(Brief) A/N: Anyone who has read this far, bless you. You are a kind soul. To the point: I started writing this in my sophomore year of high school. May I say: That was quite some time ago. Things have CHANGED. This is by no means a "dead" document!! I am actually only posting this for a dear friend of mine who goes to college a ways away from me. So she can read it, because she loves it. This is one of the first stories that I took (and am taking) seriously--I am considering revamping it, as things have branched out plot-wise. But I do not have the time for that now. I am plagued by JE, which is another story I have up and have so much written for it. (They are mostly just scenes and places and people, but it's a hell of a lot more in depth than "Rocher" is.) Rocher is so rough that his character and Adele and many others don't have last names... O scary.

Pronunciation guide: ROCHER: Roe-shay; ABERTH: Ah-Birth...I think you won't have trouble with the rest for now.

The Road to Aberth part I

I think it would be wise to forewarn you that this is no tale for children (of age and of heart) in any way, shape or form. It is instead my recollection of the events that have been carefully transcribed to you, the reader, in the hopes that you will take the information I am about to give you and do something remotely useful with it. Please, I wish to warn you further in saying that those who cannot take grief, or death or evil to the point of self destruction, please heed this and forget this mess of thoughts you handle so carelessly. I cannot say you will agree with everything within this narrative and I would wish you the best in reading it. Also, I feel I should ask you to kindly not ask me why and how such things could come to befall myself and my friends. Please don't. Be comforted that it has ended and try to remember that these are my memories as they happened. I cannot change what happens in this to suit my fancy. It is cold and hard to the last and not everyone makes out for the better. But you cannot please everyone, now can you?

The fact is you cannot. This is why I write this. I think she would have wished me to as well. Ah, forgive me. I have a bad tendency to dwell upon the past and foreshadow for you something that is to come. Yes, she is dead now, the poor sweet thing. But let us continue, or I shall never get this finished.

Let us begin then, with a small introductory. I would like to divulge to you a small hint of an element in this book that becomes very important. It is impossible to explain it fully, for even I do not contain the knowledge of all of its secrets. Let me introduce you to my hobby, my element, my power - magic. It has many uses, this magic. It works well when I make a mess with my chemicals. A flick of my wrist and everything is as it was. I have a passion for this magic and my mentor seemed to think I was particularly good at it. But what exactly is this magic? Must I wave a black wand and say some nonsense word to ignite a spell? The answer to that is no.

Magic is very much a science when used properly and sometimes can become highly useful. It has a much more complex definition, but magic is really just the use of outside forces to create unexplainable phenomena. Of course this is broad and cannot fully comprehend the beauty and mystery of magic, but it must do.

In order to use magic, per se, one must understand the chemical makeup of the substance that you want. Of course, using the Laws of Conservation of Mass is much a part of magic. Even wizards and sorcerers cannot pull things from thin air. Not possible. This is because the Laws state that matter cannot be created or destroyed, only transferred. Therefore, anything a wizard makes, he or she must get from somewhere else. As you probably don't see your sofa or anything of the like disappearing, the Sorcerer’s Community, as we have been dubbed, has proposed a theory that seems in most cases to be true. It is believed that there is another place where raw matter is stored in a universal quantity. This matter, being raw, has no defined properties and can therefore be shaped into anything the yielder wishes it. This universe of raw matter has been named the Beginning.

Now of course, this is entirely skepticism and we have no real proof of this place actually existing. It seems to be the most probable answer to the question of the source of magic. This is not to say that a wizard still does not have to follow the Laws. If he or she is caught attempting to use magic with the intention of completely ignoring the Laws, then he or she is subjected to a trial by the Head Council and if the wizard or witch is found guilty then they are branded a criminal and ostracized from the community. Of course the community cannot let a witch or wizard go completely free in exile and must therefore be watched by a parole officer of sorts. These 'parole officers' are called Guardians. If the criminal can, for one year, refrain from the use of magic, then that criminal will be taken back into the community and sent through a schooling process again. It seems most lenient, yes? It is not as pretty as I make it seem. A criminal is never fully taken back into the community. Your parole officer stays with you for life and the rest of the community will mock you and make fun of you.

