Gabe leaned heavily against the rusted iron gate, his breath ragged and his clothes torn. Blood seeped through the fabric of his shirt, staining the ground beneath him. He cursed under his breath, his usual smirk long gone, replaced by a grimace of pain and frustration. He had gone after the rage demon alone, thinking he could handle it. A mistake—one that nearly cost him his life.
The abandoned estate in Starkhaven loomed behind him, a silent sentinel to the horrors it now housed. The demon had been feeding on something foul within those walls, growing stronger with each passing day. Gabe’s wards had barely held during the fight, and now he was left battered and bruised, struggling to gather his strength.
Healing had never been his forte. His magic was more suited for the offensive, and he lacked the skill to mend the damage the demon had inflicted. The pain was sharp and relentless, and he knew he wouldn’t last long without help.
Gabe took a slow, labored breath, his mind racing through options. Charging back in alone would be suicide. He needed backup, someone with a sword arm or the ability to patch him up—preferably both. A Templar might have the steel and the nerve to face what was inside, or perhaps a fellow mage with a better grasp on healing than his own.
He wasn’t one to ask for help, but the situation left him no choice. The demon was a growing threat, one that couldn’t be left unchecked. Gabe wouldn’t let his pride stand in the way of what needed to be done.
He pushed himself upright, wincing at the sharp pain in his side, and fished out his last cigarette. Lighting it with a shaky hand, he took a long drag, trying to steady himself. He’d wait here at the gate, hoping someone—anyone—would come.
Gabe exhaled a cloud of smoke into the night air, the bitter taste a small comfort against the cold reality of the situation. He didn’t have much time, and he knew it.
Silent steps take him away from the chaotic din of the primitive. The night air was sharp, cooling his skin as he moved deeper into the winding streets. The gate loomed in the distance, a mixture of towering grandeur and decay. Something tugged at him—an invisible pull of magic, its tension faint but insistent, guiding him toward the outskirts.
Ahead, a rusted gate barely held itself together, the metal groaning in the breeze. Jareth’s sharp eyes caught the faint shimmer of magic clinging to the air, like embers in the aftermath of a blaze. The scent of burnt flesh hit him next, sharp and acrid. His scarf came up instinctively, covering half his face as his steps slowed. His gaze swept the shadows with caution, each movement deliberate, calculating. The signs were clear enough—something foul had unfolded nearby.
Near the gate, the stench worsened. Yeah, even a fool would not be so careless, he muttered, his hands flicking in a practiced motion to cast a barrier. Without breaking stride, he layered his palms together, eyes briefly closing in concentration. When they reopened, a faint glow flickered in his irises. A wisp of shimmering energy materialized, hovering at his command.
With a silent gesture, he directed it toward the gate. The wisp pulsed and darted off, disappearing into the darkness. The tension in the air hung heavy, but Jareth remained still, his eyes following the wisp’s path. His jaw tightened, though he didn’t move until the wisp reappeared, hovering in frantic motion, calling him forward.
Jareth moved swiftly, the gate looming larger as the scent of blood and smoke thickened. His eyes narrowed as he reached the figure slumped against the bars. Blood pooled beneath the man, his clothes torn and singed, a thin curl of smoke rising from the cigarette he barely held to his lips. Jareth stopped a few paces away, brow furrowing at the sight.
By the Maker, I’ve seen corpses in better shape. he muttered, though his voice was measured, almost clinical. He narrowed the space between himself and the man, eyes flicking over the wound assessing it with a certain detachment. Heat radiated from it, the magical residue thick and unmistakable.
Who did this to you? he asked, though the magical scorch marks had already told him the answer.
Gabe lifted his head, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the figure approaching. He could feel the magic wafting off the newcomer, a prickling sensation against his battered skin. Jareth, wasn’t it? The name hovered in his mind, though he couldn't quite remember if they'd met before. No matter—help was help.
He exhaled a plume of smoke, the cigarette hanging limply between his fingers.
Who didn’t? Gabe’s voice was rough, laced with pain and exhaustion. He shifted slightly, grimacing as the movement sent a fresh jolt of agony through his body. Bloody rage demon in there… thought I could handle it. He paused, sucking in a breath that rattled in his chest. Turns out I couldn’t.
The smirk that usually played on his lips was nowhere to be found, replaced by a grimace that told the story well enough. He glanced at the shimmering energy that still hovered near Jareth, a wry chuckle escaping his lips despite the pain.
