Death Weaver

An original story by Chicken tornado

## Prologue

[1]   ===Characters===
Main: Fleck Spinderwind, Branwen Spinderwind(sister), Gray Dellaware (friend), Swan Marcuse (friend/love interest to Fleck)

### Setting

A fictional world a cross between wild west and midevil kingdom.

### Info

Fleck has died twice, both times managing to literally cheat Death and come back to the world of the living. He doesn't know how this is possible, but he suspects it has something to do with the fact that he can see ghosts.
**The first**:

Flame. Ash.

Everything was on fire. Even his lungs.

Young. He shouldn't have been here.

Death. He left the body, could see everything, but was blind.

Then he saw him. Watching... not burning, like everything else.

**The second**:

Ice. Cold.

Frozen til' he couldn't move. Breath no longer left his mouth. Older, but still too young.

Mother was there this time. Crying.

Blind again... but not.

Him. Watching again. Waiting...

For him to die.

## Chapter one

[2] A cold wind gusted through the streets of Vortigern, a hollow place where crumbling houses and ashy streets had not hosted the the footfalls of human life for at least ten years.

People were persistent in avoiding the place, but if there were any who dare set foot in the town, they couldn't have thrown a stone without hitting vermin. Rats, particularly.

Wretched creatures, drawn to blood. Dark crevices. Damp, evil smelling places that hid secrets.

Vortigern was a good place to go if you wanted to die.

Fleck Spinderwind knew this, but he had a hard time caring. He had already died twice.

Making his way slowly through the abandoned streets, his footfalls were about as loud as feathers falling. The houses were gray, and the streets black from ashes. The sky may have been a brilliant blue even a mile away from the town, but in Vortigern, when he looked up, Fleck could see only the thick, dank billows of mean gray clouds.

Fleck ran his fingers along the dusty walls of the houses, which were probably crawling with rats.

It was good to know he was not without company.

Death preferred to take his victims while they were alone.

At the moment, however, Fleck was sure he, Death may make an exception for him... they weren't on good terms, since they'd last spoke. The idea of dying wasn't as scary as it had been the first time, or even the second. He could escape, if he wanted to, but it would just be *such* a hassle.

Besides, it was good to feel the chill of the air against his cheek and the firmness of the ground beneath his feet as he walked.

Fleck moved some of his wild red hair out of his eyes, as he paused to contemplate where to move next. A rat scampered across the street, kicking up ash. For only a moment, Fleck entertained the urge to run after it and explore the ghost town at his delight.

But he was too old for that. Fifteen was supposed to be the age of maturity. But here he was, in a forbidden town, purely because he was too childish to listen to the warnings.

Fleck sighed, and watched as his breath turned white in the cold air. He had to move on, secrets didn't find themselves.

So he wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, and continued. What he needed was surely in the center of town, or at least, that was where it should have been. Fleck was going with his gut, which usually lead him to good places.

He turned a corner, smiling at the sight of the enormous structure before him: the legendary Chapel of Zelovan. Depleted and robbed of its old glory as it may have been, it still brought a feeling of wonder. The feeling that came at the sight of an old myth told over and over round campfires, from father to son, mother to daughter come true.

Fleck remembered his grandfather telling it to him, the old tales of spirits wondering the halls, the legends proclaiming that every departed soul felt a call to that place. It wasn't until Fleck had died that he knew the stories to be true.

Something was within those crumbling walls, beneath the ancient floors, calling to him. Trying to tell him something.

Fleck intended to listen.

## Chapter two

Fleck was only a few feet away from the huge, dilapidated structure when he saw the first one. Just out of the corner of his eye, at first. But it was still there, nonetheless. There was no need to look again, to wonder or to panic. A ghost was a ghost.

They were like bees. If Fleck didn't bother them, he'd be fine.

It wasn't until he was right at the front doors to Zelovan's Chapel that he could truly appreciate how very old and dark the crumbling walls were. This place had once been marvelous, the halls encrusted with rubies, and
[3] gold, the spiraling towers home to hermits and bishops.