You become the subject of indescribable cruelty. There is no happiness left. Every day that goes by you come to feel the loneliness brought on by severe depression. In most cases your Guardian becomes all the friend you have left. They, I must say, are probably the worst part of it. You can shut the doors on a group of evil people, but when such a person is allowed to exist in your home, in essence your own soul, that is the worst. It is so difficult to do anything on your own, anything for yourself when someone is always in your shadow. There is no privacy, no alone time to think and reflect on the day's ridicule. It is whispered constantly in your ear, always hanging above your head and always constantly cut into your heart. But the worst part of it must be that you can never get away from it all.

It is at this point that I should reveal to you the criminal that I am. It is entirely true that have broken the laws, hurting both myself and those around me. What was left of my family refused to even attend my trial. I was utterly alone facing the Council, alone when I received their verdict, alone when I met my Guardian. I do not see the relevance of my crime in relation to the story thus far, and so, I shall see if it better fits into the tale later on.

There is no doubt in my mind that you have many questions floating around your head, but I can not answer them without giving away the entire story to you. Then there would be no point in your reading the following narrative. So then, let us draw this out like poison from a wound. It might just be as painful for me to write as for you to read. I do not expect you to love me now or to sympathize with me later, but please bear with this criminal and all will come with time.

Let's begin then, shall we?

The Road to Aberth part II

This tale shall truly start as any other would, although I fear, I am not much of a storyteller. I shall try my best, however, to convey to you my narrative with all the powerful emotion I saw and felt as my life placed these recollections before me. As I said before, I was and am a criminal, trapped and bound to this world by the evil that precedes me. It would probably be best to start in the middle, to my time of exile, and I think we shall work from there. I do not, by any means, wish to start you in a confusing place. That would be unkind of me. So let me first inform you, that my story will start immediately following my exile. I was tried, given my Guardian and told to leave. As the title of this chapter entails, I chose to go east from my hometown to settle in Aberth, a small sea-faring community. I was not thrilled because to me, this town was primitive and useless, but I was less likely to run into other wizards or criminals. It seemed the best choice. Now that you know my quest for the moment, I shall introduce to you my Guardian, Apple Derringer. Yes, her name is Apple. I thought this perfectly ridiculous and of course when I laughed at her, she promptly sent me flying. I was ready with the counter attack, but all she had to do was wave my court order in my face and I was somber again.

We set out at dawn, she floating in the air above me; I was walking, carrying all her luggage and trying to balance mine at the same time. What I wouldn't have given to have been able to float after her, but that would have meant extra exile time for me. I trudged along, tired and broken but she refused to let me stop walking for a second's rest. It was extremely painful trying not to show my fatigue and desperately fighting the temptation to use magic to assist me. That was probably the worst. The physical pain was bad, but the mental want--no need to use the infinite supply of magic within me was absolutely unbearable. I cannot even fully describe the pain that this simple luxury I had come to take for granted caused me. It felt like...let me use an example. If you had grown up always having water and food, having it becomes almost second nature to you. But if one day, you are left without such things, it's almost a withdrawal. Because you know that all you need to get to this food and water is to pay for it. But if, let's say, you had no money, then how would you get what you most wanted? Now you have two choices. Will you get a job and work hard for your food and water or will you steal it, only to have it taken away again? This it the kind of tearing pain that I felt. I wanted so desperately to cry and whine and grovel for my freedom, but what pride would let me do such a thing?

I think that perhaps I was going mad on this long trek. It was as if magic was some sort of drug and without it, I experienced terrible bouts of withdrawal. It became a terrible habit of mine to tug at my hair and sometimes if the withdrawal was particularly terrible, I would rip a strand of my hair out for every minute I went without it. Apple, my new caretaker, would only laugh at this and speed the growth of those hairs so that within minutes, everything I had taken out was back again. This frustrated me to no end. If I wanted to mutilate myself, then what right did this woman have to make it come back again and erase any of my pain? I was gradually beginning to hate her with every minute, every hour, every day.

In essence, it was only a week of this torture. But it seemed like I was never going to reach Aberth, only walk on some dusty road, the landscape never changing from its green fields and sunny, unfeeling skies. The only way I knew that I was moving anywhere at all, was the fact that the flowers in the fields changed in variety every mile. It could have been some of Apple's magic, for I was quite delirious after a day or so. How did I keep this relentless pace? Even I don't know. Three times a day, Apple would give me two pieces of dry bread and a couple of gulps of water. Most of the time I refused. Because of such stubbornness, I often fell from lack of nourishment. Apple would let me wallow in self-misery for a while, where after she would coax my legs with a spell and off we were once again, to traverse the road until I was ready to collapse once more.

