Current mood:	crappy
Entry tags:	lyric 7

Lyric 7

Lyric 7

Author: Mushroom
Rating: R for language
A/N: I know you’ve been wondering where the hell I’ve been getting all the poems. They were actually written by very famous gay poets. Hehe. And for kicks, count how many times I italicized the word ‘man.’ xD



Daman’s cousin read him a tale found in a huge children’s book. It was so huge that little Daman couldn’t even hold it properly, so his cousin had to guide him, to hold his arms upright. He stared, fascinated, at the colourful pictures of rainbows and little trucks and aeroplanes and blue-eyed little boys with fair wings. He was more interested in the winged boys than the wonderful toys found in every page, however, even if his cousin described them eloquently with a small, pretty voice.

He had all the playmates he wanted, and he loved them very much, but he never had a boy with wings. It troubled him.

“Lune,” said the boy, looking up to the slightly older girl with anguished eyes, “Why can’t I have an angel?’

‘What’re you saying? Of course you have an angel. We all have our own guardian angels.’

‘That’s not true,’ protested daman.

‘It’s true, so you should shut up!’ shouted his cousin, eyes dark with annoyance. ‘I have a guardian angel, and her name is Jennifer, and she’s real pretty, with long brown braids and ribbons tied at the ends of her hair.’

‘Really?’

His cousin flushed. ‘Okay, so maybe I made her up. It’s fun to dream though.’

‘Only special people are granted guardian angels. The messengers. What we only have are our shadows.’ Little Daman frowned, looking very solemn. ‘I’m not that special enough to have my own guardian angel.’

The two children were silent for a while, until the taller girl spoke up.

‘I’ll be your guardian angel.’

She proceeded to braid her pigtails, and smiled when Daman tugged at them.




Chapter V – Clandestine


And since, my soul, we cannot fly
To Saturn nor to Mercury,
Keep we must, if keep we can,
These foreign laws of God and man.

- A.E. Housman



Ciara Lunnaire vowed that she would protect Daman Kayne as long as she lived. Her promise was made when they were young; she observed little Daman as he stared ruefully at his mother’s grave, and realized that he needed protection. Ciara Lunnaire freely volunteered to take care of her young cousin, thinking that she could be the sister he never had. When they were kids, she would constantly boss him around and order him to do responsible things, like chores. It amused her parents and annoyed little Daman, but she knew they were grateful.

She wanted Daman to be like the rest of the kids so that he could live a normal life despite his tragic childhood. Daman had been speaking to strange things like specters and sprites, which she guessed were products of anxiety and depression. To change his ways, Ciara Lunnaire punched the boys and girls who made fun of Daman, then punched him as well. It was her strange way of protecting him, of loving him.

She failed.

“Where are you going—oof!” Ciara Lunnaire almost fell on the floor as Daman pounced on her and gave her a tremendous hug.

“To Mister Killian’s,” said Daman in breathless anticipation, “We have work to do. See you later! Kick the fat baldy in the balls for me!” He kissed her forehead, beckoned a bubbly Akia to accompany him, and sprinted off. Ciara Lunnaire watched him leave from the doorway, chewing her lips, hands close to her drumming heart. Her cousin had been leaving the house early every single day since the night he and Janne Killian locked themselves in his room (they emerged looking exhausted but giddy). Oftentimes he would not even come home. And if he did, he would only stay for a few hours, to collect some things that he had forgotten to bring and to leave a plate of cookies for the house spirit.

Daman Kayne was beyond happy, and it was evident in his sunny smile and overzealous gestures. There were other things that were unclear, however, like how Janne Killian mysteriously made him cheerful and talkative. She heard the way Daman laughed when Janne Killian was on the phone; it was a huge, bellowing, blissful laugh that lingered for several seconds, and his mirth passed through the pale walls and out the windows to be heard by the rest of the neighborhood.

“Ah, yes…you taught them alla prima? Yes, yes…it’s very good,” Daman would lean on the wall and smile warmly as he murmured on the phone. “Haha. I told Dolya the details about Aed and his flock, which is also a nice concept. And do not forget Astaroth! Yes…it is very sordid.”

She did not understand a thing. She was schooled, yes, but she felt dumb.

Ciara Lunnaire shook her head. No. It was very clear why he was like that. She knew what it was called, was taught the symptoms, but she had never experienced it herself.

Daman Kayne was a big boy. How could she protect him? Daman had the largest earnings and made the biggest improvements during their life together. He was twenty-nine years old, and even if he acted like a child most of the time, he still made his own decisions. He never consulted her anymore; when they were children, Daman would tell her everything, even his innermost fears and wishes. However, Daman Kayne was growing up…and he was growing in another direction, away from Ciara Lunnaire. The wrong direction, she believed.

