Series: Reversal||Story: Moments of Memory
Characters: O'Brien, Jim, Haou||Ship: N/A
Chapters: 1-1||Words: 7,777
Genre: Friendship, Drama||Rated: G
Challenges: Diversity Writing, GX, reversal AU: H3, 1-shot; Word Count Set Boot Camp, #42, 7,777
Notes: After Haou's conquest in reversal world begins, before the rebellion gets into full swing.
Summary: O'Brien wakes up broken and terrified and unaware of what happened to make him this way. He must find safety and shelter - and find out what really happened, before it happens again.

His head hurt. That was the first thing he became aware of and he decided in a heartbeat that he didn't like it. Moment by moment it dawned on him that his head wasn't all that ached: most of his body did, in fact. He didn't think there was a single part of him that wasn't bruised and battered.

A tiny shift sent agony shrieking up both of his arms and he swore automatically, or tried to. His lips shaped the words, but nothing came from his throat, too swollen and pained for anything.

He slumped back down to the ground and closed his eyes, shaking all over.

What happened? Something obviously had happened. But as he scrabbled for the memory, it remained out of his reach, a blinding veil of pain sealing off whatever happened.

What he could remember first was his name, his identity – Austin O'Brien. Only his parents called him by his given name. That hadn't ever bothered him.

His father taught him how to fight and how to duel – two skills which were one and the same. Different methods to accomplish the same goal. O'Brien considered himself a soldier, just as his father had been before him. Once his father served a powerful overlord, but in the fullness of time chose to retire, marry the woman that he loved, and they'd had a child. Everything seemed perfect.

Now O'Brien's thoughts skittered away from what came next. He wasn't at all sure of what to think or even if he could think at the moment. When he cracked his eyes open again, what he spied first were the shattered, burning ruins of what had been their home.

If he lifted his head and looked, he'd see signs of more battle. He knew this; he couldn't have said right now exactly how he knew it. But the only way that their home would be burned like this would be if he and his parents fought their hardest and failed.

He tried to raise one hand and again that pain ripped up his arm. He made a small noise that might well have been a cry of agony and found he couldn't bring himself to move again.

He wasn't sure if he ever could again. A few shifts sent more pain tearing through him, this time from his legs. When he managed to get a good look at his arms, he could see the way that they bent.

Broken, he thought vaguely, and wondered if he could flop himself around to get a look at his legs. From the way that he hurt just thinking about it, he wasn't entirely certain if he really wanted to.

He needed to get up. He needed to find help. If he couldn't do that, then he'd die where he lay, and he couldn't do that. That wasn't right.

Slowly O'Brien blinked, trying to work through what happened. None of those memories wanted to come out from behind that inner veil of his. If he strained – and he didn't want to, not with how his stomach roiled and cold fingers of fear clamped at his heart – then he could vaguely recall having discussed something with his parents, before whatever it was he didn't want to remember began.

But he didn't know what it was. He only knew that in his memories, they'd had a pleasant meal during which they'd chatted about the possibility of O'Brien going to work for the son of the ruler his father had once worked for. O'Brien thought now he hadn't been very thrilled at the idea.

He drew in a deep shuddering breath and wished that he hadn't. His chest ached now, more so than most of the rest of him. No stabbing pains, at least not right now. His arms, broken. His legs… yes. He pulled in yet another breath and lifted his head until he could see his legs.

His legs, also broken. So much that he could see of himself, covered in bruises and cuts.

Again his head hit the ground. How would he find a way to get to help, when he couldn't get to his feet to walk away? They'd had communications here, of course, but all of that had been in their home.

He breathed in a little more, trying to think of what he could do. There was a village not all that far away. It would take him and his parents less than a morning to get there, even walking. How long it would take now, O'Brien didn't have the fainest idea.

He started to shift himself along, breathing harder with each moment. He wasn't certain of how far he'd gotten before he had to stop, only that it couldn't have been all that far. Every inch of him throbbed and screamed and demanded rest.

O'Brien learned one thing very quickly about himself during that trek: he was stubborn. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how often he had to rest, he kept on going, dragging himself down through the forest, not even able to find the path they used, thus forcing his way through bushes and splattering across a stream he remembered fishing in with his mother.

He didn't dare stop. If he did, he would die. He knew that as sure as he knew that the sun rose and set.

