Title: REVENANT

Author: The DayDreaming

A/N: This was a story written for the Fantasia event over on LJ's Russiamerica comm. Now that it's finished, I figure I'll start posting chapters here.

Warnings: Slight OOC-ness at first, AU, fantasy, violence, gore, language. All that good stuff, y'know?

Summary: "So I will destroy the gods." Everything changed when Ivan began his new life alone in an unfamiliar city. When the Fae strike and a contract is formed with the apparitional anomaly Alfred, he finds himself with the power to change the world and, just possibly, the chance to save it.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Extended Summary: "So I will destroy the gods." There's something to be said about breaching the barrier between dreams and reality; something which Ivan seems to have done unwittingly once he steps foot into a new Sanctuary after being evacuated from his old one. Discovering the ability to wield magic within himself, he finds his world expanding beyond his wildest imagination as he joins the Sanctuary's resistance division to fight the evil Fae, is forced into a binding contract with the apparitional Alfred, and battles to maintain his identity as a human being.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

I never imagined I would die.

I thought I could live forever, alone and unchained, free to take what I want, when I wanted it, and no one could stop me. Every day I would wake up to find the world once again open to me, the sun bright, with smiles that flowed as easily as water, and a chest without a heart because only children are heartless enough to be innocent.

I have dreams now, you know. I never used to have them, because my head was always so empty; but you came along and filled it up, and oh hey I guess there was a brain in there after all because somehow dreaming comes to me like breathing air and flying and all those other things everyone is too old to know. They blend together like secret things, with wings and tongues and fingers long and agile, and I hold hands with someone and I think—

Maybe…maybe it's you.

But I'm scared.

I don't want to die.

But you—you were the first one that ever—that I ever—

…I guess now…isn't the time to say things that you'll never know.

You made me remember things, too. How to walk, and talk, and smile without meaning it, because sometimes, things are too heavy to bear, but we have to do it anyways.

So I'm going to smile now.

Because more than anything, I can't live in a world without you.

I want you to live, and know that I wouldn't just do this for anyone.

You are the only one I would ever die for.

So live, and don't forget me.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

First END: stranger

-o—o-

"It's temporary," they tell him, when the car rolls up to the curb, tires sinking through grimy slush and brushing just a bit too close to the concrete to not scuff the rubber. Ivan disembarks from the car with a little difficulty, head much too tall and body much too wide to fit into such a compact space comfortably.

They tell him that his vehicle will be shipped over in the coming weeks, because while he could attempt to take public transportation every day to his school over on the other side of the city, he wants to be stubborn, even if it means having them bring back his old clunker with the rusty trunk, cheap carpet, and a persistent squeak that might be considered either a charm-point or an internal ticking time bomb waiting to explode on a day when he turns a corner a little too sharply.

But he persists with it, because any little bit of familiarity is worth the hassle of others, the effort and time of this 'greater good' that had so thanklessly shut down his running household and shipped him off to a foreign land without so much as a thought as to whether or not he really wanted to leave at all.

Even if it would have meant death for him, to be all alone.

It's a major event when a Sanctuary closes down. Suddenly there are a million people needing to be distributed across the globe into new homes, those new homes actually needing to be built, jobs found, lives situated, new cultures learned and niches needing to be found. It was of Ivan's opinion that they needn't have bothered with it; even if his city was freezing over, the people dying from a magic-borne plague, the creatures outside lurking closer and closer to the borders of the gateway, supplies running low, and the wardstones growing weaker with each successive monster attack, he thinks that they could have managed.

Well, maybe he was being optimistic, but still, he's a bit resentful that the home his family had owned for over two hundred years was suddenly stripped from him, and his sisters, independent bodies from himself, sent to separate Sanctuaries in the mad hustle to get everyone to evacuate before the plague reached the east side of the city.

He could have stayed, of course; hidden himself away from the authorities until everyone had left. But that meant being alone, without his sisters. And really, what good was a house that had been in the family for hundreds of years when the only one left in it had no family to share it with? His older sister, Katyusha, had used this argument on him, though he supposes that what had really convinced him was her grabbing onto his scarf and bawling her eyes out afterwards.