Ciara Lunnaire watched silently as birds perched on the window sill to eat the snacks Daman left for the so-called house spirit. The birds gobbled up the cookies greedily, and the sight irritated her. She bought those cookies especially for Daman, and he abandoned them for an unseen, unreal creature. “Shoo, shoo!” she shouted at the birds, waving her hands furiously; they flew away before she grabbed the plate and glared at the messy crumbs.

Oh god. Ciara Lunnaire looked at her shaking palms. She couldn’t hate Janne, because he made Daman smile; he treated him like he was precious. She should be thankful. But she hated him. She hated him for being first, for realizing that Daman Kayne was special. He was a man. Men are not emotional. She was Daman’s cousin-protector. He stole her job, the job that kept her alive.

I have lost him, thought Ciara Lunnaire. The thought pierced her. I have lost him. She crumpled on the floor, crestfallen, and the tears fell, the first since the time she saw her cousin look at Janne Killian with crazed eyes. The poem she read was dedicated to Mister Killian, and it contained words that pined for affection. Daman Kayne enjoyed the company of this man…this man.

I have lost him forever, she realized, as the neighbors stopped prying from the curtains and stepped out of their houses to interrogate the young woman. A few women shook their heads and offered tissues and kerchiefs, but she had lost him.

***

When Daman was young, Missis Erzulie told him stories about love and flirtation, mostly those that were her own. He had listened to her tale of the beautiful maiden whom she had “borrowed” (Daman told her more like abducted, but she threatened to slice him up and feed his innards to the Hamehs, creatures that delighted in human blood), and how she played with other young oaks who offered her wine, candies, and their bodies, driving her husbands mad with jealousy (oddly, her husbands were not jealous of each other).

She also told him the tragic love story between a god and a demon—they could not love each other openly for they were rulers of clashing worlds, so the lovers would meet in hidden places and have dreams about each other. They had a messenger, the untouchable Maruts, one who could not be harmed by both god and demon. The messenger, however, fell in love with the beautiful devil, and made it human so that it could not see and touch the god. Maruts also impregnated the devil, and forced it to marry him.

The demon could still hear the god, at least. Every night, the god would whisper sweet nothings to the demon’s ear, and their love remained like that, seemingly one-sided.

Missis Erzulie, devious though she may be, never told him about sex. Surprisingly. He never asked, but her stories held suggestive themes, at least. She would tell him about her trysts with her men and women during heated, passionate nights, but her tone was light-hearted and giddy, as if they were only ordinary events. Missis Erzulie explained that he should explore his sexuality on his own, and that her stories were only to provide entertainment. Daman knew what he wanted when he saw naked sculptures of grappling men, he just didn’t want someone. Yet.

Epona the Water Elemental told him things like sensations and discharges which he never really understood, and Colt-pixy lent him books he had stolen from the other world. Daman stared at the glossy pages, fascinated, but he became bored because the next pages featured humongous breasts and other impossible things.

He was not virgin in thought, but nobody told him that sex could be so much more than just entertainment.

Janne Killian was naked beside him, Lovely, Heavenly Nose pressed against his chest (It would have been picturesque if he was not snoring lightly). His hair was a blend of gold and emerald, and they looked wonderful against the sea-green cushions they purchased only yesterday. The blonde had stitches beneath his left lung, something Daman noticed.

They were obsessed. The day before they tried different things and ended up breaking the bed. They laughed loudly for hours, then went shopping for a new one. During their latest tryst they came several times; impossible, but true. Daman suspected Missis Erzulie was interfering with their love-making, but she probably thought she was doing them a big favour. And she was.

Akia would look out the window while they made love, noiseless and still. For her it seemed like there were more captivating events outside Janne’s home, more captivating than two young men exploring and tasting each other’s bodies. Ingvar slinked away with Janne’s shadow person, discussing sports. Obi coughed loudly when they moaned, obviously embarrassed.

Yet the most pronounced of all differences was the sudden silence of Janne’s ghoul-infested house. The abrupt fits of giggles disappeared, and there were no whistles and catcalls to distract them from their activity. It seemed like the whole house was listening in, or maybe even watching them, as they did the unthinkable. They were probably fascinated. Both men did not mind. Their senses reacted only in response to touches, moans, tastes.

Daman Kayne quietly untangled himself from a snoring Janne and reached for his notebook. He sat up, pen in hand, and wrote.

Peppermint Moon, the young candle-maker, was lost. He had been wandering through the woods for several days and yet there were no signs of life, no signs of God. He had brought nothing with him but a ball of wax (occasionally he would wonder why he even bothered bringing it). He only wore scant clothes and the air was cool, so he wrapped his arms around his body to keep himself warm. The sunlight was barred by the branches of the towering trees; it seemed like it was always night, so it was impossible for him to tell what time of the day it was.

Fortunately, there were plants bearing berries and fruit around him, so he was able to feed himself. The fruit stained Peppermint's kips and clothes, and his throat was dry, aching for something cool. His cheek resembled a shiny grape, purple with muck.

