I recently became borderline obssessed with the song "Thorns" by Demon Hunter. For whatever reason, this song (in part) compelled me to write this chapter. I wrote this first and the rest of the story is more or less built around it.

Warnings: This chapter deals with forms of self-inflicted pain, mainly cutting. It's not terribly graphic, but it is not sugar-coated by any means. Just so you know. (It's a bit disturbing really)

Song: Thorns by Demon Hunter

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Chapter Two: At the Mercy of the Thorns

"Oh, the deliverance of blade and flame. Your love, and greater is the blood."

— from "Thorns" by Demon Hunter

His bed chamber was massive, second only to Master Cyclonis'. He had been awarded it by her father as a gift for exemplary service (Or so he said. The new Talon didn't argue his reasoning.) not long after the newly named Dark Ace arrived. The chamber was divided into a main living area, complete with a couch, chairs, and coffee and end tables, but leaving ample room for physical training, such as martial arts; a study open to the main room, having a large oak desk and chair and a mahogany trunk situated on the opposite wall of the desk; and his bedroom, consisting of a king-size, four-post, oak-frame bed, oak dresser and bookshelves, which could be cut off from the main room by a sliding wood door. The bathroom was situated off the southeast corner of his bedroom; it was large, having the bath and shower separate. There wasn't much to it all, as far as décor, but it had the essentials and that was enough for him. It kept him secluded from everyone else, Cyclonis included.

In fact, the chamber itself was secluded from the rest. It was the intention of his previous master. The elder Cyclonis had wanted the young man isolated, away from others, so as not to impede on his "re-education." And it worked. To a point. However, the re-education did nothing to ease the pain of what he had done. He had his own methods for that; methods that he still used, but for reasons he could no longer remember.

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Solitude. There was nothing Dark Ace craved more when he was on Cyclonia. He didn't mind being around people; some more than others. But he liked being by himself, being the lone wolf. He wasn't the partying type. Constantly being around a multitude of others was annoying. However, there was one he enjoyed being around. She may instill fear in most men…. It wasn't by any kind of power she had; like him, she was subservient. The woman was just scary. So she was a bit uptight—a perfectionist—and prone to fits of rage. He found them to be endearing qualities. As long as he wasn't on the receiving end of those fits of rage.

He smirked, sinking lower into the water and flicking bubbles onto his face. His left arm was sore; he had cut deeper this time, unintentionally. He would've gone for the right arm as well, but he knew he was due for a mission of some kind. He sighed. He didn't want to go on any mission, not now. Of course, he could just leave and never return. It was often tempting—for many reasons.

He lifted his left arm out of the water. The inside of his forearm was covered with cuts and bruises, some healing, some fresh. He ran his right hand along his arm, stopping at the large scar just before the crook of his elbow, the remnant of a self-inflicted wound that nearly ended his young life. And it would have, had it not been for a young Talon two years his senior. Dark Ace befriended the young man shortly after arriving on Cyclonia. He had been giving off the aura that he hated everyone and everything, but the young Talon, who introduced himself as Jeriah, saw right through his contemptuous façade. No matter how much of a jackass Dark Ace was towards him, Jeriah never turned his back on him, never left his side; something that Dark Ace became more than grateful for. Another thing that made Jeriah stand out among all others in the service of Cyclonia, Jeriah never once called him "Dark Ace."

Dark Ace's self-inflicted pain grew mightily after Jeriah was killed. He had saved Ace's life on more than one occasion—that night he nearly killed himself being the greatest—but he couldn't save Jeriah's life, not once. That day…the day Jeriah was senselessly killed—murdered—would forever be seared into his memory. He, Jeriah, and a small group of young Talons were taking a break off-terra at a neutral outpost on Terra Loch. They were hanging-out around the outpost, out of uniform; when they became caught up in a roaming fight between a group of rogue Wallops and humans and another group of outlaws of varying species. His group tried to avoid the skirmish but was unwittingly pulled in. A Sky Knight squadron, whom he recognized as the Wild Cards of Terra Barataria, was at the outpost and happened upon the fight. The squadron stepped in, enabling Dark Ace and the rest of his group to escape; but Jeriah….Dark Ace didn't know who had driven his blade through his friend, his back had been turned at the moment. When he turned back around all he saw was Jeriah on his knees, clutching his chest and one of the Wild Cards standing over him, staring—and holding a bloody sword.