I shan't burden you with such paltry talk any longer. I figure that you get the idea. Let us move onto Aberth itself. It was some late hour of the night (I had lost count of the hours) when we arrived at Aberth. It was dark and I could barely see anything, but Apple used her magic and gave me a light by which to see. What I could make out did not please me in the least. It was all dirt everywhere. Houses were made of wood, simple planks boarded together with straw and mud for a roof. It was boring but effective, nothing like the houses of my home.

Ah, my home. My wonderful, colorful, beautiful home. No two houses looked alike, almost like people. In fact, that was exactly it. Every house reflected the person living inside of it. Brilliant hues of colors mingled with gold or silver adorned houses as big as mansions. There was no poverty there, no anguish, and no sadness. There were only beautiful houses with beautiful people. And of course the occasional exotic animal. Many people kept animals that reflected on themselves. I always had a fascination with this one woman who had a grand pink mansion and always wore the ugliest shade of pink. She was a third rate witch, but she was nice I guess. Anyway, she had this enormous pink bird in her house. Such birds are called Parfarooms here. It was the most annoying thing that I ever encountered. This Parfaroom would take anything she said and mimic it with its shrill voice. Sometimes, it would take the sentences apart and make new ones using the words it had learned. I dare say I spent very little time in this woman's house and this was probably the only thing that I do not regret leaving behind.

It was, as we entered this dull and drear town, that I realized how much I was going to miss my home. Everything here was boring and it seemed that these people lived more for survival than for variety. I had loved the diversity of my town; it was going to be hard to go without it.

Apple seemed to be picking up on my thoughts and pat my shoulder with mock sympathy. "We're living this together, hun," was all she would say but I could feel the resentment in her voice. She wanted to be here just about as much as I did. But who could blame her? I was the reason that she had to give up her life in comfort to share it with me in despair. The guilt picked at my stomach like a particularly bad parasite. But there was nothing I could do about it, I realized. This job did not come without a price, I was sure of that. She nudged me with her elbow and I began the last leg of my journey through the gates.

I expected to be stopped and was sure that we would be searched. But we were not. There were no armored guards at the gate with pikes as was the norm during these times. There was no bored look and sigh at the oncoming visitors. No one demanding that you state your business or to pay any tolls. It was an arch of bent wood that served as a gate, and I am sure that if there had not been one, I would have mistaken this place for a rebel village. I almost wanted the guards to be there, to give me some sign that there was life other than myself and Apple. But then again, guards bring questions and sometimes some things are best left unsaid. As a criminal I am obliged to speak the truth at all times. And you must realize that most towns do not accept exiled people. But who could blame them?

Again that annoying guilt-parasite made my stomach lurch terribly. I wished for nothing more than acceptance and it seemed more than likely that at dawn Apple and I would be leaving again for the next town.

We walked quickly and silently, my legs burning terribly with the forced effort of walking that last bit. I think that because we were so close to a place of rest that the pain worsened with every step, for I was ready to give up and probably would have had my Guardian not been with me. She guided me through the narrow streets to the very heart of the small town, to the only home with lights flickering in the windows. She rapt her tiny knuckles against the warped door and waited patiently for sound of life. It was only a few moments before I could hear a chair scraping against the floor and the footsteps that indicated someone lived there. You must excuse me, but these normal sounds, these everyday things told me that I was not as alone in the world as I had come to believe over those last few days. It didn't matter anymore if I was rejected from this place, as long as I was able to communicate with someone other than myself. It is indescribable the thought of never speaking to anyone again. To me that was probably going to be the most difficult thing about my exile. I would have no one to share my words with and I think because of this I am writing to you now. I had this need, as the owner of this home came to the door, to just blurt out my life story to whomever it was regardless of whether they wanted to listen or not.

So the door opened and what light there was from the candles flooded around us and expelled a small circle darkness. Apple was all smiles. "Why, miss! I do hope that we did not keep you waiting too long!" she said as cheerfully as humanely possible. "Oh no!" the young woman at the doorway replied, hastily ushering us into her home, "I figured that the journey was going to be long. Please come sit by the fire, Miss Apple."