Speaking of the sun rising and setting, it did that twice as he crawled along. When he'd first opened his eyes, it had been morning, or at least before noon. He could vaguely recall the last meal he and his parents had together being dinner. So he thought he'd been unconscious perhaps most or all of the night.

And now he spent his time dragging himself through the woods and over grass and rocks and splashing through water. As night darkened around him, he could see eyes staring in his direction, small eyes and big eyes, eyes that glowed in the pale moonlight, eyes that shimmered and tracked him endlessly.

Whoever they were, he ignored them. If they weren't going to bother him, then he had better things to do than stare at creatures that he couldn't do anything about.

One pair of those eyes seemed to turn up over and over. That didn't feel right to him, but whoever owned those eyes said nothing, only followed along, keeping watch over him.

O'Brien wrenched his way along, dragging his breath in and out with every moment. When it grew dark and he grew so exhausted that he couldn't move again, he hauled himself weakly under the nearest bush. He wasn't sure of how lucky he was that the bush carried a small crop of berries that he somewhat recognized as being edible. They weren't the most nutritious of food, but he managed to get a few down his throat, yanking them off with his teeth, and squeezed a little water from his soaked clothes.

In that fashion he took care of himself until the bushes and trees thinned out before him and he could see a stone wall rising there. He recognized the wall after a few moments – one that circled the village he'd been going for.

There was something wrong there, though. He could see small stains and even though he didn't have a very good view from where he crawled, he could smell acrid smoke, almost as thick and strong as what surrounded the ruins of his family home.

O'Brien paused. Along with the pain from his wounds there came the pain of hunger and the pain of fear. Fear sank deep talons into him and from somewhere in the back of his thoughts, behind that veil of terror, there floated a sense of mockery, and the recollection of a cold smirk.

Before he could grasp onto those they faded away, leaving little more than the hints of memory. Enough to keep him going.

Enough to keep him going even when he pulled himself around far enough to see the shattered gates to the village and the remains of uncounted bodies. He recognized them – people that he'd known growing up. People that he'd seen on trips not that long ago.

The fear and rage surged closer and he wrenched himself away, no, no, he wasn't ready! He wasn't ready at all! He might never be ready.

Somewhere, somehow, O'Brien noted that what came out of his battered throat remained little more than a pained, whispy whimper. He closed his eyes, tightened himself into a ball the best that he could, and tried to breathe. He wasn't all that good at it right now.

This place wasn't here anymore. All that kept it from being the ruins that his home had been was that stone didn't burn as easily as wood.

Someone did this. Someone did this on purpose. People didn't fall down dead for no actual reason. Buildings didn't set themselves on fire.

Someone did this and a new kind of flame stirred itself in O'Brien's heart.

Someone did this and whoever it was, O'Brien swore that he would find a way to make them pay for it. This could not happen again to other people.

But it would. Cold reality sank in on him for that. He couldn't even stand up and until he could do far more than that, there wasn't anything that he could do that would let him put an end to whatever this nightmare monster was.

Again that sense of something that fluttered along through his thoughts. He didn't know what to call it aside from blindingly terrifying. But now he had a few more thoughts about it, if that's what it could be called.

Someone did this and it was most likely that whoever killed his parents – oh, that hurt to even think about and so he didn't, shying away as fast as possible – and destroyed his home did the same to the walled village here.

As the moon rose higher in the sky, full enough to cast light, O'Brien stared downward, realizing vaguely that he could now see marks of armored feet. As clear as they were, he guessed that probably fifty or sixty of the owners passed through here. He couldn't fight them all by himself.

But he wasn't sure if he wanted to. He wanted to find whoever gave their orders and fight them.

Again the terror that the veil hid badly. O'Brien tried to get up again, choosing to try to find somewhere he could get real help.

Sticks. Crutches. He blinked, his eyes gummed together more than he wanted to think of. There was so much he didn't want to think about, because it all circled around to whatever it was that hid behind the veil.

He'd forced his way through all the woods without a thought of making crutches. He probably wouldn't have been able to. He wasn't at all sure if he could even now, not with his arms barely working.

He'd try, though. What else could he do? This place didn't offer him anything but memories that could do nothing for him. He started back the way that he'd come, trying to recall which way he should go after this.

O'Brien stared at the bushes and trees. There weren't any signs here of the army or when it might have passed through. That reassured him on some level. There wasn't a chance that they would return and finish what they'd started.

Did they leave me alive on purpose?