The house he is given is white and marbled with green mold creeping along the walls. They tell him that workers will be along within the next couple of days to fix up the place, because there really hadn't been any time to do anything but assign him a place to live before moving on to the next poor and pitiful citizen of the Far North Sanctuary. It's a two-story affair, vaguely neo-Victorian in style with imposing metal curlicue accents on the balcony and windows dotting here and there, some clear-glassed and others with artsy, stained motifs. Run-down as the house is, it could be beautiful with a bit of time and effort. He's demanded this type of place to live, so he expects nothing less. He remembers trading classical paintings and old, doddery things he could bear to part with in order to get enough coupons to sequester a large, spacey home.

Enough space to live, with room for others; for his sisters and their future husbands, and their children when they had them, so that they could all be together, and never, ever alone. All he has to do is wait for them to acquire permits to move here, and then everything will fall into place.

He pulls his bag from the trunk of the tiny car, giving a grunt as the stocky luggage frees itself from the cramped confines. He's had to live in wait-stations for weeks while waiting for his turn to get transferred along the series of portals connecting the gates together that lead to each Sanctuary. It isn't safe to just walk through a singular portal into the main domain of the city. Complicated travel routes had been formed and cemented into place, with the last jump-points being heavily hidden and protected from all outsiders and insiders alike. The portals could be hacked, and any portal into a city was a portal to all humans, defenseless and weak, easy prey for the carnivorous fae that thirsted for the addictive human flesh, or those creatures interested in siphoning the vast quantities of 'spirits' produced by human souls living so closely together. (The term 'spirits' was spiteful wordplay to describe what could practically be considered metaphysical alcohol for the magically inclined; and like any alcohol, it too was addictive, and lead to a growing hunger which festered in the creatures and produced terrible transformations of the body and soul, and an eventual thirst for human souls in and of themselves.)

He tromps toward the front door of the house, peering cautiously at the stairs leading up the patio for any ice, and then pulling the keycard from the pocket of his heavy coat and swiping it through the outdated slider, its plastic shell cracked and dirty. The door pops open, dislodging a tiny rain of paint chips, and Ivan can't be sure, but he think the slight crack in the frosted glass of the oval window on the door spreads an inch or two.

Inside, the house is dusty, cold, and dark.

They tell him, over time, that he'll get used to living here, in this new city, that it will be just like his old one, only better. They say they'll fix the house up as best they can, when they can. They say this is for the best.

Ivan realizes, as he walks up the creaky stairs and into a face-full of cobweb, that they tell him a lot of things.

He wonders how many are lies.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Ivan doesn't do much, the first week he arrives at his new abode. He sleeps, unpacks a box of personal belongings out of the dozen or so that had arrived on his doorstep three hours after he had stepped out of that damnably tiny car, then reads a book. He tries venturing out to the local grocery store a couple times, investing in non-perishables and the like with the sparing care of a man bereft of coin (or credits, really, as physical money had long since been done away with, and bracelet credit cards were all the rage now), though he needn't have worried with the fortune left behind to him and his sisters by his late parents. But Ivan is always careful with how much he spends, so it doesn't really matter; if there was one thing his parents had managed to teach him before they died, it was the value of always being sure to only take what is needed.

His ventures in the kitchen are short, usually just grabbing something quickly from the fridge and standing in front of the sputtering device trying not to feel like a petty burglar in someone else's home. Then he leaves and returns to his own room to sleep. He ventured so little from this routine that his tracks were obvious highways among the dust trails lining the floor.

He thinks to himself a couple times, looking through his bedroom window to the snow-covered streets below, at the people stumbling along like awkward, mechanized dolls, that he could live like this, alone, sulky, and a stranger in his own home and city.

But by the ninth day, bored and a little stir-crazy, he pulls on his heavy coat, wraps his scarf a bit more tightly, slips into his heavy boots, and walks outside for the intentional purpose of wandering about for the first time since he's gotten here. He catches a bus and rides to the other side of town, staring impassively at the people outside, wrapped in super-insulated clothing that looked a lot sleeker than the bulky coat he himself adored wearing, even in summer. It was his father's, and his father's father's, and even more beyond that. Incredibly durable, long-lasting, and most importantly warm, if not a bit faded and slightly ragged at the edges. He didn't want to think about the thinning threads and patched-up holes.