Apple kicked me and I quickly shook her hand. "You're Mister Rocher aren't you?" she asked. I nodded. She gave me a warm smile and showed us both to the fire. It was pleasantly warm and I let a tired sigh escape my lips as I sunk into the chair left for me. No sooner had I sat down, Apple pushed me from the chair. I glared at her menacingly, wondering fiercely why I couldn't even enjoy the simple pleasure of a chair. She gave me a look of contempt and whispered, "Criminals deserve only the floor." I was outraged. How could this woman say such a thing! I wished only for a chair. A place to rest my aching feet. Who was she to talk when all she had done was float along beside me and shoot me with Anti-Fatigue spells?! Oh how I loathed this woman now. Oh how I loathed her. But I would not let her see such petty emotions, so I sat with my back to her, my legs stretched out towards the warmth of the fire.

"Oh my! Here come sit in a chair, Mister Rocher!" our young hostess exclaimed when she found me on the floor. Apple held up a hand to her and shook her head. Obviously, this girl knew of my exile for her face instantly became downcast and she turned to go into another room. My Guardian glanced at me again, but I was not looking at her. I knew she was staring at me though; I could feel her eyes boring holes into the back of my head. I forced myself not to look at her, in case she felt like making fun of me some more. I instead contented myself with the brilliance of the red and orange flames, crackling and hissing. Just like laughter. And so now, it seemed, even elements could laugh at me. At least, I thought, these flames could not form audible words and make snide comments to me. That gave me some form of comfort.

Our hostess came back for a moment and asked Apple if she or I wished for something to eat or drink. My throat was suddenly parched and my stomach grumbled noisily. Apple snorted as I hastily tried to ignore my stomach, but our hostess only giggled. "I'll fetch some tea and a few cakes, then?" she asked. I glanced quickly at Apple to see if maybe I was allowed to eat something and she gave me a small shrug. "You hungry?" she asked me plainly. I nodded. I was around human company, with other living-breathing humans capable of speech, yet I had not said a word. Apple turned back to the girl and said, "Could you possibly bring the boy a sandwich or something, Miss Adele?" Ah, so now I could address my hostess without sounding rude. But something nagged at me, why would Apple call me a boy? She looked about the same age as I with her short black hair cropped to her neck and smooth face. The only indication of her age was her small round glasses, which really only gave her an air of intelligence.

Adele left us for the second time and again I was left to the laughing fire and Apple. She seemed to be thinking about something perplexing, because when I turned to glance at her, she was in her own little world. She didn't glare at me or acknowledge me. I decided that if she could be rude, then so could I, and what better way to get her angry than to break her train of thought. But what to say to convey how I felt? What could I possibly have to talk about with her, the woman who referred to me as a child? Let me tell you now, never ask a witch her age. It seemed the most logical topic of subject then, but now I reflect on it and realize that I was being an idiot.

"How old are you that you can call me a boy, Apple?" I asked foolishly, almost childishly. Her eyes slowly looked down on me, the unruly boy sitting on the floor. But she didn't answer me right away; instead she stared me straight in the eye and sighed. "You're an imbecile," she said quietly. So I glared at her. But I didn't ask again.

Adele made her grand entrance once more and set a small tray of goodies on a plain wooden stool. My sandwich was there waiting for me along with three cups of steaming tea. Adele gave one to Apple and then went to hand one to me, but Apple stopped her. "No service for a criminal. He can get his own food," she said sternly. Adele was about to say something but clenched her jaw firmly and looked at me sadly. She had some form of sympathy for me. The thought of her not being able to serve me made her sad. I hated the pitiful look she gave me. I hated it. But my hunger was greater than my hate so I reached up and grabbed a half of sandwich, murmuring my thanks. This perked her up a bit and she took the chair next to Apple's, snuggling around her warm mug of tea.

"I think you ought to know that I leave for work very early in the morning," Adele said suddenly, "So…um, I'll leave something for you to eat if you like." Apple shook her head. "That's alright. Rocher can do that for me. And for you as well," she replied. Adele became flustered and tried to argue the subject. But Apple continued to use the criminal excuse and finally Adele stopped trying to defend me. Unfortunately, I knew nothing about making food by hand. But I suppose that Apple deserved my horrible cooking. And that gave me some measure of comfort.

The conversation had ceased and I again kept my attention glued to the fire, slowly savoring the sandwich. It was simple ham and cheese but after eating nothing but bread and water for seven days and nights, I can't say that I was going to be partial to much of anything. I nibbled at it trying to keep this delicacy with me all the longer. I was sure that for the next year I would suffer eating my own cooking. This small offering was not to be wasted. It's really funny how we come to cherish the little things once everything is stripped from us.