Now the scent of decay lingered about, and ash dusted what was left of the rooftops like snow. The Chapel, like the rest of Vortigern, had been destroyed when the Witch-Raiders came.

The Witch-Raiders usually just stole, but here, they'd pillaged, setting fire to every inch of the town, and replacing the people with ghosts who had died in the fiery oblivion. They'd stolen the jewels and gold from Zelovan's glorious halls.

This place...

This place was cursed.

Fleck pushed open the doors, which groaned, and shed layers of ash and dust at the slight movement. Fleck held a sleeve to his mouth, not wanting to inhale the stuff- or the rotting stench that had been hiding in the halls.

The ceilings seemed to encapsulate the heavens, and the wide corridors were more similar to a castle's, but Fleck felt claustrophobic.

Probably because it was so crowded. People were swarming through the halls, silent, grave. It was obvious to Fleck that these were the departed... but there were just *so* many.

It made his heart stumble just a bit. Something he'd been trying to avoid. He couldn't feel pity, ghosts could sense it... and then they'd never leave him alone.

He made his way to the other side of the hall, slowly, trying not to look into their faces. The fist time Fleck had seen a ghost, he'd hardly known he difference. They looked like people, except for the slight transparency and expression of pure sorrow. The real difference was in the eyes.

Black. Hollow. Horrifying.

Fleck's first encounter with the departed had not been pretty... especially since no one else could see them like he could.

Each step through the cold, musty halls felt like years gone by, and that made him remember: one of the side affects of being around spirits. They made everything seem slow, made the fleeting seconds seem like hours...

He had to be quick.

So he picked up the pace, hoping they wouldn't notice or care. Each new hallway or corridor he entered grew darker, smellier, graver. Rats scurried along the sides of the rooms, twisted thin and wretched.

God, Fleck was tired of the rats.

As he moved closer to the center of the Chapel, the cold became a problem. Despite his thick boots, his fleecy, fingerless gloves, his sturdy trench coat, and cloak on top of it, he began to shiver uncontrollably. Cold seeped into his bones, blocks of ice piercing into his spine.

Shivering turned to trembling, but Fleck continued, one foot in front of the other. What kept him going were the secrets that haunted him, the answers he so desperately needed.

Why could he see what no one else could?

What skeletons in his past made him so different from the rest of the living?

How was it possible for a child to escape the realm of Death? Twice?

The finding of a dead end interrupted his motivational exercise. A wall, too in tact for him to break through. But his gut told him that this was undoubtedly the way...

Fleck's eyes shifted to the ground...creases in the floor. Trap door? Fleck smiled at his rhyme, and bent down, running his fingers along the crevices, searching for a hinge. A latch on the far side of the squarish panel caught his eyes, and with fingers stiff from the cold, he pried it open.

The foul smell that wafted out of the dark opening was much stronger than before, Fleck fought the urge to gag. He moved to slide into the opening,pausing for only a moment to wonder what was down there. It could have been anything from a nest of rats to a lake of oil. And he was willing to risk it.

So he lowered his legs in, and let go.

## Chapter three

The world slipped away, or at least everything that involved light. The dark swallowed him as fell... down, down down.  The opening Fleck had slipped through shrunk to a speck of white above him.

And then, suddenly, there was ground beneath his feet.

Fleck stood there for a moment, taking deep breaths. And when he looked up again, there was only darkness. And the stench, of course.

But he was getting close. He could feel the tug in the center of his chest, the memory of his soul yearning for whatever lie beyond. Fleck couldn't feel the cold anymore, just the calling. He let it guide him, one foot in front of the other, the dark seeming to grow thicker with each step.

And then he saw it, laying on the ground before him... a gem. Fleck bent down, and even the slight change of positioning made the tugging feel so much stronger, like something was pulling him down by the neck, towards the jewel.

Golden, clear, beautiful. Cut sharp and pointed in a diamond shape, about as big as a penny. It stood out from the darkness, but at the same time was one with the shadows.