The bus runs past his school, so when the supposed building comes into view and the hulking, gasping beast rolls to a rest, he gets up and shoves past the other sodden, shivering passengers and onto the street. He won't be starting school for another six months, what with them still verifying his records and instating him with citizenship to the city. He supposes that the Sanctuaries could almost be like separate nations, however old and convoluted those notions are nowadays when everything is screwed up and out to get them no matter where or who they are. Moving from one to another is like becoming an entirely new person, even if it didn't matter in this age what specific part of the world your heritage came from. Everything is mixed together, one giant pot of fear and uneasiness, shuffling about as Sanctuaries crumble and new ones are built.

The school is large and sprawling, made of stone white as snow and what would otherwise seem like meaningless sculptures and fountains, if he didn't know that inside these are wardstones, pulsing steadily. If there is ever a place where they do not want the fae entering, it is the school.

Ivan has long since finished high school, but this Sanctuary has different rules from his old one, where he had been trained as a farmer and had managed the lands his parents had put so much sweat and blood into, and who had become wealthy off of their large harvest every year. Working and working and always saving for the future. But now they have no future and it is Ivan, the son, who must see the future for them.

But now he has no land beyond the barren dirt of the house's backyard, muddy and dark with snow. This Sanctuary did not need more farmers, so here he is, attending a combined school with everyone who needs a place to learn. Children and teenagers and adults alike, breathing the same air and wondering what the point is to all this when they might not live to see the next few years if the fae find a way in.

Because they always do, no matter how many wardstones are placed around the city. Quite simply, the wardstones are getting weaker, and with them, the fae are becoming stronger.

Each humdrum pedestrian passing by him now, into the gates of the school, could die any day; no sadness, no anger.

Ivan is beyond the thought of 'it could be me next, I don't want to die I don't want to die please don't kill me,' and inebriated in a state of apathy towards the very idea of death.

Death? Ha ha. Try living; it's much more difficult.

…

He stands in place, watching people come and go for a few hours, looking but not really seeing everything that's around him. He floats up, above and beyond the seething masses, vacant mind spiraling out into the distance. He's looking for something, anything, to fill the emptiness. The void inside him aches and twitches, pulling in and blowing out, a heart in and of itself. He feels nothing nothing nothing oh gods am I dying—

Ivan is swallowed, at least it feels as such; but somehow, the sensation brings him back to himself, and he finds a stranger before him, shrouded in a hooded cloak and leaning close, hands clasped lightly around his cheeks. He is Ivan, still in front of the school, still cold and grounded; not empty and hungry and dying.

"Ah, you came back," the stranger says, hands shifting to rest on Ivan's shoulders, tugging down. Ivan bends, to his surprise, and falls to the other's level, shivering when he finds himself incapable of moving and the stranger's mouth whispering into his ear, "It's not good to allow yourself to wander so far away and not leave your spirit a way back."

Ivan wants to ask 'what' and 'why,' or maybe just shove the stranger away, but the moment he tries, he feels something tighten within, like a rope or bindings; it squeezes him to stillness, with an ease that terrifies Ivan and yet infuriates him.

"You could have died, you know; you left yourself open. Anyone could have reached inside you," the stranger places a cold, ungloved hand to his chest, "and stolen that which is most precious to you." And here, Ivan strains to scream as he feels the fingers dig against the fabric of his coat for a second before falling through, dipping into the cavity of his chest, though it doesn't feel like his chest but someplace different.

The stranger practically moans as the fingers slip further further further. Ivan trembles on the inside, shuddering and screaming in his mind; it does not hurt, but it is wrong and he wants to kill the man, tear him to pieces and—"It's so good," the man sighs, "So strong and brilliant. I'm almost tempted…" His hand touches something, small and ephemeral, yet Ivan can feel it like his own beating heart. The digits twitch, pull away, but almost immediately return, fisting into the feeling, pulling, "I'm so sorry, sir, but really you won't need it, they'll be coming in soon, and I've foreseen your death, so it won't matter—!"