That took him by surprise. He'd been too busy over the last few days just trying to get somewhere to even think about the concept. But now that it had done so, the question remained bright in the front of his mind.

Why had he been left alive? Had it been intended? Or had they tried to kill him and he just hadn't died?

Was he going to die later, either from his wounds or something else that they'd done? If he couldn't remember everything that happened, then how could he know?

I need help. The idea settled itself firmly in his heart, right next to the part about how someone did this. What mattered now would be finding that help, wherever it might be.

Crutches, first. Regardless of how much it hurt to use them. He'd figure out where to go from there.

Getting crutches got him upright. That was about it. He couldn't move that much faster, and the crutches wiggled a lot. He wasn't sure if he could keep on going with these either. But he refused to stop.

O'Brien stayed that night in the wrecked village, trying to figure out whatever he could. He didn't have much to give him any ideas. He recalled that he'd worn the family jewelry, but none of that remained with him. A faint memory of what he saw before he left the ruins of home told him that there hadn't been any of his mother or father's gold left either.

Stolen. Stolen by whoever it was that did this. Another point that needed avenging.

He wasn't even certain of how many needed now. His parents gone. Everything important to him taken or destroyed. The people of this village slaughtered or worse – he couldn't do a complete count and he wasn't certain of how many people had been there before anyway. But he thought a few were missing. He just didn't know who or why.

O'Brien didn't sleep much that night. Those eyes watched him again. He wondered what they wanted. Perhaps a scavenger of some kind waiting for him to finally give up and die so they could chew his flesh and crack his bones.

It'll have to wait a long time, then. He wasn't going to die. Not unless someone tore his life from him. Even then, he'd fight for it.

He did doze off a little close to dawn, but it wasn't a very restful sleep. When he woke, his thoughts once more gummed together and his body only barely moving when he tried to make it, he found that he wanted to stay where he was for a little longer.

No. I can't.

If he didn't move forward, then he'd never find someone to help him. Perhaps whoever he found would even be able to tell him who had done this. Surely someone who would commit crimes like this would be well-known.

That sent another wave of chills all through him. If he knew who did it, their name and face remained behind that chilly veil.

It took him from mid-morning to close to noon to make his way out of the shattered gates and back outside. There were a few pathways available to him now, and in the clear sunlight he could see the path that the army passed by on. He chose not to go there. He'd get nothing but death there.

The path that he chose led to the east; he'd come down to the village from the south. The army's trail led off to the west. He eyed the north but a whisper of warning that he couldn't grasp fully told him that wasn't the place to go. Help, if it existed, would be to the east, so that was where he turned his faltering steps.

Day by day he lost weight. He couldn't find much to eat this way. He recalled plants that his parents told him were safe to eat, but there weren't all that many of them this way. Little animals that he knew how to cook darted across his path and he couldn't catch them. Food abounded – if he could get to it. He couldn't, most of the time.

He wanted to get to help as fast as he could. The longer he moved along, the more he recalled points that his parents told him about how wounds healed. Neither were proper physicians, but they knew certain points of medicine that were necessary and useful.

If he didn't get proper care soon, then his bones would start to knit together. Without that care, he would limp for the rest of his days, and likely never properly be able to use his hands and arms again, as he had once before.

It would be possible to re-break the bones and let them heal like that, but doing so would be at least as painful as what he'd already gone through. He wasn't going to deal with that. The sooner he could heal, the sooner he could recover his deck and track down that army, the better.

Little bits of information trickled into place as he stumped and stumbled along. Nothing from behind that inner veil, but simple deductions from what he saw. His target was the leader of a powerful army. Whether this leader knew exactly what happened to him or if O'Brien had just ended up being the unfortunate victim of an accident he didn't know and he wasn't sure if it mattered.

This army also destroyed the village and he would avenge that as deeply as he would avenge his own parents.

His thoughts strayed to his deck as well. He wasn't sure of where it or his duel disk ended up – he barely thought about it until after he left the village.

Burned or discarded or stolen. I'd rather it was burned. I don't want anyone who would do this to have it.

The thought of that set more coals aflame in his soul. He would have to rebuild the deck if he couldn't retrieve it and he wasn't sure if he could. That offered another reason to find civilization. He would be able to find card shops there. Whether or not they could provide what he needed remained unknown.