Whether or not it had been the Wild Card that had stabbed Jeriah mattered little to Dark Ace at that moment, all he could see was a dying Jeriah. He rushed to his friend's side and dragged him away from the fight. Dark Ace could hear the yelling and clashing of blades, but it all seemed so distant. He held onto Jeriah as the young man coughed up blood and gasped for air. Two from their group ran for help, but they would return too late. Jeriah died in Ace's arms.

That day should have filled him with an even greater desire to put a stop to the Cyclonian expansion, to carry on the beliefs he and Jeriah shared; but it didn't. It only built a long-standing hatred within him. It was yet another epiphany.

Dark Ace's mind drifted back to the day Jeriah saved him from his self-inflicted death, as he dried off and dressed.

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He sat alone in his darkened room, dimly lit by candles. Ace had no use for crystals in his solitude; the purity of true fire did more to soothe his darkened soul than any crystal ever could. He held the small, sharp blade tightly in his right hand, staring at the burning three-wicked candle sitting on his dresser. There were numerous cuts on both his arms between his wrist and elbow, many of which were still bleeding. There was a long slash on his chest and torso, running from his right breast to his ribs on the left. It was superficial and part of it had already stopped bleeding; the slash was even from one end to the other. His ambidexterity was paying off in more ways than one.

The slightest movement of air caused the restless flames of the candle to stir, casting strange cavorting shadows upon the wall. The candles arranged on his bookshelves and headboard did a silent waltz of their own. He stood up, staring at the flames on his dresser as the shadows continued their deathly dance. He stood flush against the tapestried wall, wincing as his newly seared flesh touched the delicately woven cloth of the tapestry. The cast-iron rod, now cooled, lay lifeless on the floor next to his bed. A remnant of Cyclonia's long forgotten past; he found the rod in the boiler room of a smelter a week ago. Tonight was the first time he had used it. Cutting was no longer enough. Staring on impassively, he lifted his still bleeding left arm in front of his face and placed the bloody blade on his forearm an inch from the crook of his arm. As he began to slowly cut across his arm, a loud, thunderous boom rattled his room. Startled, he cut quick and deep into his flesh. He let out a low grunt, dropping the blade and clasping the wound with his hand as blood poured from the gash. He fell to his knees, writhing in a physical pain he had never felt before. He wanted to scream. Blood began to pool beneath him. He was beginning to feel light-headed and was ready to pass out, when he heard running footsteps ; then pounding on his door; then someone yelling, yelling his name. Someone…Jeriah? The door opened and the lights came on, blinding him. Jeriah grabb3ed the towel off the bed and wrapped it around Ace's arm.

"Ace," said Jeriah. "Ace, look at me." He looked at Jeriah briefly and then fell into darkness.

-xxx-

Dark Ace stared into the mirror. He may not have looked like death warmed over, but he definitely felt like death warmed over. He walked out of the bathroom and collapsed onto his bed. It was cool on his bare back—a little to cool. He sat up, sighing heavily. He walked to his dresser, grabbed his shirt and pulled it on. Walking out of his bedroom and into the main room, he stopped at the window, pushed the curtains aside and peered out into the Cyclonian night. There wasn't much difference between daytime and eventide on the parched and crenulated terra. But the longer you lived on Cyclonia, he learned, you could discern one from the other. He however, even after twelve years of servitude, still couldn't tell the difference. It didn't really matter to him though.