I tried to save the sandwich as best I could, but alas, all good things come to an end. I finished it and sipped the scalding tea. I was warm and as content as I could be in this state and now I wished for somewhere to rest. I thought for a moment to wait for Apple to ask this girl where our sleeping quarters were but all manners had ceased to exist on my journey that seemed ages ago to me. So I decided that I should not have to wait for my Guardian to beg shelter off of this girl, although it seemed most likely that we were going to reside here anyway. But you must understand that I had been living in a time of uncertainty. Every day was spent wondering over things. Would she feed me today? Would she give me a spell to keep me moving or would she let me die on the side of the road? Were we going to stay at this place? Was I allowed to sleep again? Going so long without it had made me forget that sleep even existed. I had to know. I had to have that level of certainty that came with asking that question. Would we stay? Would we sleep?

"I'm tired." That was it. That was all I said. One vague sentence that wasn't even a question. I was still stuck in the uncertain state I was in before. I had only opened the floor for a topic of conversation. I glanced feebly up at my Guardian and then at my hostess. Apple scowled at me but Adele gave me a small smile. "Can I show you two to your rooms?" she asked. Apple still glared daggers at me when she answered, "We only need one. Criminals deserve only the floor." Adele's smile faltered slightly at this remark but she obviously knew that there was no arguing with Apple. She sighed quietly and beckoned for us to follow.

We went slowly up a creaky set of stairs that had some uneven and broken steps. I feared that I might fall through them and break a limb. Before this would never have scared me but now, without my magic, I felt vulnerable and useless. And then I realized what it meant to be someone like Adele without any magic or the like. and then I pitied her. In fact I came to pity anyone who couldn't use the magic I was so accustomed to. How did they live? How could you survive a day without the help of magic? I knew that I never could if I were given the chance. I think now that that was a foolish thing to become dependent upon. Magic, now, seems truly overrated. But I did not know that then. I was taken from a lifestyle I was so used to and brought into a life that I figured I would not survive through.

We reached the landing and proceeded down a narrow hallway. We passed the first set of doors without stopping. Actually, I had no idea that we had passed a set of doors until I looked back. They were made of the same plain wood as the rest of the house and it blended in so well that I had unconsciously skipped over it. Only upon a second glance did I see the dull brass knob. It confused me to think that someone could possibly use the same wood to furnish a door as well as the rest of the house. Back home, doors were a means of self-expression not only on the outside, but on the inside also. As I walked past these camouflaged doors, my mind wandered back to a familiar family home. They were a young couple living in a lovely blue and silver house. It may have looked a little small on the outside, but any good witch or wizard knows that an Enlargement spell is child's play. And indeed it was some spell. The house was enormous from the inside, but the most amazing thing was that ever inch of every wall was covered with a different door. Even a couple of the stairs were actual doors. Now, I am sure that you are not as thoroughly amazed at this as I was, but you must understand that any door in a magical house leads somewhere different. Not just another closet, you see. I mean it leads to a different part of the world and beyond.

I often visited this house because the young owners were diplomats. It was easiest to take one of their doors down to the east or west part of the world if I was on some errand. And they let everyone into their house. It was almost like a little airport terminal; people flying in and out. Of course not all these doors led to another dimension; some were set-aside as closets and bathrooms and bedrooms. This young couple often kept and updated maps so that people could get around without getting lost. It was simply a lovely atmosphere with all the strange and diverse creatures coming and going as they pleased. So one day I just happened to be popping in after fixing a horribly mutated Redolence hex when I came upon an old apothecary witch, with whom I was acquainted. She was looking for the door to the powder room and someone directed her to a particularly shiny silver plated door. She proceeded into that door but emerged only seconds later, sopping wet. It made me wonder if something was wrong with the plumbing, but she had wandered into a portal to the ocean. Yes, it may seem funny now, but it's really not when an old woman rages around hexing everyone who happens to glance at her. That was brutal.

I digress, I'm afraid. While I mused on, comparing my home to hers, we reached our destination. It was a small, miniscule room, somewhat like the closet on the fourth floor of my house. It was truly unimpressive. I think at that point I truly found a hatred for this room, this cramped space that I believed I would end my days in. Of course, this was an entirely false assumption, but let us wait for that section of my tale.