Days crept by, some slower than others. Walking grew slower and slower, mostly because he couldn't get the food that he needed. If he'd been healthy and unharmed, he could've covered most of this territory in under two days. By the time the pathway widened ahead of him into a much wider town than he'd seen before, he stumbled more than he walked, and he could hardly think for how much his stomach screamed for food.

But he managed, regardless. He stumbled, his feet tangling together – they'd done that more times than he could count as he dragged himself along, and he'd lost so much time pushing himself back to his feet. He couldn't scream with pain. The limited water he could get prevented that.

O'Brien pitched forward and everything around him grayed away before he even hit the ground. The last thought in his mind was that someone was heading towards him. He wasn't certain of who it might be and he had no time to figure it out before the world faded away.

He had no idea how long he stayed like that. He could hear vague voices and he didn't respond to them. He wasn't sure if he still couldn't talk due to his injuries or if he made noises that might have been words.

What he found himself certain of was that bit by bit his wounds pained him less and less and he could taste delicious broth of a flavor he didn't recognize being poured down his throat at certain intervals. His arms and legs didn't hurt as much as they had, though they still throbbed.

At times he opened his eyes. When he did, he didn't recognize the room, only that it wasn't very big, enough to hold a bed and a chair and a table and that was it. Next to him was a window where sunlight poured in by day and moonlight at night.

People moved in and out but he very seldom got a chance to really see who it was. When he did, they weren't anyone that he recognized. He didn't expect to see anyone familiar. Everyone he'd ever known was dead regardless.

O'Brien didn't have any idea of how much time passed before he finally opened his eyes and found his thoughts clear and his wounds relatively healed and painless. Given how much better he felt, he thought it might even have been weeks.

He didn't have time to think much on what happened before someone stepped in the door. O'Brien glanced towards them and blinked in surprise. If he'd been stronger he might have flinched as well.

What else would one do when faced with a tall young man who carried what appeared to be some sort of live reptile as big as he was on his back?

"Hey there," the stranger said, tilting his head forward. "Glad to see you're awake. We've been watching over you for a while now."

O'Brien blinked, trying to sit up. He didn't get very far. He felt so much better than he had, but there wasn't much strength left in him. The stranger nodded as if he'd expected nothing else, coming to settle into the chair by the bed.

"Think you can tell me your name? I'm Jim Cook. This is Karen." He reached around to rest a hand on the reptile's head. "Don't know if you've met one before, but she's a crocodile. My oldest friend, too."

O'Brien opened his mouth, expecting not to say very much, and surprised himself when a sort of weak croak that could have been his name made its way from his lips. Jim nodded as if he'd delivered a sermon of intelligence and wit.

"Yeah, she said that it would probably be a while before you can talk again. Your throat got pretty beaten up. You were pretty dry when you made it here, not to mention bruised. And the broken bones. And how long had it been since you had something to eat?"

O'Brien shrugged. He'd lost track of the days since he'd woken up next to his ruined home. Now he wondered just who else had been taking care of him. He wanted to ask, but until his voice healed all the way, he couldn't.

If his voice healed all the way. He wasn't certain if it ever would.

Jim considered him for a few moments. "You know how to read and write?" He asked at last, and O'Brien nodded at once. He'd not attended formal schooling but his parents saw to that among the rest of his education. "All right. I'll be right back."

O'Brien could do nothing else but wait as Jim and Karen departed. He stared out the window, where the sun came pouring in all over him. It wasn't that cold, but it was nippier than he remembered it being before all of this happened. Definitely heading into autumn, with winter following behind it.

When Jim returned, he carried a pad of paper and a pen, which he handed over to O'Brien. "Think you can start with your name?"

O'Brien flexed his fingers before he started to carefully write. He thought he would be able to write something that Jim could read, since they spoke the same language. Granted, Jim's accent wasn't familiar to him, but it should be close enough.

He wrote much more than his name, and when he was finished he handed the pad back.

Austin O'Brien. Someone murdered my parents and the nearest village to where we lived. I don't know who. I think it was an army of some kind. I need to find who they are and avenge my family.

Jim read it all in the space of a few heartbeats, his features darkening as he did. O'Brien noticed that one side of Jim's face had bandages wrapped across it, so only one green eye remained visible. Exactly why that was, he wasn't sure. Perhaps Jim had been wounded at some point. It spoke to whoever healed him that he lived.

Then Jim set the pad down and looked O'Brien dead in the face. For a few seconds, O'Brien didn't believe he was being stared at by a one-eyed man. He could feel something else there altogether.

