AN: Written for the The Backward Mythical Character Challenge at The Lounge.
There is shallow breathing, the sound which breaks everything in the room. It is not because it's louder than the sound of the machines, nor the flicking tail of the creature who watches the child silently. But because everything in the room, the creature and the bugs hiding in the walls, fear the sound of it, usually means death.
The child would have been dead if it wasn't for the female creature sitting on the table, invisible to most human eyes. No words escape her red lips as she fights a terrible threat. In the room, there is almost no other sound than the rasping breath of the child, who is fighting as well as he can. Unknown to the child, they both work for the same goal. It is as desperate as any battle fought by the frontiers. There is pain, they both feel the ache and burns their enemy tries to inflict on each of them. It is maddening, as the wars are supposed to be. The veins open up, the heart pumps adrenaline through them. Something meant as a roar escapes the lips of the child, but to anyone who is not in the battle, it sounds like a whimper. Then the child releases a deep rattling breath before the giant leap.
And... , and then the small dark skinned child and the female creature win his battle. He opens his eyes, and maybe he can see the red creature with the strange horns sitting on the table, or maybe not. It does not matter, because the most important thing is accomplished. The child will live. His breathing no longer sounds like the dry, dead leaves scattered on the ground. He closes his brown eyes, and goes back to a dream he has had in the womb, a healing dream which she gives him.
But though her fight is over, their enemy comes into the room. He stands in front of the conquerors. He is everything, repulsive and yet the most beautiful creature who ever graced its presence anywhere. He speaks to her, and she speaks to him. The voices are loud, but there is nobody who can hear them.
He reminds her how the humans remember her, the very evil itself.
She tells him that he surely must have forgotten that though the belief, which is shaped in the books, does not reshape her.
He tries to make her guilty.
She smiles as he tries that old trick once more.
His facial expression changes, and his voices quivers as he tells her this; "we were friends once."
Her yellow eyes soften, a moment of nostalgia crosses her.
"What changed us?"
"When I had to drag the Austrian madman to you, because you tried to send him to a nonexistent hell."
The anger crosses his features once more, and then he tries to hurt her again. "Maybe you have become what they believe you are."
It does not work, and he leaves them. Though she has truly won now, she does not feel any victory. He always spoils that feeling. She tries to shake it off, and turns her gaze to the one she fought with.
"Happy birthday, Joey."