Peppermint Moon was cold, miserable, and hungry.

He began to doubt the old woman’s words. How could he receive blessings with nothing at all? How could he survive the wrath of god without a proper candle? He had nothing to save himself with, only his own scarred legs and arms. Days of emptiness continued, and he was slowly getting tired of the cool mist and the endless green foliage. Even the berries lost their sweet taste. Peppermint looked up and desperately wished to at least catch a glimpse of Star’s faint light, but with the tall, menacing trees it was impossible.

Janne stirred, half-asleep, and his hands reached for Daman to pull him close. Daman captured his left arm and encircled it around his own waist, grinned widely, then continued writing.

Suddenly the young candle-maker heard a soft noise, like the sound of a pebble thrown into a pond. He sharpened his hearing and followed the sound, cutting through tall grass and low branches, desperate to see something new. He gasped as he discovered a small pond surrounded by shrubs of luscious berries in red, purple and blue. The trees circling the pond were short and lean, hence a ray of warm sunlight was able the surface of the water.

Peppermint let out a small whoop and knelt, cupping his hands to collect water to drink. As the water trickled down his fingers, the pond started swirling swiftly.

‘Whoa!’ gasped Peppermint, and the pond continued to swirl violently until the water floated in the air, spinning and spinning, seemingly out of control, like magic the work of the devil. He turned back and almost ran, but a voice made him stop dead in his tracks.

‘You have called me. I am here.’ said the booming voice.

Peppermint Moon’s heart raced, but he was curious. He slowly calmed himself and turned his face to the direction of the swirling pond.

However, the anticyclone was gone. It was replaced by a humongous wolf with a black-grey coat, and it also owned three long, bushy tails. Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, thought Peppermint, as he lifted his gaze and stared open-mouthed at the monster's fierce eyes.

The creature’s nose was dark and wet, and it moved upward as it sniffed at Peppermint’s direction. Peppermint flinched, but did not step backward.

‘Hmmm. You smell good, human. Are you sure you are human? You smell so good I might eat you!’

Peppermint started shaking wildly, dearly afraid of the large monster, and tears started to form at the corner of his eyes. Did God send this evil creature to devour him, instead of hearing him out? Oh, but he was still too young, and he still loved Star. He could not love Star while dead, not when he has never seen its light up close! His life was about to end without Star, and Star would never even know! Peppermint hugged his arms and rambled on incessantly under his breath, telling himself to be strong.

The wolf continued to sniff him, its eyes glazed with wonder. “How odd. They told me humans smell foul. You don't. Tch, those pesky liars!”

‘Please don’t kill me,’ said Peppermint resolutely, and although his legs were shaking his gaze upon the wolf was grave. ‘I am in love.’

The wolf looked down at Peppermint Moon, its stare unreadable. ‘You are?’

‘Peppermint Moon, a candle-maker. I am in love with Star.’

‘Who in blazes is Star?’

‘A star.’

‘Oh yes, why didn’t I think of that?’

‘Please don’t kill me.’

‘Why would I kill you? You summoned me. You gave everything you had to me, in the well of Dancing-Water, so I shall give everything I have to you. I am yours, and you are mine. We are stuck together, you and I.’ The wolf started chuckling, which was rather unbecoming, so Peppermint Moon was left speechless. His knees stopped shaking.

‘Wha-what?! Are you for real?!’ He demanded suddenly.

The wolf-dog cleared its throat and straightened its back. ‘My name is Cosmos, the Crocotta of the Northern Wood. I am very pleased to meet you, Peppermint Moon.’

‘Cro-crocotta! But I thought you were some kind of dog breed.’

Cosmos looked insulted. ‘I am not just a dog! I am the legendary Co—’

‘So the old woman wasn’t lying! Hey, can you help me?’ asked an eager Peppermint, as soon as he realized that Cosmos was a tame, is somewhat retarded, canine. He got over his fear quickly--such was his blind devotion to Star. Cosmos stopped sputtering and nodded, though it still muttered under its breath about disrespectful humans.

Peppermint clapped his hands once, finally back to business. 'Cool! Okay, here's the deal. You'll accompany me to the god of the World, alright? And you'll protect me, right? That's good.'

'Yes, I know the way. But I cannot meddle with the affairs of gods. I can only stand and watch.'

'Fine. At least you know how to get there,' Peppermint filled his water bottle and sealed it shut, satisfied. 'Nice to meet you, Croc. Let's go.'

'...Croc?" The wolf-dog repeated curiously, but Peppermint was too excited to explain.

It was Akia who suggested that Peppermint would need a competent traveling companion, and Daman then knew that a dog would be the best choice. He only made Cosmos a wolf-dog to make him seem more menacing, like a true fairy-tale sidekick.

Cosmos lead Peppermint Moon far out north, until they reached a lovely field of anemone.

