Ichor And Steel

Chapter Seven; Was it you, metal-man?

ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀᴅ, ᴊᴏʜɴɴʏ ɢᴏᴛʜ

Was it you, Heisenberg? In my dream?

Upon sleep, Ethan descended into a night-terror where he was in a tunic and vest, leading a brittle chase. His pursuers were mostly unknown, faces clothed with shadows but bare chested and skin thick with fur. But there were also others, though they seemed dense and staggered from the grounds, bursting through snow. Ethan found a carriage—the Duke!

Who was the Duke?

He threw himself at the rickety box, yelling and howling until torn away, flung through fire and on to the ground. The hammer wielder raised his weapon and slammed the ground, the impact making Ethan's brain rack inside his skull. A grin, glittering white teeth and the silver of a stud straight through his tongue.

Heisenberg?

The merciless kill was cut short, Ethan coming to on the cold ground. But the cool of the evening could not affect him for his insides burnt and crippled up; the memory stung like a bee and rung in his ears like metal pans.

"What the fuck was that?" Ethan whispered to himself, reeling himself to his feet.

He glared at the twisted sheets and, although the temptation was strong, willed himself away from the bed-quarters. Ethan pulled on new clothes, feeling their dusty insides where the fleece had come loose. He'd lost all sense of time, but the dimness of candles suggested it was near dawn and it seemed better to not be woken by being...well...thrown out a window; his back still ached.

Coming down the stairwell where the walls touched his shoulders and left grazes where his sleeves were rolled up, felt like falling into his dream. Nightmare. What a corrupted visage of insomnia. Ethan had witnessed no such thing in sleep for a while—he doubted he ever did—and it was not only physical hurt but also something inside...like his heart. A distant sense of betrayal as though he trusted Heisenberg.

Pft, imagine.

Eventually, the slim halls sprawled into a grand entrance, branching off into a library, that wretched court which stunk, and winds trapped howled behind the large brass door, and the kitchens. Ethan slipped guardedly into the warm light, glancing for the source of giggling; it was the sisters, but their presence seemed invisible. He reached the archway before the kitchen and eyed a cauldron of something sweet smelling, but his attentions were demanded by the crackle of a page.

"Winters?" Lady Dimitrescu called in a rather onerous tone.

Ethan swallowed thickly and peered into the library, finding the Lady sprawled on a longue, a journal in her lap; her dress had a relaxed neckline, making Ethan raise his chin to follow her cleavage, whilst the skirt splayed like a quilt. She had no hat, hair loose. Ethan wondered if she too had just woken.

"Nothing yet on your agenda, manthing?" She inquired, lowering spectacles so opaque and thin he had missed them entirely at first. She leant forth, exposing more of her chest, and tilted her head.

Ethan licked his lips and his jaw set firmly. "Not—uh—not yet. Donna told me your daughters might need me?"

Dimitrescu flicked her eyebrows and straightened her posture. "I doubt they will. Can't you hear them? My daughters appear to be in the walls!" He found a slight humour to her and allowed himself to like it. "And with this being the case, you might as well run an errand for me, will you not?"

She stood, her height unfolding, and Ethan bared his teeth, taking a slight step back; he was already self-conscious of his tallness or lack thereof. However, this striking physical trait added to her beauty, which was why Ethan, entranced, accepted her chore for him; find something she lost when he killed her last.

It was only once out in the cold did his sulking begin; his head was burning, straining to remember where he had once slaughtered that dragon. High, cold, wind...that was everywhere! Giggling plagued the air, followed by the impending punishment he would surely endure for no real reason—maybe that was the catalyst to the sisters' amusement! How could Dimitrescu, their mother, not be in on their mischievous doings? He turned his tearful face from the castle and held himself, biting on his knuckle in fear of return.

Last time wasn't fun. He didn't even want to think about it, but it happened between metal-bitch being mad for some unspecified reason and leaving a window open whilst cleaning.

He shuddered and wiped at his eyes, listening to the howl of wind, leaves and chills carried within its grasp. And then the obscured whine of a struggle. Ethan frowned in the direction, drawn to an old gate which dipped into a courtyard. In the clutches of the limestone, marble, and metal and beneath the withering trees stood a doorway; he knew, he felt this place was very unfamiliar and untouched by his shoes.

The tip of a flame's tongue licked at the edges of the alcove, inky black and wavering like magic. He approached, a terrible curiosity guiding him like a hand on the back of his neck. Closer, closer, closer, the scuffling loudened and eventually there was a pig-like whine...no, a baby's!

"Hello?" Ethan shouted, clutching the doorframe, and leaning down a blind fall of steps. "Is everything alright?"

"EthanEthanEthanEthan!" a shrilling voice echoed, approaching with rapid pattering. A small weight crashed into his leg and something wooden clambered up his body, wrapping arms that pinched his neck in a strangle-like hold. However, for once, this wasn't intentional of Angie.

"You little shit—get off!" Ethan cried, attempting to grapple for the puppet.

"Baby is being attacked by a Lycan!" Angie whined, clutching at his face as Ethan ripped her away, holding her at arm's length.

"Baby—?"

Oh. Oh, God no.

His chest tightened, loosening only slightly when there was Donna's shout.

Fuck no. Don't you fucking dare, Ethan.

"Ah!" Ethan groaned, shoving Angie down and jostling down the steps at an uneven pace; he was reluctant. Greatly reluctant to save a fleshy, pink, foetus-looking beast. "Donna, I can't see you but just move!"

There was a feminine grunt, a flicker of her glimpsed by the hanging lanterns, and the feral jaws of the attacker, body wrapped around and mouth sucking at Baby's skin—

Vile, looking thing.

Ethan sucked in psyched-breath and launched again; this time compelled by a deep-rooted violence. A thick, shrieking cough shredded up his throat and spluttered wads of bile into the flailing, unhinged mouth of the Lycan, teeth bloodied by Baby's wounds. Ethan's eyes blurred and he made out the gentle creep of mold encasing the Lycan's inner mouth, spreading across their outer skin. The blond yelped with surprise, intending to simply strangle the Lycan but his wrangling was controlled by another instinct, an unbroken sensation.

Shsmack!

It was moist and bloody. For a brief instant, Ethan feared he'd been struck in his moment of shock induced paralysis. On his knees in the dusty tunnels, he glanced up, seeing a more muscular figure between him and Baby and the Lycan, who now had a hammer wedged in its skull.

Metal man?