Even more unnerving was the sensation that something prowled through his soul and stared at parts of him that even he wasn't certain about – especially that veil of cold darkness. He realized only now that it was still there, shrouding every memory that related to that nightmare time.

When Jim sat back down, O'Brien grabbed for the pad and wrote quickly.

Do I pass muster? He knew a judging look when he saw one, even if he wasn't at all certain what measure he was being judged by.

Jim's lips twitched for a heartbeat. "You do. And I think I can help you. I can at least tell you who killed those people and hurt you."

O'Brien made the attempt to sit up more, and Jim gestured him to lay back down.

"I shouldn't until you're healed all the way, though. Dian wouldn't be happy if I interrupted all of their efforts and finding out who did this wouldn't be good right now."

O'Brien grabbed for the pen again but Jim shook his head. "I can and I will. I just won't do it now. As soon as you're walking on your feet as well as I can, I'll tell you. That's all for now. You need to get some rest."

O'Brien wondered if he'd ever be able to rest again, knowing how close he was to finding out the answers, to ripping away that inner veil. He would've tried to leap to his feet, and did start to shift himself, when a plump figure entered the room.

"Good to see you awake," the woman declared, pushing her way past Jim. "But you're not getting up. You're going to get some rest and then have some more broth when you wake up. I'll let you know when you're able to try walking." She rested her hands on her hips, staring him down. "Which you won't be if you keep trying to force yourself beyond what you're ready for. You almost killed yourself getting here. Do you want to finish the job?"

Very few words could have kept O'Brien in his bed more than that. Instead, he lay back down and stared more out the window, a thousand thoughts tossing this way and that as he tried to imagine what he might hear once he could walk again.

He wasn't sure of when Jim and the healer – Dian – left the room. Nor was he certain of when he slipped off into a land of sweet dreams where his parents awaited him with open arms and a cheerful dinner.

Time ticked by, moment by moment flowing into day by day and turning into week by week. Jim and Karen came to visit on a regular basis. Jim remained so at ease with his crocodile friend that O'Brien couldn't help but be equally relaxed as he got used to her. She clearly adored Jim, even if she weren't capable of human speech, and he adored her in return.

The healer, Dian Cecht, had apparently brought him back from the very brink of death, healing his injuries bit by bit. He'd spent weeks deeply asleep once he'd crashed unconscious in front of the town and Dian healed him while he was in that slumber. Even with all of her healing magic, Dian insisted that O'Brien would have died if he wasn't as stubborn as he was.

"Dian's had a lot of practice healing people since this whole war got started," Jim told him. O'Brien ached to hear more than the few drips and drabs of news that fell occasionally from Jim's lips or Dian's. Those were the two who he saw the most, though his sickroom had a very nice view of some fields and he could watch the farmers tending their crops out there.

It wasn't the most inspiring view, though, especially as the days grew shorter and the nights grew colder and harvests were done, crops brought in and set aside safely. When finally Dian allowed him to get out of bed and start to practice walking, O'Brien did so with gusto.

Now he found himself in a long hallway outside of his room. He walked up and down it, using a pair of canes to support himself, and not making it very far for days at a time. He practiced regardless. He needed that strength. He needed to know what Jim kept to himself.

He needed to know so very much.

"Very good," Dian said, nodding as he crossed from one side of the courtyard to the other, moving a bit more slowly than he had before, but relatively steadily and surely. Given the first snowflakes flickering down from the clouds overhead and the chill in the air, it was more of an accomplishment than some might have thought.

Jim lounged not that far away, Karen sitting beside him, wrapped up in a warm blanket. He nodded in agreement as O'Brien came to a halt. In the weeks since he'd awoken, he'd tried his very hardest to regain not just his ability to walk in general, but his strength and speed. So far he'd done more than some might have expected.

"All right. I think I know what you want." Jim's one visible eye gleamed at him before he glanced towards Dian. "Is it all right?"

The healer regarded O'Brien cautiously. O'Brien didn't exactly feel as observed as he had when Jim stared at him that first time but there was still a sense of measuring there. Finally Dian nodded.

"All right. But go somewhere where he can sit down first. It's going to be a shock."

O'Brien followed Jim and Karen as Jim guided him to another courtyard, this one enclosed by a bubble of magic that kept it warm year round. Spirits and mages who had a gift with plants worked here and there were plenty of cushioned benches and chairs set for visitors to sit in. There were several places like this throughout the town, O'Brien noticed on his few trips through it.