‘Do not inhale the air. It is poisonous.’

Peppermint gave the wolf a puzzled look, but it only shook its head. ‘The anemone grew beneath the foot of the man who has not sinned, and his blood dripped on their petals. They shall be your doom,’ said the Crocotta. The boy nodded quietly and covered his nose with his hands as they trudged forward.

The candle-maker looked up and smiled when he saw Star beaming at him from the night skies, and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

‘I love all of you, Star,” whispered Peppermint. ‘Wait for me…’

As they walked, unbreathing, Cosmos stared at the ball of wax Peppermint was holding, and chuckled.

Daman grinned. He was inspired again. He wrote a few more pages concerning Peppermint Moon’s travel in the Northern woods which concerned an encounter with a man-eating rose bush, a rose bush-eating geyser, and the rare Anka, whose voice was deadly; it was a good thing Cosmos tricked it into killing itself before it was too late. Finally, it was time to meet God.

***

“It’s so lovely to see you both again!” exclaimed Wake-Robin Breen’s editor as he shook their hands excitedly. “Come, sit down and eat. We have many things to discuss.”

Wake-Robin and Janne sat down on their respective seats and linked hands under the table. A waiter arrived to take their orders, then the editor placed a notepad and a pen on the table when he left and started taking down notes.

“How are you, Robin?” the editor asked. “How is your next novel?”

Wake-Robin appeared to be chuckling quietly, by himself. Janne slapped him hard on the shoulder. “M-Mister Kayne!”

The editor repeated his question while the author sputtered and fumbled with words. Then he coughed quietly and blinked. “E-Everything’s okay. I can’t seem to stop writing…” he glanced smilingly at Janne for a moment, then sighed, “…so I’m sure it’ll be finished in a few months.”

“I’m sure you haven’t thought of it yet, but…I’m really intrigued. What’s the title of the story?”

Daman Kayne wrinkled his forehead. “I plan on just calling it Peppermint Moon, you know, the name of the main character. I could change my mind, though. But that’s my initial idea.”

“Peppermint Moon sounds splendid, I think,” Janne chimed in, “The story does focus on his adventures, even if it’s about meeting Star. It’s his life and his purpose.”

“Mister Killian has a point,” agreed the editor. “Still a kid’s book, of course? Pepper’s quest is rather…dark.”

“Peppermint,” corrected Wake-Robin, then he laughed. “Of course it’s a kid’s book! The theme may seem dark, but I won’t dwell on it. It’ll have a happy ending, still. The dark parts are only to teach lessons about life, growing up, and all those things. I do want my story to reach out to the adults as well, so I hope it’ll be a book for all ages.”

“Is that so?" The editor tapped his chin, his forehead wrinkled. "Will we still place it in the children’s book section or in the general fiction section?”

“Place it in the best-seller area,” suggested Janne, and they all sniggered. Wake-Robin squeezed his hand endearingly and the editor smiled, approving of their wonderful friendship.

Their orders arrived and they began to eat. Janne Killian discussed his ideas on the illustrations between large chews.

“I’ve decided to use wet-on-dry details during the Star-Peppermint interactions, to make the situation look gentle and romantic,” said Janne, “Then maybe I’ll use brisk, heavy strokes in the Northern Wood scenes. I still have to think it over though, since the story is unfinished. I did make a few sketches of Peppermint Moon...to be honest I’m having trouble with his costume—“

“Oh shut up. I’m sure they’ll be brilliant,” said Wake-Robin airily, while Janne opened his mouth and—when he had nothing else to say—closed it with a shy smile. His editor shook his head and lifted a finger in the air. “That won’t do, Mister Robin. You should listen to what Mister Killian suggests.”

“Oh, I know his plans, he informed me already,” said the author, “but I don’t care what he does. I trust him. I’m sure what he makes will be a masterpiece, and I’m not worthy to have his artworks on my novels—“

“—What are you saying, I’m the one who’s supposed to be ashamed, I have no right to interpret your work and to even have my art published alongside your stories is just—“

“—You have every right to do so, and anyway your art really stands out and it really helps the overall quality of the novel—“

“—Oh, but the children buy the books for your stories, really—“

The editor watched on bemusedly as the two engaged in what seemed like a compliment war against each other. Janne Killian even started to slap his arms on his thighs in protest.

Suddenly, Wake-Robin gulped and went very still.

“…Robin? What’s the matter?” asked his editor.

“Hey. Mister Kayne,” Killian shook his arm. “Mister Kayne…?”

The author looked at him with wide, urgent eyes, obviously trying to convey a message. Janne Killian looked annoyed at first, but recognition dawned on his face after a few seconds, and then he finally looked positively horrified. The poor editor could not understand what was happening, and urged them to speak, but they ignored his pleas.

“W-what?! Now?” exclaimed Janne, lips forming a round, shocked O.