Neat trick, he muttered, flicking the ash from his cigarette. Bet you’re better at the whole ‘healing’ thing too, eh? ’Cause I could use a bloody miracle right now.
The tension between them hung thick in the air, magic sparking like static in the aftermath of the battle. Gabe didn’t like asking for help, but the alternative was dying alone in a pile of his own mistakes—and that wasn’t a fate he was quite ready to embrace. Not yet.
He took another drag, blowing out a slow cloud of smoke, his sharp eyes meeting Jareth’s.
So, you just gonna stand there and admire the mess, or are we doing this? 'Cause that demon in there... it’s not gonna wait around for us to get cosy. His voice carried a dry, bitter edge, but underneath it, there was a flicker of hope—a hope that maybe, just maybe, this stranger could help him finish what he’d started.
The night was closing in, and with it, the growing weight of the demon's presence in the estate. Gabe knew they didn’t have long. He just hoped Jareth understood that too.
Jareth’s heart raced, a surge of urgency propelling him forward. He knelt beside Gabe, taking in the sight of his wounds—angry and raw, magic still simmering at their edges, a reminder of the demon that had wrought such pain. A pang of empathy tugged at him, echoing the old fears that whispered in the recesses of his mind.
Ah, nothing like a brush with death to keep things lively, Jareth murmured, his tone teasing yet sincere. I’d say it’s not for the faint of heart, but here you are, proving me wrong.
This little fellow, he said, gesturing to the wisp, is here to help. Think of it as my assistant for the evening.
Jareth took a slow breath, grounding himself in the chill of the night air. His fingers hovered just above the wounds that marred Gabe’s side, blood seeping through the torn fabric in thick rivulets. It smelled sharp, like iron.
Closing his eyes, Jareth reached inward, drawing on the magic that thrummed through his veins. He could feel the power there—subtle and restless, like a river waiting to spill over its banks. His hands began to glow, the light soft at first, like the rising sun cresting the horizon. The air thickened with the familiar pulse of magic, a rhythm as ancient as time itself.
With a slow exhale, Jareth pushed the magic outward. The glow intensified, a golden aura spreading from his fingertips like tendrils of sunlight, weaving through the air before settling over Gabe’s wounds. It pulsed in time with their heartbeats, a quiet thrum, echoing in the silence.
The warmth followed—a comforting heat, not unlike the feel of standing close to a fire after a long winter's night. Beneath the aura, the jagged edges of Gabe's injuries seemed to soften, knitting themselves back together, the flow of blood slowing to a trickle. The magic did not simply mend—it soothed, calming the pain and coaxing life back into broken flesh. The deep gashes began to heal, threads of light stitching muscle and sinew back into place, leaving behind nothing, not even a scar.
Jareth’s expression softened, the glow in his eyes flickering in tandem with his magic. He could feel the exhaustion settling into his bones, but it was worth it.
There, Jareth murmured as the final tendrils of light faded from his hands, their work complete.
Gabe let out a long, low whistle, gingerly patting his side where the pain had dulled from blinding agony to a mere ache. His fingers brushed over the newly healed skin, eyes widening slightly in surprise at Jareth’s skill.
Bloody hell, he muttered, his voice tinged with grudging admiration. Didn’t think I’d live to see magic used for something that wasn’t ripping things apart. A miracle, indeed.
He flicked the last bit of ash from his cigarette, tucking it between his lips for one final drag. The smoke curled lazily around him, filling the air with a familiar, bitter scent. He looked at Jareth with a wry grin, though his usual bravado was still tempered by exhaustion.
Guess I owe you one, Gabe said, his tone light, though a hint of sincerity lingered in his words. Not something I’m used to saying, mind you, but I’m not one to spit in the face of survival.
He straightened with a grunt, rolling his shoulder as if testing the work Jareth had done, and allowed himself a slight chuckle. Still, bit risky coming out here, don’t you think? A man in your position, one would assume you’ve got better things to do than patch up foolish bastards like me who’ve got more guts than sense.
Gabe took another drag of his smoke, eyeing Jareth sidelong. But since you’re here… how about you join me for a little fun? That demon in there’s not gonna take care of itself. And now that I’m in one piece again, I’d say it’s time we finish what I started.