Jim showed him to a seat and O'Brien waited, his ubiquitous pad of paper by his side, watching the young man who'd become his friend over these last weeks.

"I've mentioned a war before. I know I have. And this is a war, though it's one that we're trying hard not to fight. This is a place that stands aside from it all." Jim turned his gaze onto O'Brien. "It isn't easy and it's going to end sooner or later. He'll find us, and he'll do to as many of us as he can what happened to your home and the people there."

Still O'Brien couldn't speak. Dian surmised that it somehow involved the fear of whatever he couldn't remember. He wished that he could, just to ask what Jim meant. But Jim kept on without being asked.

"There's only one person in the world now who could or would do this. I've heard stories about his real name, but what matters the most is the title that he carries – Haou. The living incarnation of the Darkness of Destruction."

Those words fell against O'Brien's ears and tore away the veil inside of his mind. Memory flushed back, as sharp and hard and vivid as if he'd lived them only moments earlier.

"It's not a good idea to go to Celestia's realm these days," O'Brien protested against his father's suggestion. He very seldom did that, but he'd heard more than enough rumors and stories. He didn't trust every rumor that he heard, but with all that he'd heard, it upset him.

"If you don't want to go there, then where?" His father asked reasonably. "You should go out and get some experience in the world before you can truly call yourself a soldier."

O'Brien wasn't going to just turn down the idea. "I was thinking about Pegasus's realm. I've heard good things about what he's doing there."

To serve the modern father of dueling, who'd brought their world so much peace – O'Brien wondered what his deck could become in that place. He hoped that he would be able to persuade his father so that he could find out.

Before his father could agree or disagree, his mother came over with their dinner and set it on the table. "You can continue this later," she told them, "it's time to eat."

They were halfway through dinner when it happened. Noises outside, the sound of chariots and wings beating. O'Brien came to his feet in a heartbeat, reaching for his deck, and started for the door. His father stood by his side, while his mother prepared the home defenses. Few people came by at this hour and even fewer for good purposes.

It wouldn't be at all the first time where raiders tried to attack. They all knew their positions and duties.

O'Brien peered out the nearest peephole, one which wouldn't reveal his existence or position to whoever stood out there. His heart beat faster at the sight of the size of the army there. Chariots and warriors on foot made up perhaps three or four dozen people, while winged demons and dark angels and a few odds and ends of other types lurked in the trees and on the piles of rocks around.

But in the center of them all stood a young man, close to O'Brien's own age, wrapped all in black armor, a cape flowing in the wind, and golden eyes focused on the cabin.

"Those who dwell within, warrior who once served my mother Celestia, step outside with you and your family," the young warrior declared. "Your ruler calls for you."

O'Brien tossed a glance at his father. This was why he'd not wanted to go to Celestia's service. This was what the stories told him – that Celestia ruled no more, that her son crushed all the defenses of the land and claimed it for his own. Rumors varied on what Celestia's fate had been. But one fact rang true: that the new ruler Haou was the most ruthless ever seen, and his goals included the entire world.

"We are aware that you are within there," one of the black-winged angels next to Haou announced. "Should you choose to remain inside, your home will be burned to the ground with you inside of it. Step forth to kneel before your new ruler."

Side by side, O'Brien and his parents moved for the door. None of them intended to surrender, not for a heartbeat.

The moment they opened the door, O'Brien all but froze in his tracks. Those golden eyes tracked him the second he emerged, watching for those first few seconds until Haou turned to the angel beside him.

"He would be magnificent in the arena, wouldn't he? I think it would be interesting to see the way he and Garam fight against each other."

The angel chuckled, eyes gleaming in wicked amusement. "I think you're right, my liege. I look forward to seeing it."

"So do I. Take him to the wagon." Haou gestured with one armored hand before he turned his chilling gaze onto O'Brien's parents. "I could use trainers for my warriors. You two will do nicely."

O'Brien's father stood, arms crossed over his chest, glaring equally at Haou and the ones who moved forward in an attempt to take O'Brien himself. "I have nothing I wish to do for you. Nor does my son or my wife."

Before the approaching angels could lay a hand on O'Brien, he pulled himself back, closer to his parents, hand going down to take his deck to his duel disk. "He's right. I'm not going anywhere."

