The entire night Henri kept his gaze downcast and at his dish, slowly stirring around the strips of fat he picked off the meat on his plate, rhythmically, calmly, in perfect time to a song or thought he had repeating in his head.

Donald was being quite effectively ignored, or so it appeared to be. Deep down every word, and even his very presence burned him. He could hardly stand to hear how over exaggerated the whole story was, what wounded him even more was the constant chiding of his family, and the notion that Donald knew him "quite well" was enough to make him sick.

He can't condone it. Self righteous prick, he probably came here to punish him (as if it was his place) for a small shove he kept making out to be a brutal attack that happened over a month ago. He bet that son of a bitch marked it on his calendar and dreamed about it every night. He didn't need to hear this.

"Hey mom? What's accosted?" The youngest of his two brothers asked.

Henri sighed audibly and rolled his eyes, changing his view from the plate to the open window. The sky was becoming a dusty blue and the sun was sinking into the horizon, throwing dashes of bright orange against the water. It was getting dark, and he had better things to do then watch Donald get a boner from his mother's usual rant about how disappointed she was in him. He had a job to do.

"Well," he stood up from his seat. "'wish I could stay, I gotta get to work."

The small, cold smile on Donald’s face grew when Henri’s brother spoke, and again when Henri announced his intent to leave for work. The amount of enjoyment that Donald had gotten out of this evening was almost intoxicating.

“Oh, it means he wanted to fight me,” Donald said dismissively. Knowingly, he kept his wording simple; he didn’t want to confuse the child, or the rest of the family, for that matter.

Outside the Bernard residence, evening was slowly but surely becoming night, and save for Henri himself, the streets were empty and lonesome. Most sensible families had already begun their normal routines, serving supper and sending children off to bed, and so this left only the less reputable element of River’s End to ever really walk the streets at this hour, and, fortunately, there were never very many of those types in the town. River’s End was a good, honest place, after all.

He was goading you.

The voice in Henri’s head spoke again for the first time in days. Before, it would only speak in fragments following short bursts of white noise, broken images and piercing sounds; it had become quite articulate recently, however. The more Henri concentrated and spoke with it, the more he listened and thought, the more the voice spoke and shared.

It had never given Henri its name, and it was a rather imposing existence, too. There were, however, a few obvious things about it, and the foremost of which was that it was old - incredibly so, in fact. The voice sometimes spoke of myths and legends, and of religion. Almost all of the stories it told predated River’s End by hundreds of years.

Be careful of him, the voice - male, from the sound in Henri’s head - warned.

“Oh, it means he wanted to fight me,”

Henri grabbed his coat and slammed the door behind him.

That rotten little bastard. A shove was hardly a fight, and what if he did have a bone to pick with him? Was it so wrong? Donald was obviously trouble, from his head down to his toes, he knew it ever since the day he met him, STARING at Roland, undressing him with his eyes or reading his mind or what looked most like putting him in a God Damned trance. The little grinning cocksucker was not to be trusted.Especially not now, not now that he was showing up in his own home months after the fact, relaying his story to his family. He didn't need the voice in his head to tell him that.

"I know."

What could the point of that possibly be, other than to stir the pot? Who knew what went on in that guy's head. Henri wasn't waiting to find out.Ready to burst, anger and pent up energy released itself through his legs, and he literally sprinted full tilt towards the lighthouse. He wanted as much distance between himself and them as possible, also he'd been held up and was going to be late.

"What's his problem anyway?"

Lately the voice in his head had become more active, and quite frankly was a welcome part of his conscience, especially since he was so partial to stories. It was met with little to no resistance, and hopefully later tonight once all the bullshit subsided, he'd actually get to learn more about it.

"Whew!"

After the running and the long flight of stairs to the lighthouse, Henri was actually glad to be there, he couldn't get in fast enough. He got himself inside and quickly closed and locked the door behind him, leaning against it and allowing himself some time to sigh a sigh of relief before heading up the stairs. The lighthouse was his and his alone, and only he (or so he thought) had access to it. It was his safe place.

The young man's mad sprint for his light house - his sanctuary, as he considered it - had went uninterrupted by the voice; instead, unbeknownst to Henri, from an alien and awkward point of view, the presence in his head watched the scenery as it rolled by, the changes in the terrain from the town to the light house, and even the changes in Henri’s own person, his body and his mind.