*This was it*.

Fleck moved to pick it up, his hand shaking greedily. His trembling fingers wrapped around the gem. It felt firm and heavy in his hand, and as soon as he stood up, everything changed.

First the wind, cold, sour, and harsh. And then the scampering, and the shrieking of rats.

And then the faces. Hundreds, pale, deathly and haunting, eyes black and unblinking. And unlike the others, in the rooms above, these showcased the torment of their death. Burnt. Scarred. Mutilated.

Fleck swallowed hard, and attempted to run. Anywhere, as long as it was away. If ghosts were like bees, he'd stumbled upon an angry hive.

## Chapter four

Gnarled, ghostly hands reached for him, chasing him as he ran through the darkness. How was he supposed to escape? The opening... it seemed to be a thousand feet above him.  He was panting, panicking. If Fleck didn't leave now, the spirits had the power to dispose of him.

And then there was a voice: Cold. Beautiful. Siren-like. And it took all the sense Fleck possessed to know that it wasn't from an angel, but something more... sinister.

"*Fleck*."

The voice flushed through the darkness, like the breath of the wind itself. The spirits began to repeat his name, in their cracked, broken voices. The word echoed a thousand times, buzzing in his ears.

The voice again: "*You have come home. Stay*."

His head was pounding, as he ran through the nothingness, everywhere he turned the spirits were waiting, echoing the word "Stay."

"NO!" he shouted, looking for a wall, a door, anything to prove that he was still in the realm of the living. But even the floor had vanished. There was only the darkness, the cold, and the stench.

It was familiar.

"No..." he muttered again.

"*Oh, yes*." The voice said, this time with more substance.

Fleck turned, and saw the source, set apart from the darkness, apart from the ghosts. It took the shape of a human... very tall, and thin, with white skin and long, beautiful fingers. It was genderless, with deathly beautiful features, and silky white hair. An evil smile revealed straight, yellowing teeth, and it's eyes were a dazzling green, all except for the slit in the center, witch was the pupil. It wore a suit, made completely of precious gems: diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds and more. The tie however, was gold.

"Death." Fleck muttered, not in the mood to deal with this right now.

"*Hello, Fleck. Are you ready to pay for your transgression?*" Death stalked closer to where Fleck was trembling in his boots.

"Sorry, I don't have cash with me." He hoped he sounded brave.

Death smiled "*My, how you've grown...   It's such a pity you won't make it to adulthood*."

"What if I escape again?" Fleck threw the suggestion out casually, as though he didn't care.

Death laughed, an almost beautiful sound. "*Don't act brave, Fleck. You were only five and nine, at the time, and had no*idea*how you managed to cheat me*. *It's time you get back to where you belong. You've already set the stage perfectly for me by running away to a haunted town on your own. No one will even come looking*." His eyes gleamed greedily.

Fleck clutched the gem tighter in his hand, wondering if it was worth dying for.

Too late, the ghosts began to swarm around him, their hands grabbing at him and tugging him this way and that.  Hopelessness settled in Fleck's gut, as the spirits began to chant.

"*Fleck*..."

"*Stay.*.."

"*Die.*.."

"*One of us*..."

He began to lose feeling in his legs and arms...

"*Stay.*.."

"*Home*..."

"*Die*..."

Breathing became a labor...

"*One of us*..."

"*Die*..."

"*Stay*..."

"Grab my hand!" This voice was different.

Fleck shook himself, as a familiar looking spirit reached out for him. He took the hand that was waiting, and was shocked to feel that it was solid... flesh like. The hand pulled him up on top of something that was just big enough for his legs to wrap around, and warm. A horse?

And then Fleck blinked a few times, and saw that is *was* a horse, and the rider was alive.

"Branwen?" He asked, a swelling of relief bringing warmth to the cold. His sister.

"I *told* you not to go, you idiot!" she fumed. The problem was, she wasn't moving, as though there was no danger, no horde of angry spirits and Death himself trying to end him.

