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Set after
Keys to the Demon Prison
⟢ Newel/Doren ⟣
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Doren reminisces on his long life with Newel, and the effects of witnessing him in his shadow form.

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Doren had lived a long life. He had seen empires rise, social structures fall, the wheel reinvented again and again, demons tear friends apart, dragons breathe fire over his dodgy hide-outs, Hannah Montana whip off her wig, naiads pull unsuspecting humans under, boxes of energy power moving images, treaties fall, preserves form, Wendy's drive-thrus operate, and the first British colonist plant their flag in Connecticut.

These visions crowded his head and after a non-stop existence for as long as anyone could remember, memories stopped being solid instances he could carbon-date with relative accuracy.

They never really were videos like the medium that captured Miley and Billy Ray Cyrus, and they certainly hadn't been crystal-clear pictures that froze colors and details like the ones the Sorensons were fond of framing. But, whatever they had been, they were less now.

Now, memories were snatches of laughter he could recognize anywhere, glimpses of forlorn smiles, earthy smells that yanked him back to a time before cities or cars or television. Memories were discombobulated ideas and once-upon-a-times that floated and bounced around his skull like little acrobats.

But, most of all, memories were dreams.

Each night was a slide into the past and the repurposing of faces, personalities, and figures that used to have a remembered name long ago. With such a large array of material to work with, no dream ever quite mirrored another.

Except for one aspect.

Each night—every night—Newel was there.

Newel was there insulting his find in Kurisock's lake or laughing at some pitiable act on America's Got Talent. He was there, stealing grapes from Marshall Burgess or picking fights with centaurs. He was there, lounging on the rocks of a long-forgotten mountain that they had used to roam before borders had been set on their home.

Sometimes, Newel performed a simple, constant, and repetitive action that endured as the background flickered and clothes melted and figures transformed. A forehead kiss as togas blew in the wind or as Blackbeard's grappling hooks caught onto starboard or as the sun set over the Fairy Shrine.

Don't get him wrong—it wasn't all sweet memories and dreams. Sometimes they were terrifying nightmares, his toes curled, his breath slipped out of his hold, and he woke up drenched in sweat.

But, in every imagining, every dream, every trip down memory lane—Newel had never been the villain. It had always been the Newel that Doren knew and loved. The same mischievous eyes, furry torso, and rare, soft smile.

Not as of late.

Gnashing teeth and twisted horns and beady red eyes and long, sharp talons and a snout and dark fur adorned the Newel that rushed at Doren in the dark, in his dreams, in his mind. That sliced his chest or pulled his feet under a wave of darkness or bit through his skin, muscles and tendons snapping and falling limp.

The new Newel was horrible and toe-curling and disastrous.

The only respite was waking up to safety. Newel's arm holding him, Newel's head tucked into the crook of his neck, the soft, rhythmic sound of his beloved's breathing fanning his back.

Tonight, that safety melted the tension in Doren's body and he turned over to face Newel.

He snuggled closer and wrapped one arm around Newel's torso, pulling him close.

Newel blinked slowly like a kitten opening his eyes for the first time and a smile spread across his face. Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to Doren's forehead. "Good night."

"The sun is already up," Doren whispered. Indeed, the rays had begun to creep into the cave's opening. Shadowy trees trembled in the wind on the cave side.

The satyrs didn't like the shadows anymore.

"Too early," Newel yawned and stretched his arms high above his head before bringing them back down to encircle Doren. His eyes closed again. "Good night."

Doren didn't want to close his eyes, dreading the terrifying beast that threatened to grace his vision again. He much preferred the version of Newel in front of him than the one his mind liked to conjure up. Sunlight highlighted the slumbering satyr's orange curls.

"Good night."

Doren matched Newel's breathing and then nuzzled his head against his chest. The rhythm of Newel's heartbeat became a constant he could hold on to as he slipped back into sleep.

There were no memories Doren could recall that had no whisper of Newel. Every single memory—Newel was there holding him, dragging him along a trail, tricking a troll, in the periphery as he dozed off on a sun-warm rock, or there, in the back of Doren's mind, as a constant.

Doren was Newel's, and Newel was Doren's. Forevermore.

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the end