On occasion, he would stare out the window of the main room or his study, longing for the open air and blue skies of the many uncharted terras he had come across since his journey to his current position first began. He would sit and stare, holding tightly to a blade of some kind; old Odessa-style hunting knives were the best.. They had a comfortable grip and were easy to handle. A simple, eight-inch steel blade; pure, flawless steel, always sharp. Then after twenty minutes or so, he would get up and head to his bedroom; light a few candles; turn off the lights; sit down against the wall opposite the door; and, at some point, begin to cut his flesh.

Letting the curtains fall closed, he winced at the thought. He held his left arm close to his chest, taking a deep breath, as it began to throb. He walked over to the couch and sat down, still holding his throbbing arm. The couch was situated directly across from the fireplace, something he insisted on having. Though he received quizzical looks for the request, no one said anything. Despite his being younger than most of them (though now many were younger than him), no one crossed him; especially after Jeriah's death. Not that asking him why he wanted a wood-burning fireplace would have been a big deal, but each new Talon learned you did not press your luck and you shut your mouth when a superior told you to. As Dark Ace was told when he first pledged his allegiance to Cyclonia, by the then Talon commander Rannick, "When someone tells you to hold your tongue, do it. Otherwise, they may do it for you."

Dark Ace smirked, remembering what had initially popped into his head when he had been told. He quickly learned not to be so literal. And not to say exactly what he thought exactly when he thought it. It was something that got him into loads of trouble with his superiors—and Ravess. He grinned. Mostly Ravess. He still had bumps on his head from getting smacked with her bow or by the violin. Dark Ace swore he felt her violin more than he heard it. His grin faded when his eyes caught the cast-iron rod lying in front of the chain-mail fire screen. He hadn't used it since his last mission. Yet another mission in which he encountered the Storm Hawks, encountered Aerrow. He relived that day, now twelve years ago, every time he saw the redheaded Sky Knight; a silent and surreptitious torture that plagued him, no matter how much pain he inflicted upon himself at the end of each meeting.

With the throbbing finally subsiding, he let his arm fall onto the arm of the couch; but he didn't remove his gaze from the cast-iron rod. The rod seemed to stare back at him with a look of innocence; of helplessness, that it could do nothing on its own. It had no will. It did that only of its bearer. His mind began to wander again as the rod lay in front of the fireplace in a deadly silence.

-xxx-

The fire was started as soon as he walked into his chamber. He stoked the fire until he felt a satisfactory amount of heat. When the flames and heat were to his liking, he placed the cast-iron rod halfway into the fire. He then headed to the bathroom for a shower. It had been his first mission, since Jeriah's death, as commander of a squadron. And it wouldn't be long before he was commander of the entire Talon Army. His commissioning as Rannick's second in command had all but guaranteed it.

When he finished his shower, dressing only in his pajama bottoms, he headed back into the main room to check the rod. It was warm, not hot enough to do much damage. It wouldn't even hurt if he tried it now. He walked back into the bedroom and grabbed the hunting knife off his dresser. He studied its freshly cleansed blade for a moment, then headed back into the main room. He stopped in front of the window, which ran not quite floor to ceiling, and pulled the curtains back just enough to look out at the desolate landscape. He sat down on the floor and stared out the window, turning the knife in his hand, the blade reflecting the light as it turned. He had, initially, that he wasn't going to cut tonight, however…. The mission had ended on a sour note for him and it wasn't something he wanted to relive. He ran his left index finger along the flat edge of the blade, tracing the straight edge and then the curve. He wondered what they would think if they knew what he was doing to himself. Would they try to stop him? Probably. No…not probably. They would. He placed the blade in the middle of his forearm. He closed his eyes and slowly drew the blade across his arm, feeling his skin open up as images of their faces flashed through his mind. They were sad…but for what? Because of what he did to them? Or was it…? He made a few more cuts to his left arm before switching to the right. They were all superficial. They would heal in no time.