Of course Bran wasn't moving... she couldn't see them.

"GO!" Fleck shouted at his sister. "Ride! We need to get out of here!"

To his utter relief, she didn't ask questions, just flicked the reigns and took off. As they bolted, reality came back into view, and Fleck realized that the darkness had been an illusion. Mostly. The trapdoor must have lead to a passageway to Zelovan's massive courtyard, which was where they had just bolted from.

The spirits were still there, but they didn't follow, just looked on, angrily. Death was nowhere to be seen...

Fleck opened his palm and stared at the gem. He smiled, taunting Death. *Ha*. He thought. *I win*.

## Chapter five

A few miles passed. Miles filled with desert and grasslands passing steadily below the grey mare's hooves. An hour passed before Bran slowed the horse, and reeled on him.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?"

Fleck bit his lip, trying to think of an excuse- one that didn't involve being able to see ghosts, meeting Death face to face, and a search for answers to his mysterious past. Because if he did that, she'd knock him out with  a spare horseshoe, and chain him down to his bed, thinking him insane.

Sure, maybe his sister suspected something. She'd be stupid if she didn't, and Bran Spinderwind was anything but stupid. Often times she'd stumbled upon him randomly trembling, when he'd come across a spirit, or else purposefully avoiding places that were harmless in the eyes of those who couldn't see the supernatural.

But whatever she suspected, it wasn't ghosts.

"I'm sorry." he said, stiffly. Branwen didn't answer, or even turn to look at him, her back rigid.

It must have been early afternoon, because the sun beating down made Bran's red hair glint with gold, as it often did at this time of day. Fleck preoccupied himself with the hair, not wanting to think about any of the past events, or all the trouble he'd get into in the future.

It was undoubtedly some of the prettiest hair he'd ever seen, wavy and thick, a warm orange-ish red, unlike Fleck's, which was more of a cherry color. It hung to her mid-back, at the moment, but in the winter it met the bottom of her shirt. The hair was always getting complimented, especially when Fleck's mother had been there to do so.

Bran hadn't received a compliment in a while, now.

"We were worried about you." The words left his sister's mouth without emotion, and she still wouldn't look at him.  "Grey especially."

Fleck smiled a bit. "Worried? Really? I'm disappointed in your faith."

She raised an eyebrow, which was the equivalent of a smirk. "Yes, you've actually just cost me ten copper pieces." She informed.

"Who was betting on me?"

"Grey, because he's an idiot."

Fleck smiled. Grey was his best friend since the age of six. Idiot was his middle name, which was... probably why they got along so well.

It was a four hour ride to the small town of Sandhill, where Fleck and about three hundred others lived. The population consisted of escapees who'd banded to together for survival, and a few stragglers who'd settled to start a new life. Fleck and his family were some of the escapees.

Almost eleven years ago, Vortigern had been destroyed. Raided and pillaged by Witch-Raiders, who killed over seven thousand in the flames. Those who survived traveled as far as they could without dying, and made camp in the middle of the desert, digging a well and making homes for themselves. Over ten years, other escapees had regrouped around the town, and stayed, raising their families and recovering from the destruction.Those people had seen a city burn. Seen men, women and children die in the flames.

Sandhill may have been Fleck's home, but he'd always feel drawn to Vortigern. He'd died there, after all.  Lost in the flames as his mother and sister ran...

At first, they were convinced that Fleck had died in the destruction, and with good reason. So when he appeared in Sandhill a week later, they thought he had barely escaped. They were wrong, obviously, but Fleck knew, even at the age of five, that telling them wouldn't help anything.

It was his little secret.

The gem in his hand grew slippery, covered in sweat from his palm. He gazed at it as the sun began to set on the horizon.

"How much longer?" he groaned. His backside was sore from the hard saddle and friction form riding.

"Don't be a baby." Was Bran's answer.

The light began to flee from the sky as Fleck and Bran continued. "How'd you know I had left?" Fleck asked.