Being what it was, the voice couldn’t help but feel Henri’s anger, although not misplaced, was suffering from a lack of direction, but it also felt this a hard thing to explain to the boy. Disregarding that, the Bernard clan’s visitor was most definitely odd . . .

You, the voice said plainly, are his problem, I think.

The voice saw Donald as an abnormality; for all intents and purposes he appeared human enough, but there was a twisted, sickening darkness about him, too. Back in the ruins, deep underneath River’s End, in that pitch-black hall, the voice had felt the same from Roland, Henri’s friend, and, to a lesser extent, a similar ‘air’ from Henri, too; although the latter’s had almost entirely vanished since then.

Henri made his way through the lighthouse. It had changed significantly since this voice had last seen it. Two chairs, a small table, two mattresses, cabinets, and even a sink and toiletries all passed by as his host made his way to a large heavy locked door. The lighthouse was beginning to look, like a house house. Slowly Henri had been moving all of his things here, and was basically already moved in. In fact, he hadn't been home for nights, tonight he had planned to break the news to his family but obviously Donald had other plans for him. Perhaps it was best not to bring it up to them anyway.


Shuffling through his ring of keys (he had quite a lot) he opened the large heavy door into a long narrow shaft, with a winding set up stairs leading to the top, and began to climb them.

"Ya but why?"

The small confrontation they had couldn't possibly merit such a visit. This whole thing had to be pre planned somehow, or so Henri's paranoia and fantastic imagination thought. Earlier when they first met he did suspect he was an alien, mermaid or both. So what would a mermaid from another galaxy want from him?

He had no idea who he really was after the little tiff, he had a name but there were a good handful of Henri's in town. Why go through all the trouble to visit Henri, to find out where he lived and actually show up? Didn't Paige say that they had planned to meet somewhere anyway? Why didn't she just go to the meeting place and wait for him?

Unless....unless Donald had planned on visiting him all along, and had run into him and Roland coincidentally. Hrm....

At the top they would reach a cylindrical metal pod like unit. In front of it were large large lenses, smaller ones and larger ones piled on top of each other to magnify light from a large lamp behind it. Digging his hands through the ocean of fabric from his grossly over sized jacket, he found the matches, lit them, and the finally the lamp.

"There's definitely more to it."

There was a brief silence from the voice before it spoke to Henri again; it agreed, and it had already been considering the possibility of there being more to the situation than whatever slight Henri had made against Donald.

Who can say what motivates those types.

The world was a weird, weird place, and, to be frank, mysterious voices speaking in your head was only the half of it. He may not have understood it yet, but even Henri had to realize that there was more going on in the world than his simple life in his simple town surrounded by simple people; in fact, in the last few months, he had come face to face with strange cultures and people, explored the gutted carcass of a long dead civilization, witnessed what appeared to be magic, marveled at unlikely weapons, and was even attacked by an oil bleeding, corpse-like statue. In comparison, life in River's End had been considerably duller before these events . . .

The voice heaved a long, slow sigh that seemed too real to be coming from some figment of Henri's imagination.

Whatever his reasons, you would do well to avoid him as much as possible.

It could have went further and explained to Henri, spelled it out for him, really, that it thought Donald was too much an unknown quantity, too dangerous to be around, but it didn't, it didn't want to alarm the boy too much and be forced to slide back into unconsciousness. Still, it was true: Donald was dangerous, and so was his sister, Paige, too, and even Roland Dufort, if the presence's hunch was right.

The world was a bizarre, incredibly retarded place, and yet, excluding the almost being murdered by a strange oil oozing statue, Henri seemed to be quite accepting of what was happening around him, as if it was status quo. Sure there were times that he was scared and confused, but he never doubted things like magic existed all along, it was only now finally coming true, but nobody, not even his best pal would believe him.

Maybe later on down the road he'd consider the idea that he might be completely insane if he remained to be the only one who experienced these phenomenons, but until then he'd continue the conversation with the voice in his head.

"Pfff no kidding."

Henri got up from his crouched up position and did his once over of the contraption, oil levels were okay, the lens wasn't smudged and nothing was getting too too hot. He was good to sit down now.

"You don't need to tell me twice." He said propping himself against the wall by the steps. "It's just that everyone seems to like him, even Roland."

The voice laughed and it almost sounded like a rockslide. Sometimes the voice forgot that its host was a wholly mortal being, a human child with only so many years of experience, and not a particularly enlightened one at that.

Charsima, boy, it said offhandedly, and I suspect a few other tricks, as well.