After Jeriah's death his self-inflicted torture took a different path. He could no longer remember why he began cutting in the first place. His reasons had changed; his vision had been lost, taken away—stolen—from him, along with Jeriah. The mission he had set for himself five years ago, before inevitably submitting to the will of Master Cyclonis, was now lost to him. All he could remember was their faces; what happened. But why? Why did he do it?

He opened his eyes and looked out the window. There was no change in the landscape before him. Nothing different. As bleak as ever. But then, there was an eerie beauty to it. History books said that Cyclonia was once one of the most beautiful terras in Atmos. Of course, that was long before he was born.

Sighing, he stood up, arms hanging at his sides. He could feel the blood trickling down his arms. Taking one last look out the window he pulled the curtains closed, smearing blood on the fabric. Not that anyone would notice. The crimson-colored curtains matched his blood. It was the color he requested and no one argued the decision or made any kind of remark. However, even he had to admit that it was a little strange. That particular color was not something most people would choose—for anything. He wasn't sure why he had chosen that color. In some ways it disturbed him.

He walked past the end table, laying the knife down, and sat down on his knees in front of the fireplace. The flames deathly waltz reflected in his eyes. He reached for the rod's handle (which he had made out of foam rubber) and lifted the hot iron out of the fire. He raised the rod up in front of himself with both hands. Sitting up, but still on his knees, he straightened his arms out, holding the rod like a sword. Bracing himself, he took in a deep breath and raised the rod above his head. He bowed his head, closing his eyes tightly, and brought the rod down onto his back. He fell forward, crying out in pain, as the aroma of burning flesh filled the room. The rod began to stick to his skin. With a loud and forceful cry, he ripped the iron rod off his back, throwing it to the edge of the fireplace. He fell onto his stomach, staring at the rod that had taken bits of skin. Everything around him became hazy; his eyes wouldn't focus. Finally, his eyes closed and he drifted into darkness.

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He woke up in the med-wing of the citadel two days later. Ravess was sitting next to his bed (something he hadn't expected) and had hold of his hand (something he had expected less). Apparently, she had found him. She possibly may have heard his painful cry. If she had, she didn't tip her hand. And whether or not she had gotten him to the med-wing and was still there with him out of concern for him, he didn't care; he was just grateful that she was. He didn't ask her if she had been there the entire time, it felt too awkward to do so. She, like Jeriah, knew that he cut and burned himself, which was part of the reason he was still alive. But she never asked him why he did it; no one did. He often wished someone would, because maybe then, he would remember himself.

He got up off the couch and walked back over to the window, pulling the curtains back just enough for him to see out. Looking out across the terrain once again, the sound of Ravess' violin played through his mind. She made a record for him a number of years ago upon his request. He would often play to it when he was sitting in his solitude in his candlelit room, holding the buck knife. Her music was beautiful, unlike his own darkened song; a song that his soul continuously bled. He leaned into the window, pressing his face against the glass. His mind started to drift as a purple-red haze fell over the saw-toothed vista. The hypnotic colors of Cyclonia's landscape could put one in a trance. Its seductive beauty could pull one's soul from its vessel and send it soaring across the desiccated land and to a zenith, all on a single breath of air. It had happened to him.

He was pulled from his own trance by the sound of knocking at his chamber door.

"What is it?" Dark Ace stoically asked the young Talon before him.

"A delivery for you, Sir" he said, handing the man a small box. "It was mistakenly delivered to my quarters."

"Yeah, by who?" the commander asked, unconsciously, staring at the box.

"A bird…Sir," the young Talon replied, uneasily, hoping Dark Ace wouldn't take him for an idiot.

Dark Ace looked at him. "A bird?"

"Uh, yes…Sir." Dark Ace stared at him with a quizzical look. The young Talon stared back. "You're making me nervous, Sir."

"Oh, sorry," Dark Ace replied, blinking rapidly.