Daman nodded.

“But…why?”

The other man closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again.

“H-how…how could you even…right now? ”

The editor coughed. “Excuse me, I was wondering—“

“Is it really, like that hard?” Janne lifted his fists and leveled it with his nose.

Daman nodded, biting his lip.

Janne Killian spurted out a few more vague sentences, all ending with a really curly question mark.

“What’s with him? Is there something wrong with Mister Robin?” the editor asked as the two men stood up hastily and looked at him with apologetic smiles on their faces. “Forgive me sir, but we really have to go…” said the artist, flushing. The author showed he agreed by nodding furiously, face ashen.

Wake-Robin Breen’s editor mutely allowed them to leave, and watched in wonder as they scurried out of the office like two playmates trying to escape from adult punishment.

“I. Can’t. Believe you,” huffed Janne after a quick one in the living room (they had no time to go to the bedroom, and to undress, even). “How could…oh god.”

Daman grinned at him sheepishly. “I won’t say sorry, since I really enjoyed it.”

“I enjoyed it too, but…next time, don’t just go asking for it while we’re discussing business! Your editor must’ve been confused. Poor guy.”

"Your thighs." whined Daman.

"Oh bugger...so it's my fault again, is it?"

Daman shrugged dismissively and hugged Janne tighter, stroking his hair. “It’s red now,”

“What?” said Janne quickly.

“Sshhh, it's okay. I meant your hair. It’s red now.”

Janne visibly relaxed and buried his face deeper on Daman’s neck. “Know what, I hate my hair. It’s so plain. That’s why I decided to liven it up a bit.”

“Yeah, I know. You've decided to change your hair every week ten years ago.”

Janne looked at him wonderingly. “How did you—“

Daman suddenly felt embarrassed—there was no way out, definitely. He had to admit his noontime escapades. “I read your…journal. B-but don’t worry, I didn’t read the other personal entries! Just about the hair and stuff. Promise.”

Janne’s face was unreadable, but he giggled after a moment’s silence. “…Yeah. I was really crazy back then, right? I remember telling you that I wanted to try everything. Well, it's true. My greatest desire is to experience the best in life!”

“You’re so interesting, Mister Killian,” said Daman softly. “Compared to you, I’m really boring.”

“You? Boring?” Janne sat up quickly, looked at the other man sternly, and began speaking very fast. “You’re the one who told me that I should treasure my shadow person, because he’s my best friend. You’re the one who told me stories about the Makara monster trapped in a mailbox that chased you and Ingvar in the highway during your driving lesson; that was really funny, I laughed my head off when your driving instructor started cursing you in five different languages…and, and, you can actually see all these lovely creatures, whereas I can only hear them, and you even get to interact with them—oh god, Mister Kayne, you’re the most amazing person, and you lead the most exciting life, and just being with you is such an adventure.”

Daman Kayne looked at Janne Killian with surprise and so much love for him that Janne couldn’t help but laugh and snuggle close. Everything was perfect then. They had a new, comfy couch that was unlike Janne’s ratty old one (the ghouls grumbled though, because they were fond of dusty furniture). Daman moved his other belongings in (examples would be a dream catcher and his favourite mug) to feel more comfortable. He also successfully managed to tidy up Janne’s messy table, and the blonde’s crazy paraphernalia were still intact even if Daman tried to push the shelves in different corners to make the place a bit more spacious. The living room was bathed with golden light when Daman got rid of the posters that were stuck on the window and stuck them on the ceilings instead, and Janne could breathe in fresh air from outside.

Perfection.

He was slowly occupying a large part of Janne Killian’s life, and Janne also owned a huge chunk of his.

It was happiness in a gloomy world.

They heard another groan of agony; Daman looked behind him and sighed.

“If you really hate the sun then the basement is free, you lazy bunch of numbskulls!”

Janne shook his head. “Sorry if they’re disturbing you. They’ve been here for a long time. Father liked them around.”

“Ghouls like to live in dark, tight, and messy places,” said Daman firmly, “So it’s no wonder they consider your house a piece of heaven.”

“They make me feel safe, though,” said Janne, pressing his nose on Daman’s cheek since he knew Daman liked it. “When there are a lot of things around me, I feel comfortable. It's more like home.”

“I’m here to protect you now, though,” said Daman seriously, shivering pleasantly when he felt the other man’s breath on his cheek.

Janne gave him a sly grin. “He-ey, I can live on my own!”

“The others aren’t as kind as your house spirits, Mister Killian. They want to kill us all...my friends try so hard to pacify them in vain. Frankly, I don’t really blame them. Sometimes, I want everybody to disappear, you know? Because they think that they’re right all the time. It’s like every human being was born with a superiority complex. Especially in this town. People think that what they believe is right, which is really annoying. Everyone wants to conform. It sickens me.” Daman made a face.

“You disagree with the majority rule, then?”