"Really?" Haou chuckled, the sound as terrifying as an earthquake and as dangerous as fear itself. "I think differently. Because if you don't do as I've decreed, you'll never see another dawn."

"Kill me, then." O'Brien replied, not taking a step forward or away. "I'd rather die than listen to someone who does what you do."

That got a smile that sent even more fear washing over O'Brien. "Is that so? Let me show you what I can do, then. See if that changes your mind."

All three darted for their decks – or tried to. With a swipe of his arm, Haou sent a chill wave of darkness over them, one that knocked the three off of their feet. Two warriors each seized O'Brien's mother and father, while the one at Haou's side wrapped one hand around O'Brien's throat, breath escaping him.

"Now, let's be sensible about this. Come and serve as my gladiator – possibly even my Champion." Haou took the few steps to stare O'Brien right in the eyes. He didn't seem to realize – or care if he did – that O'Brien was being choked in front of his eyes. "If you do that, your parents will be spared. Presuming they also agree to work for me, of course. If not, I'll kill them. I might kill you, too."

His eyes gleamed a bit more. "Though there are fates worse than death. Would you care to find out what they are?"

O'Brien couldn't manage any sort of an answer. Haou frowned for a heartbeat.

"Lucifer, let up a little. I think he wants to answer."

O'Brien recognized the one whose grip tightened around his throat now – Fallen Angel Lucifer, leader of the Fallen Angels. Apparently in service to Haou now.

Lucifer released him, O'Brien collapsing at his feet, trying to breathe and not doing a very good job of it. Haou nudged him with one armored foot.

"It's a simple question. Yes or no answer. Tell me that you'll serve me as my gladiator. That's all that I need to know."

O'Brien dragged his head up and stared at Haou with all the hate he could bring into his eyes. The only answer he could bring himself to give was to charge at Haou, not caring to strike with his deck. He could do that later. First he would take down this monster with his bare hands, the creature that dared to threaten his parents' lives.

He'd taken perhaps two steps before two things happened – Haou's terrifying aura flared once again, sending him reeling back, and then Lucifer pressed one foot against his throat again. Haou sighed, almost seeming genuinely regretful.

O'Brien didn't believe it. Not for a single moment.

"I think I'll have to punish you for this. Kill them. Burn the whole place to the ground. Make him watch every moment. And make sure he doesn't make noise. I'd like to enjoy this without his input." Haou ordered. He caught O'Brien's eyes again. "Know for the rest of your life – however long or short that might be – that this is all your fault. That you could have chosen to kneel to me and saved their lives, and because you were too proud, they're dead."

O'Brien struggled as hard as he could to get out of Lucifer's grip. It did nothing, as Haou's army swept all around them, pouring all over the tiny farmstead and wrecking every inch of it. The home defenses didn't stand up to the mages Haou brought with him, melting away with a few words and motions. In moments the house burned from the inside out, even while the screams of his parents rose in the evening air.

O'Brien wasn't allowed to turn his head away. Words could not convey how the Fallen Angels took their time in murdering his parents, dragging scream after scream, cry after cry out of the two of them.

"Mama! Daddy!" O'Brien shrieked the words when he could, until his voice failed him, choked out by Lucifer's feet on his throat and the frosty glance of Haou.

The small army arrived before full dark. Only when the moon rose was it finally over, at least for O'Brien's parents. He hung now in the grip of two of Haou's warriors, exhausted from his screaming and fighting, all of which did no good whatsoever.

But now Haou gripped onto his chin, staring at him, a look in his eyes that spoke of unholy joy.

"I really did want you all to serve me. But since you didn't want that, I have something else for you. You won't fight for me. At least not on my side. But now you'll fight against me, won't you?" Haou smiled. "You'll try to find me again. You'll try to hunt me down and kill me. You'll try to avenge your parents. You'll fight anyone that I send against you. Wherever you go, I'll find you. And I'll destroy everything that you love, over and over again."

Haou's smile widened as he leaned forward. "I told you there are fates worse than death. And that fate is me."

O'Brien barely noticed that he'd started screaming somewhere in those few heart-stopping moments of memory. Nor did he notice that he'd curled up on the seat, tears streaking down his cheeks, until he felt Jim's gentle hand on his shoulder.

"You remembered, didn't you?" Jim murmured, and O'Brien nodded at once.

"He killed them," O'Brien whispered the words. "He killed them because of me."