Ivan can no longer take it, this strange man, digging around inside and touching what isn't his, touching what has always been Ivan's, even if he didn't know he had it; something snaps inside, breaking with a twang and rolling out like a bolt of fabric. He wants to kill him, tear him apart, drink him in and crush him with a force beyond human comprehension, and these feelings, these urges, concentrate and hold together, a finished puzzle, rigid, defined lines blurring to create a perfect picture, clarity oh clarity thy name is—!

Ivan blinks his eyes open to find his back pressed into a cold, stone wall. He shoves off, spine aching, turning to find cracked lines spidering out from the zone of impact. He coughs and wipes his nose, a smear of blood seeping into the spongy material of his gloves as he pulls his hand away.

A grunt catches his attention, and his eyes trail to the side, squinting at the sight of the few pedestrians wandering the streets in the twilight hours scrambling and screaming away into the distance. A part of him wonders how it's gotten so late without his noticing, and another notices a long portion of trenched concrete, splintering the sidewalk and falling out into the road. There's a car laying askew on its top, and another whose front end is embedded into a lamppost on the opposite side of the street. And among this wreckage he catches a glimpse of red, before the red pulls itself up from its place wedged into a metal-mesh bench beside the lamppost collision.

Ivan sucks in a breath and staggers to the edge of the sidewalk, mind slipping and hazing into a multitude of tiny pinpricks, not an impending case of unconsciousness so much as points of clarity, overwhelming and intense. They take notice of everything, details and information coagulating in his mind, a fire burning wildly.

Despite this apparent ability to think, he can't find himself with the ability to do anything, actions and words stuttering to a stop, before he catches sight of the stranger from before, cloak torn to shreds around his small frame robed in vibrant, foreign garb; a red jacket and white pants with brown slippers. The other's dark hair flies out behind him in a ponytail, as he dashes with an inhuman speed and grasps Ivan around the throat, sending him slamming into the ground. Just as Ivan is sure the other will attempt to choke him to death, the man pulls back, breathing heavily before standing and offering a hand to his downed victim.

Ivan ignores the hand and raises himself on his own, stepping quickly away from the stranger and his poised hand. Ivan has never felt much fear beyond the attention and ministrations his younger sister, Natalia, has attempted to dote on him, but suddenly the mere idea of this monster touching him, reaching inside him once more, sickens him.

The other smirks briefly and coughs out a laugh before taking back his hand and placing it over his gut. Ivan sees a stain forming where the hand covers the cloth, "Impressive. A bit unrefined, but such raw talent…do you know what you are, Ivan? I suppose not, considering you're still out here and not in there…"

"What do you want?" Ivan states, steeling his voice to stamp out the evident exhaustion and startlment, confusion and anger.

"Nothing," the stranger smiles, "But I'd recommend making a run for it. I might have stopped at the warning shot, but other despicable creatures won't catch the hint."

"What do you mean?" Ivan shouts, attempting to catch the stranger at his short, stiff-collared lapels, but grasps only a handful of cold, disappointing snow. He whirls around in rage when he feels a quiet tap on his shoulder, stopping as his adversary tugs his scarf down and pulls (and once again with such strange, unnerving ease!) Ivan's ear close once more.

"Everything is more than it seems. I am more than you can see, and so are you. There is a war taking place, far beyond the imaginations of humans, which will consume us all should we lose. Maybe you'll finally be the one…"

"The one what," Ivan hisses as the stranger releases his scarf. He's ignored, the stranger turning and walking away, past the carnage of an event not remembered. "The one what?"

For the last time, the stranger turns, brown eyes that all at once are average and yet agitatingly peculiar holding his own, "The one to destroy the gods."

And he is gone.

Ivan quivers on the inside; he feels full of worms and other crawly things. He wants to scream, wants to scream, wants to—!

o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o

To destroy the gods.

I want to laugh, because that's impossible. I'm nothing if not a realist. The peculiar and strange, necessary features for one who is to kill a 'god'…I'm none of these things.

And yet…

Some part of me is screaming; loudly, agonizingly—

Yes.