It was indeed a very tiny room with a thin cot jammed against the wooden wall to my left and a nightstand that resembled a plain stool. There was a lone candle on the 'nightstand', the wax of which was spilling carelessly unto the little table. The only piece that caught my attention was the arched window on the wall directly opposite the door. From it filtered the eerie light of the moon and even that was slowly fading as dawn approached. It was only a simple window, divided into four square sections by bars with a neat little arch at the top. It was plain and curtainless, but it was the most ornate thing in the house. And of course, it became the only thing that I found a certain level of comfort in. I stared at it quietly as Adele gabbed on to Apple and their voices, to my pleasure, became inaudible. I was in my own, calm, little world. And the window was the only prominent thing in my mind. I felt myself walking over to it, slowly and patiently, like I already knew what I was going to see. Like I already knew what was lying ahead for me.

I was at the window. I gazed carefully at the wrought iron bars, at the magnificent shape they took as they wrapped around the smooth panes of glass. My eyes were then drawn by some form of magic to the world that lay beyond the glass. But what I saw…it was not the dirt roads and identical houses I had trudged by some hours ago. I was back home. I was seeing the world as I had always done when bored on a drab day. There were the beautiful homes of my magical neighbors. Every house was a different color, a different shape. The sun always reflected the most wondrous spectrum of brilliant colors onto my second floor parlor window. I don't know if that was because of the magic bestowed upon the houses, but it was always pleasant to sit and stare at.

"Mister Rocher?" I blinked and my eyes found the rural country before them again. But wasn't it...my neighborhood? I turned slowly to see Adele, who stared at me dolefully. I gave her a look and walked away from the window. Had she been watching? Had she seen me make a fool of myself? Every self-conscious thought that had left me for my moment of recollection came back and plagued me a thousand fold. I could feel my cheeks heat up as she looked at me. "I…just thought I'd bring you a blanket and a pillow. Since, you know...Miss Apple doesn't want to give you a room of your own," she said to me, staring down at the floor. I felt a smile form on my lips, tugging at my cheeks. "Thank you," I replied walking over to where she stood, still staring at the floor. I caught her gaze and smiled. She gave me my blankets and smiled back. It was a genuine moment. I think at that point I realized that there were people who held the capacity to love another.

"Miss Apple is...'freshening up'. She told me to inform you that if you weren't sleeping when she got back, she'd kill you. And...well, that's it." Adele's face became a little crestfallen. I sighed and arranged my blankets. I knew that Apple was going to be one of the worst obstacles during my exile. Not like I couldn't tune her out though. Besides, I had already survived a week of her mental torture. "Hey, Miss Adele," I said, my back still turned away from her. I heard the rustling of her skirts; she had been about to walk out the door. "Anything I can do for you, Mister Rocher?" came her reply. I straightened up from my work and turned to face her again. "You don't have to call me 'Mister'. I'm nothing special," I said shrugging. She tilted her head and regarded me quietly. Her mouth began forming a word, as if to speak, when my Guardian came barreling in. Apple glared at me contemptuously before stalking to the tiny bed slammed against the far wall. I rolled my eyes and sauntered back to my 'bed'. Adele shrugged and gave me a sympathetic smile before leaving me alone with my Guardian.

I snuggled into my surprisingly cozy blankets and waited patiently for Apple to extinguish the lone candle on the nightstand. She flopped around for a bit, trying to get comfortable before settling in one position. I nestled back into my little cocoon and shut my eyes expectantly. The dim light shone red on my closed lids, but did not go out. Was she playing a game with me? Or was she simply afraid of the dark? I doubted the latter. So, I sat up groggily and found my Guardian had fallen asleep. I rolled my eyes--how absolutely careless. My bones protested as I got up, cracking. I stumbled over to her bedside, almost tripping over my own feet. It was like I had forgotten how to use them properly. I swore under my breath before leaning over to snuff the candle. A hand grabbed my wrist with an iron grip. "Get lost, pervert," came the muffled voice from under the fluffy covers. "I'm only blowing out the freakin' candle!" I hissed back. She let go of me and her hand retreated back under the blanket. I thought I heard a distinctive growl, but that could have just been my fatigued imagination.

I grumbled something incoherent, snuffed the candle, stumbled back to my blankets and closed my eyes to the world again. I began drifting into my subconscious when a distinct voice rattled through my brain.

"By the way, try anything while I'm sleeping and I'll castrate you."