For a moment Jim only stared and at first, O'Brien thought it was because of what he said. Then a faint bit of a smile touched his lips. "So you can speak."

O'Brien jerked up, realizing belatedly he'd heard his own voice for the first time in months. He raised a hand to touch his throat, remembering all too vividly how Fallen Angel Lucifer choked him until he couldn't speak. That was part of the reason he'd not spoken for so long, along with thirst and far too much screaming. The rest had simply been so much rage and sorrow blocking his words.

Slowly he swallowed. "He killed them. After – after he was done, he had his servants hurt me. Broke my arms and legs. Left me where I was, so I could live or die on my own. If I died, I was dead. No use or amusement to him. If I lived, then I'd do exactly what he said. Find him. Try to kill him. Amuse him."

Oh, he remembered now. He didn't think that he'd ever forget again. He wasn't sure of why he'd forgotten, except out of the sheer terror that came from seeing his parents killed the way they had been.

He didn't know what he wanted to ask next. He raised his head, intent on questioning Jim as to the real nature and purpose of this town. It seemed like something of a dream, but not one he would have ever dreamed.

The words failed before he could shape them, interrupted by an explosion that shattered windows all over the town. O'Brien stood up a breath later and without even needing to ask one another about it, he and Jim headed for where the explosion came from.

Though O'Brien thought he knew already. The two of them turned a corner to see the entrance to the town, and there stood Haou, with all of his army, the most triumphant expression pasted on his face.

The moment that he spied O'Brien, he smiled as if he'd just met his best friend. If there were someone who would be that monster's best friend.

"Austin O'Brien. I knew you'd be here. You do remember the promise that I made to you, don't you? That I would find you wherever you went and destroy everything that you love." His gaze flicked to the buildings around him. "I think this will be a good start."

"No!" O'Brien shook his head. He wasn't sure if he loved this place or not, but he wasn't going to allow it to be destroyed by Haou. Not if he could stop it. "If you want to kill someone, then kill me!"

Haou regarded him for a few seconds. "Why would I do that when you can bring me such sweet prey?" He waved one hand. "All of my people know your face. They won't attack you. They won't ever hurt you." He leaned forward. "I'll be the one to do that. Eventually. When there's no one else you can bring against me and you're of no further use to me."

O'Brien's throat closed yet again with fear and rage. Haou smiled a touch more.

"And in addition, you can't fight me hand to hand, and you can't duel. You do remember that I have your duel disk, I'm sure? And your deck?" Haou raised one hand. "Of course, if you'd like to claim them, all you have to do is kneel to me. I might return them then."

O'Brien didn't move. Haou's lips pursed. "I didn't think so. All right. Let's deal with this. Lucifer, if you'd be so kind."

The Fallen Angel swept his wings, launching himself forward, and Jim grabbed hold of O'Brien's arm, pulling him back.

"We have to go," Jim declared, staring into O'Brien's eyes. "The warriors who are here will defend everyone else. But Haou tracks you. So we're leaving."

"We?" O'Brien managed to ask that much as Jim hurried him along.

"You need a friend, and I've known this was coming since the day I met you." Jim raised one hand to tap at his bandaged eye. "This eye told me back then."

O'Brien didn't understand a thing except the simple fact that they needed to get out of there. Jim grabbed two bags – where he'd hidden them, O'Brien didn't know – and they headed out quickly, the noise of battle rising from behind them. Jim didn't look back. Neither did Karen or O'Brien.

What O'Brien tried not to do, most of all, was hear the sounds of screaming, both the new ones and the ones from when this happened to his parents. He didn't succeed.

Haou watched as the two vanished out of sight into the quickly rising smoke. They wouldn't be there when the battle ended. But that was all right. He'd set his mark on Austin O'Brien and he could follow him anywhere. And he would.

What interested him more was the man who now walked beside O'Brien. Something about him intrigued Haou, even as rage pulsed within. He would find out the answer, sooner or later. He made a note to locate where the person had lived here and have one of his mages get what information could be gleaned from there before destroying all of it.

After all, he'd sworn that he would kill whatever O'Brien loved, and if this person was a friend to him, then Haou would kill him, too. Haou never broke a promise.

The End

Notes: I have another story planned for Jim that explains the town more. But that won't be written for a while to come. There's also a sequel planned for when O'Brien retrieves his deck and duel disk. Which also won't be written for some time to come.