People who were particularly good with others are often said to have an excess of charisma, and this was especially true for natural born leaders; it was a bit different for Donald, of course, because Henri, himself, had caught the man doing something with Roland, but none could deny he didn’t also have that special spark when it came to getting on a person’s good (or bad, in Henri’s case) side.

All the more reason to avoid him, it reaffirmed, but enough of that- there was a sudden seriousness in its tone now-you should stay away from him, but don’t feel intimidated by him either. This, if the presence in Henri’s mind had arms, it would have spread them wide, is your town and its people are your people, friends and neighbors all . . . If need be, show him it belongs to you.

The voice almost seemed to shrug, if such a thing were possible.

"Ah!"

The voice's boisterous laughter shook and rattled his head like thunder. In a vain attempt Henri covered his ears, as if it would do any good to silence the sound coming from within his head.

"Geezes...ya." Removing his hands from his ears, he decided at least one of them would be better off digging through one of his massive pockets."Other tricks? Like brainwashing or something?" His hand returned from his pocket with a flask.

Well Donald's underhanded magic tricks weren't going to work on him, there was basically nothing he could do to convince him he wasn't a bad person. Unfortunately, there was absolutely nothing he could do to convince the rest of the townsfolk, especially since, well, he wasn't particularly a town favorite. Most of the town seemed to look at Henri as being unreliable, spoiled, or just a straight up bad kid. Mr.Dufort himself even said there was something wrong with him himself.

He took a deep swig from his flask. They were probably right." I don't really think that's how it works. But enough about me, what about you? Who are you?"

The voice sucked air through non-existent teeth and made a sharp tsk sound. Donald may have been capable of brainwashing an entire town, maybe, but if he had, it would have probably drawn unwanted attention or put the Esconian warriors on guard; he would not have wanted that, the voice guessed.

No, the voice answered, probably just a mental push or a slight tug at their inhibitions, and maybe even something as simple as a hand gesture. Subtlety is key.

That was as good a guess as the voice could give in its . . . current state. There was a great deal of limitation on what it could and could not do, and getting an accurate real-world opinion on something? That was pretty much outside of its power-but it could theorize and hypothesize and guess.

The voice gave only cold, hard silence in reply to Henri. Unlike usual, it had not simply retreated and went back to sleep, and there was still a presence; it was that eerie feeling one usually got when they were being followed or watched, like a prickling in the back of the neck, but still, it remained quiet and unresponsive.

A fool, the voice finally said, grimly. One who guides and protects. And meddles.

It laughed again, but it was not nearly as boisterous.

But that isn’t what you want to hear, is it?

"Hm.." Henri paused and reflected on what the voice said, and it was right. It would be too obvious if Donald just went and straight up brainwashed the whole town. SOMEBODY would notice. So what he was doing was more, small scale brainwashing, more like...brain...subtlety...convincing or manipulating. Brain manipulating. But to what end, and how was he going to convince Roland to stay away from him?

Who knew.

Henri sighed and took another sip of his drink. "Well I'm flattered that you'd want to protect me but I was kind of hoping to find out more. Like, who are you and stuff."

In short, Henri was asking for a story. Overtime the voice will or must have noticed that he still retained a lot of, childlike qualities, and was quite fond of stories, especially ones being told by ancient spirits in his mind.

The voice released an irritated sigh that could have been mistaken for a growl. A full span of five seconds passed before it managed to speak again, pushing its irritation as far down as it would go; it took a noticeable degree of effort.

Do not mistake me for a guardian, the voice hissed sharply, and you flatter yourself.

A certain young man had read far too much into what the voice had said, and that was a bad thing. The voice went tight-lipped and became an almost predatory, skulking shadow in the back of his mind, menacing and fearsome, and terrible. It had told Henri what it was but not what it was doing or waht it felt; it was everything it had claimed to be, yes, but it did not so much as hint as to what or whom it was protecting and its advice in relation to Donald was just that, advice. Not protection in the least-Henri Bernard was a long, far off way from anything resembling protection or true guidance.

There was a silent, sudden shift in Henri's mind. Had it needed a physical representation, it would have been a heavy iron door slamming shut, bolted and locked, and lost to darkness, leaving the young man's mind his own once more.

The presence slowly faded.

Henri jumped with a start at the internal door slamming in his mind, and sighed, taking another long drink. Welp, he'd gone and offended it again, actually, he recalled finding a way to offend the voice during their first encounter, which truth be told didn't seem so difficult to do, and he had no idea what it was he said this time, or any other time. The voice also didn't seem very keen on actually telling him either. Either Henri was being a huge prick, or the voice was being overly sensitive. Turns out he'd never find out anyway.

