Bane

April 15, 1980

Thunder rumbled through the halls of his estate. He ignored it. The second crash of thunder, he realized it was not thunder at all.

"Just a visitor." He nodded, a lazy, distant expression on his face. The drink was in him now, his head heavy, and thick. He waited half expecting a raven to flutter in and perch above his door, but only from the most macabre reaches of his imagination could it ever be. He heard the crash of wood and glass, even as he watched it exist inward from his chair. A naked man lay in the shards, and splintered wood, twitched a moment here, twisting a moment there; bleeding from wounds that healed even as he watched, and when he rose, Donovan stared into the gaunt face of Jonathan Walker; Jonathan's face, but not his eyes. They were the same green; the same bright, thoughtful green, but they were eyes lost to the wilderness; dilated large, and hungry for violence. They were the eyes of not merely a predator, but a monster.

Donovan sat his glass on a small table next to his chair. "I heard he died, but I ddn't expect to see you."

"You have clothes."

"...and you don't. Oh. You're asking me if I have any for you."

Bane grimaced.

"Cold out there, huh? I'm getting the impression you're not used to cold. You're a big boy, aren't you?"

"Clothes."

Donovan stared past Bane, eyes fixed on the painting of Angela. He wondered if Andrea looked anything like her mom. She was such a tiny thing last he saw her. "Let me be clear, and not to be discourteous to someone so new to Driftwood, but fuck you, monster. I don't have shit for you."

"Useless."

"Real. Alive."

Bane narrowed his eyes.

"I didn't have to steal my skin to walk among men, and I don't have to pretend I'm something I'm not."

Bane tilted his head.

"Your clothes."

"Come and take them, coward "

"I may let you live."

"I am Donovan Blackwood. My line has been since the foundations were laid for Driftwood. We had a good run... but I'm not afraid of you, and I'm not afraid of dying."

Bane smiled, baring Jonathan's wolfish grin. "We will see what things you fear."

Donovan Blackwood made no attempt to fight, did not struggle, and gave Bane no reward for his efforts. There was no begging, or screaming.

Donovan passed bravely quietly as thunder echoed over Driftwood.

The old man's clothes were getting tight; the clothes of The Order, Bane drew his knowledge from Jonathan's residual memories. Fatigues worn by Witch Hunters, Donovan's were a dark gray - almost black - and faded. His duster was getting tight in the arms. The pants were riding higher of on Bane's legs. His bones - the boy's bones - hurt with growth. He did not bother donning the traditional hat of the order.

✟ ☧ ✟

Bane stared in his reflection in the window, and the scarred face of Jonathan Walker stared back. He grimaced, and the reflection grimaced back. Bane narrowed his eyes. He hated the boy's face, and the genuine guilt and disgust he felt in himself - for himself - when he saw it in glass, or the still pools that formed near the flowing creek. He was too big for the (cowls, they're called cowls) hoods worn by the traditional hunters in The Order.

They the lights in the house were out.

Bane closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose, and exhaling slowly through his mouth.

Jonathan Walker is dead.

He is dead.

There is only Bane.

There is only Bane.

Jonathan walks the endless scape of the (forever lands) (the mind field) (Realm) sleeping giant, the Dead God Taal.

I am Bane.

I am Bane.

Bane prowled the shadows surrounding the small house. Familiarity swept over him, and he pushed it out of him.

Jonathan knew these people.

Knew of these people.

They were no one to him. Bane uttered a curse user his breath, pressing on, circling the small house twice. Windows locked. Doors locked. The front, and back doors were etched with rough arcane spells for protection; spells that were supposed to make the small house not invisible, but unnoticed. Symbols that may work on mortal men, but not on him.

...but why here?

He shook his head sharply. Bane tired of second guessing himself. Before this body, this frail, weak flesh, he knew only the will of Taal... but Taal's will cost him his corporeal form at the hands of a mortal man. Mostly mortal. Soulless. False life.

Finley. Cassus Finley.

Bane stopped, ducking to a knee a moment, and pushed his pan to his forehead. He closed his eyes, and breathed. This had to stop. The flesh he inhabited was supposed to free him, to do his will as he will without the domination of Taal. Instead, he found himself at the mercy of a dead man's memories, his drives, and compulsions.

Jonathan Walker is dead...

...but was he really? When they passed one another as Jonathan gave in, and followed the mutilated girl, did they not touch? Was it not his intention to taunt the boy as they crossed from one side to the other?

Was his action in arrogance, and had that arrogance cost him?

No. His was a will that came only shortly after the dawn of creation. From Taal's endless kingdom he watched through the fog of time the rise and fall of man repeating itself, from smallest tribes to the greatest empires; the rise, and fall of giants, a flood that drowned the world, and the world's re-population; the rise and fall of empires, and the selfless - and some in his circles would say foolish - sacrifice of a Jewish Carpenter. His was the will of ages, and who was Jonathan Walker to him?

He is no one.

He is me. I am him.

No. I killed him. Jonathan Walker is dead, and gone, gone, gone, wandering aimlessly with his mutilated girl.

Bane opened his eyes, standing suddenly. He stared in his reflection in the window glass, sneering at his reflection. His face, but not his face. He stepped three paces back, crouched, and leapt through the window.