But I'm nothing if not a realist.

o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o

He ends up wandering the streets, mind spinning in a thousand different directions. The buzz from earlier is gone, leaving him lightheaded and cold. Who is the mysterious man? What did he do to him? What occurred within the five seconds that he blacked out and found himself against a wall afterward?

Some questions he can answer easily. The man is obviously a clairvoyant sorcerer, or something of that disposition. How else could he have known Ivan's name without being told? Most magic-conjurers are despised, due to their strong correlation with the accursed fae that roam the world and rule it like savages. Conjurers are generally helpful, tirelessly maintaining and working the gates between Sanctuaries, creating medicine for illnesses caused by magic-exposure, helping the fields to grow, drawing resources from the earth for use, and defending those within their immediate vicinity against fae that have breached the Sanctuaries' walls.

They are despised, but they cannot venture out into the wilderness beyond the safety of the man-ruled cities, for fear of the fae overwhelming them. They are spit upon, but they continue to work so as to cling to a life just barely worth living.

Ivan doesn't have much of an opinion on conjurers as a whole, but something inside him grates and snaps each time he thinks of that man's eyes; something like hate, and something he can't explain except as 'hunger,' though it feels like a steady burn.

More importantly, the man tried to steal his soul. That's all Ivan can conclude from the blurry memories and smear of sensations. He had almost gotten it, but something happened, something important that Ivan can't make out clearly. Like a lace coming undone, or a sleeve falling off, his mind supplies, though the nonsensical answers perturb him greatly.

Just as he's turning a corner onto an unfamiliar street (it's all so unfamiliar and a part of him wishes that he had bothered to bring a map, because damn it all that the buses won't run after nightfall), orange sheen blanketing him in a spotlight of off-color sidewalk and snow, the warning sirens sound. They're a deep wail that reverberates through the city's bones like a cold wind. It makes his teeth ache and heart pound, and for a second Ivan thinks about home, and the image that comes to mind isn't the old, spacious farmhouse that's been in his family for over two hundred years but the decrepit, dusty pile of wood in the middle of the street, facing out over a quiet sidewalk.

He's running before he can think about it, not knowing if the break-in is on the east side of the city near his house, or on the west, or in any other direction. All he knows is that he's in the middle and he needs to get out.

Every house has a wardstone embedded in it somewhere, and if it doesn't, then the people inside are as good as dead. These wardstones are small enough that they aren't governed by the city. The residents have to keep maintenance over the stone, rejuvenating their power at any place with a warlock specializing in energy-transfer.

As it is, Ivan tries knocking on a couple of the homes he passes, waiting for about five seconds before continuing his run. It's a foolish hope, that someone will open their door. During a raid, no one does. It's death, and he knows it; has abided by it.

He remembers when he was young and hearing banging on their front door, clawing and screaming, and his parents just holding him tightly and trying to cover his ears.

While small wardstones are enough to protect an average abode (most of the time), protecting an entire metropolis is at the pinnacle of difficulty. He's only seen the running wardstones of his old Sanctuary's guardwalls once. They are huge, monolithic stones, glowing white and humming an almost imperceptible song. He'd asked his teacher what the humming was, but she'd denied hearing anything at all. Ivan has since learned that none of his classmates could hear it either; but the wizard, a facilitator of the stone, that had been guiding them around and explaining trivial, uninteresting facts about the structure and quality of the stone, had given him a startled but knowing look. The man then cupped his right ear, the one facing the large wardstone, before shaking his head at Ivan and putting a finger over his lips. Ivan's teacher had assumed that the man had wanted Ivan to be silent, and had immediately shushed him, but Ivan knew that it had meant something else entirely: listen but don't speak.

He's never forgotten that song, and sometimes finds himself humming it while alone and working. The song of the large wardstones is slow and solemn, all at once giving a feeling of safety and surety.

These giant structures though, tend to take so much power and energy to run, to blanket the entire city in a shield of thin protection, that they often go offline, one or more running out of energy and breaking the completed circle and creating a gaping hole in the Sanctuary's security. Magic-conjurers are employed to constantly replenish the energy of the stones, but sometimes the stones will just unexpectedly stop emitting their protective waves. Nowadays, the stones can't effectively absorb the given energy, taking less and less in until it's entirely useless or constantly shutting down and exposing the city and all its inhabitants to the monsters beyond the white-washed stone walls of their haven.