That's weird, the Talon thought. There's gotta be something wrong with him.

It wasn't that Dark Ace snapped at people for every little thing (Or really at all. His stoicism could be creepy at times, almost to the point of being fatalistic.), but as far as the young Talon was concerned, the man's demeanor was a bit unusual. Clearly, he was preoccupied with something. And this wasn't the first time the young Talon had noticed his superior acting oddly. He had heard "things" from higher ranking officers, but he shrugged it off as hearsay.

"What's your name?" Dark Ace asked.

"Jonah, Sir," the Talon replied, bewildered as to why Dark Ace would bother to ask.

But now he was beginning to wonder if the rumors weren't actually rumors at all. Personally asking a subordinate's name was not in the Talon commander's nature…as far as Jonah knew. It was starting to weird him out.

"May I go, Sir?"

"Uh, yeah. You're dismissed." The Talon saluted and turned to leave. "Hold on."

"Yes, Sir."

"What kind of bird was it?" the commander queried.

"I believe it was a Mynall bird, Sir," Jonah replied.

"Mynall bird? Huh." Dark Ace thought for a moment, looking off to the side. The young Talon stared at him. He turned back to see Jonah still standing at the doorway.

"Anything else, Sir?"

"No….Thanks."

He closed the door and walked into his study. The box was small; but big enough to hold a crystal, which is what he imagined to be in it. He sat down at his desk and opened the box.

"A message crystal?" Who in Atmos would send him a message crystal? And why was it delivered to the wrong quarters? And by whom? "Mynall bird…." He mulled over the description. Then it hit him. "Mynall—Why would he…?"

He activated the crystal. The voice he heard emanating from the stone shook him to the core. "No…." He shook his head in disbelief. "That's impossible."

He stretched his arm out across the desk, staring at the crystal; the voice echoing in his head. He felt something touch his hand. He looked to see what he had touched. It was something he hadn't given thought to in years.

The toy skimmer.

The message concluded with a statement that nearly put him on the floor.

Dark Ace's hand, the hand that was touching the toy skimmer, began to tremble.

"Rowan…."

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If you haven't read "Little Ace" I recommend doing so. Much of this story will make more sense. (And remember, the last part of that story, the part set in the present time should just be disregarded for the sake of this story.) I've put the lyrics to the song "Thorns" in my profile. Reading the lyrics will help you understand what was going through my mind when I wrote the chapter and will (hopefully) help you understand the chapter (and possibly story) a little better. If you desire to do so. You don't have to. Below is the story behind the song. I felt compelled to put it in here. I felt it was important to the chapter and story.

Behind the Song:
"In the few months before I began writing lyrics for this record, I was hearing a lot about cutting. This, for those who don't know is the act of inflicting pain on one's self (often times by cutting with a knife, or burning with a lighter) in order to take their mind off of some emotional pain. Although I don't personally know anyone who has dealt with this (that I am aware of), the idea of writing a song about it was really placed on my heart. I guess I thought I might be able to speak to some young people about this particular issue. I couldn't help but draw a connection between someone wanting to inflict pain on themselves and Jesus having been sacrificed so that we wouldn't need to bare the guilt of sin. My thought was that Christ had already been cut for us, so there was no need for us to inflict pain on ourselves. That work has been paid for in full by the cross. The chorus lyrics hope that this person (represented by a young female in the song) might find this truth in her darkest of times, when she realizes that the emptiness she hoped would leave after inflicting this pain, still remains. Her flesh, broken, is emptiness. Christ's flesh broken is mercy for us." – Ryan Clark, Demon Hunter

For God was pleased to have all his fullness dwell in him, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether things on earth or things in heaven, by making peace through his blood, shed on the cross. -Colossians 1:19, 20

Like Ryan Clark, I do not know anybody that has dealt with this (not that I'm aware of). But like I said, I felt compelled to write it. Thanks for reading all the way through. (If you did.)