"Because you're... *you*." She told him. "And because Sheeba came running back the moment you dismounted. When I saw her walking back to her stall, saddled, but without a rider, I knew."

"Ah." Fleck said simply. He patted Sheeba, the grey carthorse that was dutifully carrying them home.

"We'll be there in a few minutes." Bran revealed.

Thought bubbled up in Fleck's head, each one begging for his attention. The one that stood out the most was: *What am I supposed to do now*?

So he'd found a gem in Vortigern. So what? How did that help him in any way? A part of him knew that the gem was the key to everything. The other part stood alone in confusion, banging it's head against the wall and coming up empty handed with answers.

"Are we going to talk about it?" Bran pushed.

"What is there to talk about?"

She looked back this time, her eyes stern and stormy. "Oh, I dunno. Maybe the reason you ran off in the first place, or the fact that I found you trembling on the ground and shouting at absolutely nothing."

"I don't want to lie to you, so I can't answer."

Neither of them spoke for the rest of the trip, which was a total of nine minutes. When Sandhill came into view, a huddle of about 200 buildings on the desert horizon, Bran flicked the reigns, and they closed the space in a moment of swift riding.

Their house was near the center of town, as their family had been some of the first settlers. A two room hut with a flat roof and dirt floors. Sheeba had the shade of the roof's overhang and a sturdy three wall makeshift of a stall.

Fleck swung his leg over the horse, and Bran dismounted a moment later, leading Sheeba to her stall, and filling a trough of water for her.

Fleck took a breath and wiped his palms on his trench coat before pushing open the door to the house. Home had never felt so far away.

## Chapter six

"Were there ghosts?" Grey's eyes lit up as the words left his mouth, a psycho smile playing on his face.

"Hundreds." Fleck smiled, attempting some good old fashioned false sarcasm to further bury the truth. The morning light had the both of them lugging buckets to the center of town, where the only well for a hundred miles all around was located. Bran had insisted they leave bright and early so they wouldn't encounter a long line for the day's water.

Grey seemed to daydream for a moment, temporarily forgetting the six large buckets that were weighing him down. Grey was tall for 16, and pretty lanky. His hair was a mop of wild, stone grey, hence his name which was  a good pseudonym for his given title: Arnaldus.

He wasn't a real champion in school, but he wasn't useless. He'd often helped Fleck with his chores, such as this one, when his parents deemed him annoying.

"I wish I could've come along." he said wistfully.

"Nah," Fleck told him. "It was a snooze fest."

They turned a corner and came to the well, an old yet sturdy stone mechanism that ran on manpower to pump the water. Two faucets stuck out of the sides, and people usually placed their buckets below while they pumped.

There was only one other person at the well, diligently filling their five buckets. Fleck didn't get a closer look until he was at the other faucet, his buckets resting beneath, waiting to be filled. Grey started pumping.

The other person was a girl, and Fleck found himself gaping stupidly at her. She was... there was no other word for it: *perfect*.  Her skin was a creamy brown, and seemed to shimmer in the sun, her hair dark tumbling over her shoulder in curls highlighted with blonde. Her clothes clung nicely to her figure in a way that showed she was slim and lithe.

*Angel*. Fleck thought.

"Oy! Fleck! Your turn." Grey's voice brought him back to earth in a blundering fall.

"Oh, yeah." Fleck went to the pump, and rolled up his sleeves, suddenly keen to demonstrate his pumping skills. He tried not to look back at the girl, occasionally grunting and such, hoping she would look over and see him working the pump at twice the normal speed.

"So, I've been thinking about the ghosts." Grey started, leaning up against the well and blocking Fleck's view of the girl.

"What ghosts? I don't know what you're talking about." Leave it to Grey to ruin his chances and make him sound like a lunatic.

Grey ignored him. "D'you think they want blood? Or are they just trying to eat?"

"Shut. Up." Fleck said under his breath, continuing to pump.

"What?" Grey cocked his head. "You say something?"