If there was ever a next time maybe he'd try to, as nicely as he could, ask the voice what was bothering it and how he could rectify these problems if at all possible.

"I'm sorry." Was the best he could offer. For now he would continue tending to the light, and replay a song he heard once over and over in his head for entertainment until he thought up another fun way to pass the time by himself.

Actually...

Aurelius. That was the name of the presence, and it had taken quite a long few weeks of not annoying the voice to get that much from it. In the end, it was meant to serve as a lesson, a subtle one, one that involved Henri not saying every odd thing that happened to cross his mind, and to think and consider his words carefully; it was, at its very core, a lesson on diplomacy, and, although not a particularly fast learner, Henri was, as was bound to happen eventually, able to pass the test. Of course, whether that was luck or not was known only to Henri, himself.

Ultimately, however, it didn't matter, because, regardless of which path he had taken, Henri would find himself in the exact same place and situation: He was outside of town, there was a wet warmth at the side of his head, the sun was setting, and, most importantly, perhaps, was the large, very angry man standing over him. He could have been a dockhand or a warehouse worker, or he could have been a militia man. He was built, muscular, broader than Roland, at least, but not quite as tall. His lips curled into a snarl.

“Smartass,” the man spat - quite literally, he spat. He spat right at Henri like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Stupid son of a bitch,” he bent over, grabbed Henri by his clothes, and hefted him up, to his feet, pushed him back a bit, and then balled his fist, reared his arm back, and lunged forwards, punching.



The voice spoke for the first time since this situation . . . escalated. Informative as always, the voice began to speak again:



There was little emotion in its voice, like it was reading from a manual or recalling something from a long time ago, from a far away place; it was kind of persuasive though. There was a confidence about it. Given its nature, it probably could help him and prevent him from getting hurt; after all, it had told him to insult the guy, to question his degree of character, and to, which was probably what caused the guy to drag Henri outside, imply his mother regularly indulged in ill-defined sexual practices involving goats, cows, horses, and other domestic livestock. Unfortunate choice of words, considering the man’s mother had died last year . . . Regardless, as Aurelius spoke to Henri, things did seem different, at least, because the man, although going through all the motions, appeared to be moving too slowly to actually hit anything. Like he was stuck, or moving through a thick molasses.

Aurelius, that was the voice's name. It was a pretty bad ass sounding name, all old and mystical and stuff, one he only found out after weeks of learning how to tread very carefully around the voice and properly communicate with it, which for Henri had been no easy task. There seemed to be a very certain very particular way to get the voice to talk and open up, a lot of the time it included Henri not saying anything at all, or at least very little without running his ideas through his filter to see if it was appropriate. The fact that this was supposed to be a lesson was lost to Henri, he just figured the voice was very sensitive and liked to be spoken to in a particular, polite manner.He also figured the voice was a complete hypocrite after hearing what just came out of it's mouth.

He had no idea why he did it, or why the voice wanted him to. Good to know he was so susceptible to peer pressure. The voice in my head told me to do it wasn't always the best reason, that's the kind of shit you say when you're trying to get off of committing a heinous crime by pleading insanity, and from what he understood it hardly worked.

If he lived to tell the tale.

What was worse was that he was empathizing with the guy as he was about to get his ass kicked, he didn't know him, or that his mom was dead. If anyone said half the shit Henri said about his dead father, he'd be upset too. Why are they doing this, couldn't they all just get along?

Not now after he told the guy that his mother sucks horse cock like a fat kid trying to suck the cream out of a twinkie. The man had him by the collar, he'd have tried to escape, but he only had enough time to resign to his fate and brace for impact as the fist flew into his face at lightning speed.

He can't hurt you.Not if you don’t want him to, let me help you, close your eyes - think, open up. Take a deep breath, hold it. Release it. Think.

He had no idea why he was going to listen to this voice a second time, but seeing as how he was going to get punched in the mouth no matter what, he gave it a shot. He closed his eyes, thought as hard as he good, inhaled deeply, exhaled deeply, and thought some more.

When he opened one of his eyes, he was shocked to witness the -process- of being punched. The man's fist was approaching him in slow motion, which gave him just enough time to grab the man's hand, twist it off his collar, escape and make a quick dash to the right, hopefully moving faster than the man's fist and bypassing the punch completely.