As Ivan passes by a dark alleyway, feet mashing into the slick snow and slowing him down, he hears the tell-tale growling of a fae-monster, and the clacking of clawed paws. From the alley emerges a Dip, breath visible in the frigid air as it limps forward and bears its long, jagged fangs at him, blending into the darkness of the twilight with its black fur. Its muzzle is already saturated in a haze of blood, its hapless victim no doubt still lingering as a cold, bloodless carcass in the alleyway; a free meal for the carnivorous crows that flock after the fae like moths to flames.

He turns heel and runs in the opposite direction, away from the blood-sucker, darting into a different alley he hopes will lead to another street. Slow creatures as they were, their one lame leg impeding them, Dips always locked onto one target and relentlessly pursued it.

Just as Ivan hopes, the alley breaks open onto another road. With a sigh of ragged relief he keeps moving forward, breathing labored and legs aching. Things still don't look too familiar, but he's sure he's seen that sign-board before from his earlier trip on the bus.

He continues on for a couple minutes, unmolested and anxious before he's stopped by a pile of bodies strewn about the street, suitcases flung away and business casual apparel torn to shreds at chest-level. But among the bodies is a chaotic whirlwind of feathers and blueblood, trailing over to the prone forms of two Harpies, breasts bared and feathered, humanoid bodies broken upon the pavement. He can discern that while one holds a broken neck, the other is still twitching, alive, with either a snapped spine or an injury to the head harsh enough to render it effectively useless.

A distant crying and whimpering peppers the air, that draws his attention, and his footsteps, over to yet another alley. A flickering light over the back door of some shop gives enough detail to allow him to see the figure of a young man, blond-haired and shouting insult after insult to a third Harpy; the young man is standing defensively over a bleeding, shivering group of office-workers, a child, and an old couple he's sure he saw running a street-vending unit on his earlier bus-trip.

The harpy lashes out with a taloned leg, swiping at the young man before her with a croaking hiss. Amazingly enough, the claws pass easily through the defender. The group behind him cries out, but the boy before them doesn't fall, and instead steps closer, jeering at the bird-woman before drawing back for a punch.

The Harpy, though it was momentarily confused by its prey's seeming inability to be touched, rallies itself with a devilish smirk. Ivan winces and almost considers running once more as the harpy flips over the teen's fist with a flourish of feathers before practically smashing its head through the other's back. The stranger freezes, his visage flickering as the harpy begins to take in deep, drawling sucks, the sound a mind-numbing schlock-schluck-schluuuk.

All Ivan can think about is dusty, cold fingers, pressing into his chest and touching touching taking, a little girl's scream a far-off siren in the distance, teeth-achingly and heart-poundingly distant, a wish that he was home. The boy before him is fading, body transparent until he almost can't be seen in the gloom, and oh he's blurring, edges slipping away—

Ivan slams into the side of the harpy before he can really understand what's happening. The young man, once free from the harpy's jaws, staggers forward with a gasp. He's still barely visible, form trembling as what looks like a silver mist slithers up from his back.

"Ah…ah…," he stutters out, hands coming to grip his head, "Ah…is this…I can't…not here, not here—!"

The harpy is already staggering up, wings that act like useless stumps on the ground shifting its position slowly. It hisses and spits and trembles; obviously it had taken a bit of a beating before, from the same person who had taken down the others, most probably.

Ivan startles from his stupor as a hand, light and vaguely tingling, clasps his shoulder in a grip that's as weak as a kitten's. The teen has him, leaning close and growing fainter; that silvery mist steadily rising from his form, Ivan realizes, is actually a million points of light, fluttering upwards into the sky like tiny, errant stars, leaving gaps in the young man's skin like a cracked, broken shell.

"Bind with me, form a covenant," the other yelps, eyes wild and such a pretty, effervescent blue.