"Your turn!" he cut him off, even though Fleck had only been pumping for about a minute.

"Hey!" Grey said.

"Sorry to interrupt," came another voice. "But were you talking about ghosts?"

Both Fleck and Grey turned to the girl, a little surprised that she'd spoke to them. "What? No." Fleck tried for his trademark rogue smile, but found himself counting his flaws, and panicking slightly. He was never like this around women... where had his bad-boy charm ran off to?

The girl, however, wore a playful smile, illuminating her face, her hazel eyes laughing. "I heard you. Are there ghosts in this town?"

Fleck would have made a witty comment, were it not for Grey, who snorted and stole the spotlight. "Ha. No, this place is a total sham. We were talking about Vortigern, the ghost town. Everyone knows about Vortigern."

The girl raised an eyebrow. "I haven't. But I guess that's because I'm not from around here."

"Well the story goes-"

"We'd better be going now." Fleck interrupted Grey's rambling, offering the girl an apologetic smile.

"But you haven't filled up all of your buckets." She pointed out.

Fleck kicked himself. Why was he so off his game?  "Er, you're right. That's because we're gonna come back later!"

"Fleck, what are you doing?" Grey sounded bored. "Bran's gonna kill us if we don't get back before six thirty."

"Well, if you need help, I can pump the rest if you want." the girl looked genuine, and Fleck almost said yes, only because it might make her smile again.

"Oh, no. Don't do that." He laughed tensely. "In fact, let us help you. Five buckets is a lot for one person to carry."

The girl smiled, and seemed to look him over. "You realize how creepy that sounded, right?"

Grey chuckled.

Fleck was sweating. "Yeah. That was weird. Sorry. I'm Fleck, by the way. Spinderwind." He held out his hand, a rush of giddiness washing him over as the girl reached out, and shook it.

"I'm Swan." she beamed.

## Chapter seven

A swelling feeling of happiness seemed to course through Fleck as he and Grey walked back to the house, buckets swaying as they stepped.

"You were really off your game, man." Even Grey's pointless comments couldn't stop him from whistling a little tune. "I mean, you sounded like a serial killer."

The town was busier now, the people out and about, rushing through the day's activities. A line had gathered at the well, and Fleck was glad he'd come early.  "She was pretty, eh?" he said mindlessly.

"Sure." Grey told him. "I mean, nothing special, but... I guess."

The two boys walked briskly to Fleck's house, careful not to let any water splash. They needed all they could get: A horse tended to get very thirsty.  Grey grunted as he pushed open the wood door, and trudged inside, dropping the buckets on the floor. Fleck copied him.

"About time." Bran announced from the kitchen. The smell of bacon and cooked onions tantalized him, and he stalked up to the small iron stove and swiped a slice of the sizzling meat.

Bran elbowed him in the gut as he attempted to slide past her. "That's breakfast for you." She told him, as she plated two pieces and slid the plate over to Grey.

"I'll bring her's up..." Fleck said, accepting the plate Bran offered him.

"Be quick: you've got chores."

Fleck fingered the rope ladder hanging from the ceiling, leading to the minuscule attic. The space would have been useless, were it not for their predicament. Fleck caught the worried look that Bran sent him as he ascended, and returned a smug smirk that efficiently shadowed his dread.

Rising to the attic was a bit like visiting the land of decay. Shadows overtook most of the surfaces, save the spots that were illuminated by beams of yellow light that had seeped through the cracks in the roof. The wood was dusty, dry, and a bit mossy, creating a cave of claustrophobia. Not much took up the space: it was simply small quarters. What really brought the place into a ghostly setting was the woman laying on the corner.

Almost a corpse.

She was slightly propped up into a sitting position, cushioned with all manner of quilts and pillows that Fleck had stolen from merchants foolish enough to visit Sandhill. The woman herself was more gaunt and mournful than anything Fleck had seen, live or deceased.

She seemed to be trapped in a pain-ridden void between life and the sweet release of death.