“I think that the majority rule should be followed in some occasions, but then the majority should also respect the opinions of each individual. Because sometimes, the answer lies in one person.”

“Mister Kayne,” said Janne, facing him, “Are you saying that you have all the answers?”

“Of course not,” said Daman quickly, face scarlet. “What I’m saying is, maybe I have the answers to the questions that they deem unimportant, but are actually uhm, important. Like how the fairies and the wood spirits are really angry at us humans. They wouldn’t listen to me if I tell them. No one would. They wouldn't hear me out...Ciara Lunnaire might send me to the hospital again, or somewhere else that's even more nasty, and I don't want to return to that shit hole. Not again..."

Janne placed a hand on Daman's shoulder.

"...That’s why I created Peppermint Moon. I want Wake-Robin to speak for me. People admire fantasy writers and make complimentary reviews, but they think they’re loony when they’re serious about their work.”

Janne smiled. “Hey, I think you’re loony in a really sexy way.”

Daman gave him a weird look. “Am I supposed to be flattered?”

The blonde kissed him on the cheek and pressed their foreheads together. “Meanie. And you still owe me an ‘I love you’, bastard.” His hands started stroking the back of Daman’s neck.

Daman pretended to yawn. “I don’t know…I feel exhausted.”

“Too exhausted even for this…?” Janne whispered something in his ear, grinning all the while. Daman almost didn’t catch it, so he whispered it again.

Janne sat back and waited. Daman resembled a very red tomato.

“You’re crazy,” said Daman finally, when they walked to the bedroom hand in hand. “So I guess I do. Really. Love you.”

“That’s the confession of love I’ve been waiting for? You’re so lame!” teased Janne before they closed the door and made good use of the new bed.


***

Daman Kayne was still in high spirits as he walked home that evening. Even if Puck, another mischievous faery, tried to ruin his night by sticking chewing gum and dog crap on the road, Daman sensed his tricks and skipped over them easily.

Ingvar was very happy to see his human friend so cheerful—it had been years since he last laughed with no restrictions. Ingvar was the one who threw Daman’s tablets far away, where they could not hurt his friend…he did not trust doctors, and knew they were professional murderers set to drive humans crazy. Ingvar also wondered why people refused to listen to Daman when he was the most interesting human known in their world.

Feeling warm and happy, Ingvar informed Daman how glad he was to be his shadow, that it was a huge honour.

Daman merely smiled. ‘now don’t get all sappy with me, ingvar. i prefer you being your usual sulky, stalky self.’

Ingvar was about to tell him that the word ‘stalky’ did not exist just not to smite him, but gasped instead when Daman stopped in his tracks. Both were surprised to see that the porch light was left open, and that the other rooms were brightly lit. Ciara Lunnaire usually didn’t leave the lights open for Daman, since he mostly arrived home after midnight.

He could hear soft murmurs from inside the house. Ciara Lunnaire had company—and Daman knew nothing about this ‘guest’. Walking slowly towards the door, he tried to peer through the windows but his line of sight was blocked by the curtains.

“AKIA!” exclaimed Daman when his best friend ran towards him from the backyard, looking very anxious. “Hey, what’s wrong? Who’s inside?”

Akia looked very worried without a doubt, but she couldn’t speak. Daman tried his hardest to calm her down, but the dog was frantic, running around in circles and whimpering between loud barks. Daman then instructed Ingvar to check what was going on inside—for some odd reason, he did not want to enter his own house.

Then he heard it. The house spirit was moaning in misery, and his voice was so loud and in pain that Daman almost burst into tears.

The house.

It was dying.

'akia, didn't i leave a plate of cookies earlier? why is the house spirit hungry? akia...?'

Akia let out a short bark , eyes wide with sadness.

Daman Kayne felt like he was estranged from his own home. His house held countless beloved memories; he met most of his friends in his bedroom, because they visited him every night and they would lead him out to play. But at that moment, the house felt cold, and the atmosphere was uninviting. Daman closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Akia to soothe her worries.

He waited for Ingvar’s report. The moon was full and a dreary yellow, like it was suffering from a disease. It was the death gods' festival, and they were dancing in the air in a sombre mood.

In Daman Kayne's house once lived his dear aunt and uncle, who treated him like their own, and Ciara Lunnaire, who showed him love in its purest form. Even if she didn’t believe his stories, she would listen. And that’s what Daman Kayne really needed. Someone who wanted to hear what he had to say.

He had to get that house back.

“ingvar!” he called out, “what’s happening in there?”

His shadow person soon came back, looking grave.

“well?”

“you have to go,” said Ingvar. “she shall die at this rate. they never really liked her in the first place. they say they tolerate her for your sake. she is worthless. let us leave her.”