"W-what," Ivan barely gets out. In his distraction, the harpy rights itself and lunges, and before Ivan can really understand what's happening his stomach is sliced to ribbons and his scarf is acting as a flimsy barrier between the screeching woman's head attempting to rip his throat out and his vulnerable Adam's apple. Ivan's mind is clicking, screaming at him to do something, but his limbs fall once again useless (just like before, not again not again) at his sides, pain smothering him and staining his mouth a sticky, lovely red.

"No!" he hears, before the creature is shoved away again, rolling about in the grime of the alley with furious bluster as it's once again denied. The teen is there, filling his darkening vision and shouting at him, yelling at him to form some 'covenant,' to not leave him to fade away, because he can't he can't he can't—!

I'm dying.

Ivan is looking, but not really seeing.

I'm going to die, in this place that I hate, among these people that, under any other circumstance, I wouldn't care existed at all…

He feels himself lifting up, spiraling out, like reaching, grasping fingers in the dark.

Death…

Try living; it's much more difficult.

He is cold and empty and alone, the hunger burning deep within him a fire hot and quick and agitatingly peculiar. There is nothing, and yet—

I said that I wouldn't mind dying, but—

—teeth-achingly and heart-poundingly—

But I…

He wants to go home. He wants Katyusha and Natalia. He wants to dream of vibrant green fields and watch people as they stagger through the snow outside like stiff, mechanized dolls. He wants to trace his fingers over the cracked paint and dust and unpack that last, infernal box. He wants, more than anything, he wants—!

I want to live.

Clarity.

There's a hand in his chest, filling up the emptiness and holding onto something that has been, and always will be, his and oh he wants to live wants to live please save me to see the world of tomorrow—!

It's not a snap so much as a lock's tumblers sliding away, a puzzle's rigid, defined lines blurring to create a perfect picture, clarity.

And suddenly he's no longer empty and alone.

I want to live.

So I will destroy the gods.

o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o

Yes.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Notes:

Dip: a figure from Catalan myth. It's a black, hairy dog that acts as an emissary of the Devil and sucks the blood of its victims. Vampire doggie! :D It's lame in one leg, like many demonic creatures featuring in Catalonian myth. In this story, it merely acts as an animal of prey, and not an emissary.

Harpy: from Greek mythology. Spirits primarily known for snatching food from Phineas. There is much confusion as to what harpies look like. Originally, they were depicted as beautiful women with wings, acting as wind-spirits. But in Jason and the Argonauts, they were described as nasty, fowl-tempered bird-women, who were ugly; women's heads on birds' bodies, that snatch objects or people. In this story, more will be disclosed about the properties of harpies, but as far as this chapter is concerned, their image is melded together, with the harpy having the head and torso of a beautiful woman and the arms, legs, and pelvis of a bird. As for what she was doing to that 'mysterious teenager'…

The number of Harpies: originally, there were only 2 harpies. But, Jason and the Argonauts once again changed this to make it 3 Harpies, each describing the destructive qualities of wind. Wikipedia says: Aello ("storm swift"), Celaeno ("the dark") — also known as Podarge ("fleet-foot") — and Ocypete ("the swift wing"). I went with 3, because it's such an impressive number, no?

Blueblood: no, I don't mean royalty. XD More will be explained on the properties of blueblood later. But, just know for now that it is the color and name given to the fae in this story, as most of them bleed a variety of blue hues.

That should do it. I'm sorry if this confused you greatly! This story is intended to be an epic-length feature, and as such, I wanted to start slow. I know that most fanfiction is about instant gratification of knowledge, but I wanted to try and set a slower pace…Things will hopefully become clearer in the next chapter.

I'm sorry if Ivan is OC, but he's difficult to write as the clueless protagonist. I wanted to sorta maybe go for an Ivan-the-Fool vibe, or at least try for the unreliable-narrator angle. Also sorry for the cruddy writing. I'm rusty as hell.

If I find that people are okay with me writing the rest of this story, I'll continue to write and post chapters. If not, I shall remove them from this site. I have chapter 2 written and ready. If this chapter receives 3 reviews, I'll post the second chapter immediately. If not, once I finish writing chapter 3 for my LJ account, I'll post chapter 2 here about 1 week after I post chapter 3 on livejournal.