the end, a cynical smirk on his face. Donned in his usual white dress shirt and black waistcoat, a bandage covered the cut to his cheekbone, and he moved quite stiffly. "I'm not entirely sure why, to be honest," he said, answering her question. "After I carried your deadweight of a body all the way to the portal, it just spit us out here. I guess all Netherworlds really do lead to Doolin, the land of the dead."

Ellen blew out her cheeks. "No need to sound so ominous about it. Still, it's good to see Doolin again, spooky titles and all. Are the Half-lives still here?"

"Frizzie and Damona were all over me for not taking better care of you, if that answers your question," he said, smiling wryly. "They demanded I get Dr Lester in to see you and everything. He was quite happy to help out, anyway."

Ellen giggled. "That's good to hear."

They fell into silence. Ellen considered the events with the Folk, shivering at the memory of that grinning face and harsh words. "Keats...what was that thing?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. But it's gone now. At least one of them is, anyway. For all we know there could be an entire forest full of them in that Netherworld, waiting for more humans to come and-"

"Keats."

"Sorry."

More silence. "In any case, you have my sincerest thanks for rescuing me again," said Ellen. He had saved her life more times than she could count, and she had to be sure he knew how thankful she was for it.

Keats shook his head again, sighing. "There's no need to thank me. I should have listened when you said something was off. It won't happen again."

Ellen blinked. Never had she heard such sincere words out of this man, curt as they were, and nor did she expect to again. His sharp tongue had wounded her time and again, but this truly led her to believe that deep down he was capable of human emotion- if just a little.

An image of Herve flashed in her mind. She recalled the memories the Folk had revealed: Meeting Herve for the first time, his initial coldness, then his change of heart, opening up to her as the kind boy he really was.

Emotions swelled as she remembered fondly the times they used to play, the secrets they shared, the adventures that had awaited them. And now...

She turned to Keats, who was watching her with a slightly alarmed expression on his usually stoic face. Nothing ruffled his coolness quite like Ellen's fickle emotions.

Blinking back tears, she spread her arms.

Keats cleared his throat, beginning to move. "Well, that tea'll be ready any time now. It's a good one; nice and bitter-"

"Keats."

"..."

"..."

"Oh, very well."

She scooted closer and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. He patted her back awkwardly.

"Not so tight...I'm pretty sure I've got a cracked rib in there somewhere."

"Sorry." She loosened her grip.

They remained like that for a few moments, until a tinny whistle sounding from the other end of the room began to grow in volume. Keats extricated himself gratefully.

Ellen watched as he rushed over, pouring the boiling water and an herbal mix into a mug. He brought it over, handing it to her carefully. She thanked him and blew on it gently, sipping gingerly. She gagged at the bitterness, scrunching up her face. Finally managing to swallow she exclaimed, "You weren't kidding, this really is bitter!"

Keats shrugged. "You know what they say, the more bitter it is, the better it heals."

"What is it?" She asked, eyeing the cup suspiciously.

"Gentian root."

"Gentian root?" She'd heard tell of this powerful herb. It was capable of inflicting health issues rather than curing them if not used properly.

"Why the fuss? You seem to lose consciousness a lot, so it should help with that...among other things."

"What other things?"

"Well...you may want to hang around a toilet for the foreseeable future."

"Keats!"

"Kidding, kidding. Sort of." He removed his glasses, inspecting them casually.

Ellen opened and closed her mouth, then stared down at her tea. A faint smile appeared on her lips, and she dissolved into a fit of giggles.

Keats glanced at her skeptically, raising an eyebrow. More of these odd reactions he didn't understand.

Ellen looked up at him, smiling fondly. "Hey…ever heard of Loganberries?"

The End.