“what do you mean? what could—“ Suddenly Daman felt like he wanted to vomit, like he wanted to hurl all his innards all over the place because they were aching, and his fingers were itching to break and shatter and choke a large, stout neck—

“—CARLOS EVOY!!!”

He rushed to the house and kicked the door open. He raced through the living room, the dining room and the kitchen, cursed loudly, pushed a few furniture away, then clambered up the stairs in great speed, hurtling towards Ciara Lunnaire’s bedroom.

Everything seemed like a blur for Daman Kayne as his brain was torn apart by incontrollable rage, and he could not stop his fists from cursing Carlos Evoy’s existence as his knuckles met the blonde man’s jaw several times. He closed his eyes from his cousin’s screaming, dwelling instead on the music of bone cracking against bone, a man’s agonized shouting, and the sound of blood gushing from wounded lips. A booming voice told him to kill this man, kill this bastard, kill him because he is not worthy and sacrifice his flesh and bone to us, oh young avatar, and he believed it. The voice grew louder and louder until it overpowered all sounds of blood and violence.

Daman could kill right then and there, he could just kill and be happy, and then Ciara Lunnaire and Janne Killian and his other friends could live happily ever after because he killed that man.

His body froze. Daman Kayne tried to move his arms or his legs, but he lost control of his body completely. He blinked and everything came to focus.

Ingvar stopped his violent movements by holding his hands and arms tightly—he had a death-grip. Daman heard sobbing from one corner of the room, and it seemed familiar, somehow. He glanced at his soiled fists, then at the man sprawled on the bed, his face contorted and blood-spattered.

His shadow was murmuring something in the air, an incantation of sorts, and it tested his patience.

“L-LET GO OF ME, INGVAR!” He shouted in a hoarse voice. “LET GO, GODDAMNIT! I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS!”

'you're going to hurt yourself. you're important to me.' said his shadow.

Everyone inside the room was still except for Carlos Evoy, who managed to get up from the bed, covering his face with a handkerchief. A few golden teeth dropped on the floor, and Daman tried to step on them, but he could not move an inch.

The man would've wanted to have his revenge, to shoot Daman Kayne's heart numerous times with a pistol, but he did not bring any weapon, and was injured. So Carlos Evoy, infamous millionaire and dealer, got up and spoke without looking at anyone or anything.

“Darling…your cousin is a deeply disturbed individual. Send him back.”

And he left the room, limping.

Ingvar let go of Daman after his departure, and they both glanced at the huddled figure leaned on the wall. Ciara Lunnaire buried her face with her hands and cried. Her cries could be heard outside; as she grieved their neighbors left their houses and gathered on their doorstep, in bathrobes and pyjamas. They gossiped loudly. Did you hear Ciara Lunnaire screaming, they whispered. That cousin of hers is certainly violent! How frightening!

Daman Kayne glared at them from the window. Carlos Evoy looked beaten when he came out of the house, which only attracted the rest of the neighborhood. One by one the people started approaching the Kayne residence, looking at the door and windows with interest and proclaiming their guesses in loud, overbearing voices, like an obnoxious audience.

Daman thought he could hear clapping, and cheering, and—

A circus.

They were part of a circus.

Ciara Lunnaire’s blouse was open and Daman felt a chill in his spine, like everything would never be the same again. Ciara Lunnaire’s sobs ceased, replaced by soft sniffles, and she looked so young. Daman believed that nothing could hurt her—he idolized his cousin, thinking that she was the strongest person in the world, strong enough to put up with him all these years. But then she grew up, and looked so beautiful, so it was natural for people to desire her…and hurt her in the process.

Ciara Lunnaire is not mine to protect. She is herself...and that's why I cannot save her from Carlos Evoy and the neighbors and even...even my friends.

Suddenly Daman Kayne was bursting with anger, and he gripped his fists and looked at Ciara Lunnaire menacingly.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!”

She looked up and gave Daman the most vicious look of fury and resent.

“What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK?!” She stood up and almost fell; she supported herself by clinging on the low table by her bed. Her glare deepened with every word she spoke. “That's all you can say, Daman? What the fuck?! You're the one who's been doing all those weird things, talking to those...those things! You're the one who's being ridiculed by our neighbors, when I've tried everything to keep our dignities intact! I've done nothing!"

“THAT FUCKING BASTARD WAS KISSING YOU IN OUR HOUSE! INSIDE OUR HOUSE!” repeated Daman, his voice hoarse and full of loathing. He wanted to chase Carlos Evoy and kill him properly. He wanted to beat that bastard into a bloody pulp. He wanted to hear him scream in pain. Their house was dead. He murdered the house spirit.

“We are engaged,” said Ciara Lunnaire coldly, bitter gaze never leaving Daman’s. “We’re supposed to do things couples normally do. But you just had to ruin it, didn’t you? You just had to butt in and ruin my life. Stop acting like a little kid, Daman! I’m going to be happy with Mister Evoy. I know I will be!”

Daman stepped forward, his eyes pleading. “I know you don’t really want to marry him, Lune. You’re doing this because you think it’s best for me, but it isn’t. Please, Lune. I don’t want to fight you. He’s not for you. Let me handle things. I can revive the protector of our house. I can contact someone who can revive him. Just let me…”

“Don’t you get it, Daman?! I’M TIRED OF LETTING YOU HANDLE EVERYTHING!”

Ciara Lunnaire shouted, tears stinging her eyes once more. Daman was stunned, and he tried to say something but he couldn’t. Ciara Lunnaire was not his to control. That he knew. But he also knew she did not want this, and it explained why he was so upset. He couldn’t understand why his own cousin was angry at him for protecting her from something that was clearly evil.

“I’m the one who knows what’s best for you. I DO. I’ve been looking after you for more than twenty years, Daman. That’s more than what your Janne Killian can offer.” Her glare softened, and turned almost sad. “And I know that you have problems. Carlos can help, he's been really supportive. He wants us to have a normal life. He can pay for the hospital bills. He can bring us away from this place, if it gives you bad memories. He can—“

“Can’t you hear the house spirit moaning? He abhors the very stench of your fiancé! That bastard’s walking pollution, I tell you! That’s why you have to listen to me!”

“Will you stop talking about your stupid imaginary friends? For god’s sake, Daman, you’re an adult!”

“If being an adult means getting married and having a boring life, then I’d rather die.”

Ciara Lunnaire moved forward and pointed a shaky finger at Daman’s face. “Y-you'd...you'd rather...oh god...oh my god..." She closed her eyes tightly. "...How can I rely on you if you keep on spouting nonsense...? Please...let me do what I want! And if you…if you want to die, then just die, please! Don’t bother me!”

“I'm sure you don’t want this, Lune—“

“Who are you to tell me what I want and what I don’t? I never interfered with your decisions, Daman, so don’t you dare interfere with mine! Do I complain when you write your silly books?! Do I complain when you waste the food I cook on your made-up friends?! I don't, Daman, I try to understand you, I try my hardest to see what you're seeing but I just can't, and I...I probably never will...”

She was about to come apart, Daman could feel it, so he moved forward to appease her with an embrace. They always made up with a hug. He could see it now—three years later they would be in another place, far away from lonely Anwar, and they would be laughing at themselves. Oh, do you remember how stupid we were back then, Daman would ask, and they would laugh and eat lots of delicious food and be really, really happy because they would learn from their mistakes. They always did. They were like siblings who never fight for real.

"It's okay, Lune. We can work this out. Lune..."

He was about to wrap his arms around her, eager to end the quarrel, but she looked at his hands sourly.

“It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong. You’re the one who’s screwing around with that--Janne Killian.”

The voices outside grew louder, more insistent, but it seemed to Daman Kayne as if his whole world had gone silent, holding a funeral for the lights that brightened his heart and protected the people he held dear.

“You've been having sex. With a man.”

“…Mister Killian has nothing to do with this.” A voice that was unlike his own said quietly.

The voice scared him. I could use my powers to erase this situation, he told himself. I could turn back time--I used to revert things back to their original states when I was young. It's a piece of cake.

Daman closed his eyes and concentrated, but nothing happened. His head only hurt.

Daman Kayne was rendered powerless.

“You think I’m dumb, don’t you? You think that you can fool me, even if you visit him everyday. You actually think I don’t see how you look at each other so…so lecherously?” Ciara Lunnaire laughed indignantly, eyes revealing no mirth. “My god, Daman…with a man. Are you that desperate? Is this your way of trying to catch attention?”

“I love him. It’s different. You don’t love that piece of shit, but I love Janne.” There. He said his name.

Her eyes widened, but she closed them quickly and sighed. “You can’t love a man. That’s impossible.”

“Give me one good reason why I can’t.”

“BECAUSE!” Ciara Lunnaire shouted, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Because he’s a man, Daman. You just. Can’t! You can’t! Okay, so you can have your made-up friends. We’ll call off the doctors, even. I can handle ghosts and faeries, oh god please, but I can’t handle this! Oh god!” She ran a hand through her hair, but the rain kept pouring.

“You don’t understand, Lune.” said Daman softly. All words were robbed from his lips, so he simply looked down on the floor.

“Of course I don’t understand! He’s obviously a freak and a bad influence to you. I bet he’s used to such appalling activities. I bet this is what he wanted all along--to ruin our lives, our relationship. I bet he spreads his legs apart for every man he sees—“

Daman and Ciara Lunnaire did not see the slap coming. It was sharp and quick and painful, and they would both remember it for a very long time.

Ciara Lunnaire found herself alone the next morning, lying flat on the carpet and staring at the ceiling, as the neighbors knocked on the door and demanded for answers. Daman took his dog and his shadow with him, but to her it seemed like he took all she had.