He tilted his head toward the dark, looming estate, his eyes glittering with a fierce spark of determination. You didn’t think I’d be satisfied just walking away, did you? Not after all the trouble it’s caused. Gabe’s smirk was back, his voice dropping to a low murmur as he extended a hand toward Jareth. So, what do you say? Fancy getting your hands a little dirty? Could be fun for a mage of your caliber. Or we can just sit here, swap pleasantries, and pretend none of this ever happened.
Gabe’s eyes bore into Jareth’s, a challenge sparking in their depths, daring him to step up and join the fight.
Jareth arched a brow, crossing his arms as he listened to the man babbling. There was no need for questions—he was an open book, revealing more than he realized. Tsk... demons, Jareth muttered in frustration. He hated being right about these things. The burn marks looked all too familiar, stirring memories of Kinloch Hold. The events at the tower still haunted him, creeping into his dreams like shadows. Sometimes, the memories were so vivid he could almost smell the death that had stained those halls.
Swatting at the air as if to remove obstacles, he spoke with a hint of spite. No need to beg. This is my home, and I won’t let their kind linger here uncontested.
Jareth’s gaze swept over the man, appraising him from head to toe with a critical eye. No—this won’t do, he said, moving closer. With deliberate slowness, he tapped the man’s shoulders, then slid his hands down to rest on his chest. Without breaking eye contact, Jareth’s eyes flickered with the pulse of powerful magic. As his fingers pressed against the man, the shimmering outline of a glyph began to form beneath his palm.
The glyph of strength radiated outward from a central point, its runes twisting and turning like vines intertwining. As the glyph settled onto the man’s skin, it flared briefly, the light intensifying before dimming to a soft, steady glow—almost like embers in the dark. It was the kind of magic often wielded by seasoned mages in battle, a potent mix of protective and empowering forces—a power Jareth had mastered long ago.
He cocked a hip to the side and flashed a sly grin.
Gabe felt the ripple of power settle under his skin, like embers stirring to life, a heat that promised strength but with the slow, smoldering bite of old magic. He let out a low chuckle, his hand resting on his chest as he adjusted to the glyph's energy humming within him. The rawness from his wounds had faded entirely now, replaced by a taut feeling of new power, of readiness. It wasn’t every day a mage tossed magic around with such finesse. Hell, if he were honest, he almost felt a bit cocky standing there with the likes of Jareth at his side.
That’s more like it, Gabe drawled, his grin flashing in the dim light. Gotta say, you’ve got a way of making a bloke feel invincible. Can’t remember the last time I had anything like this backing me up. Usually, it’s just me, a few half-baked ideas, and a pinch of luck on a good day.
He glanced over his shoulder at the looming estate, its shadows deepened by the shrouding twilight, its windows dark like soulless eyes staring back at them. Demons weren’t exactly polite houseguests, and he didn’t relish the thought of letting them wander unchecked. This little haunting had gone on long enough.
Now, don’t go expecting me to play nice in there, he warned, turning to Jareth with a spark of mischief in his eyes. Demons and I? We’ve got history. And believe me, they’re just as keen to settle scores as I am. He took a step toward the estate, his hand resting on the worn handle of his blade. But don’t worry, I’ll leave you enough to work with. Consider it my way of saying thanks for the patch-up.
With that, Gabe led the way, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path as they approached the estate’s iron-clad doors. He shot Jareth a glance, his smirk back in place. Let’s raise a little hell, shall we?
Invincible, huh? Jareth said, his voice low and gravelly, the words heavy with the weight of unspoken history. Memories surged within him—visions of friends lost to creatures like these, those who had wielded pride and skill far beyond their years, only to be snuffed out like fragile candles in a storm.
The echoes of their screams reverberated in the hollow spaces of his mind, each cry a haunting reminder. Images flickered before his eyes: the brutal, merciless flash of fangs, the sickening sound of flesh tearing, the look of terror on faces that had once gleamed with joy.
With every breath, he could feel the past tightening around him, a vise that threatened to crush him. Yet as he inhaled, the cold air filled his lungs with a burning resolve, igniting a fire deep within his core. He stepped forward, aligning himself with Gabe's stride.
I’ve had my share of run-ins with demons, too, he confessed, his voice rising, each word punctuated by the fury swelling in his chest. The moonlight glinted off his eyes, revealing a fierce glint that spoke of scars earned—both visible and buried deep beneath the surface. And let me tell you, I have no intention of playing nice either.
His fists clenched tightly, knuckles whitening as he embraced the bitterness of his memories. Demons had stolen so much from him.
As he stood there, rooted in determination, he could almost sense the weight of the past shifting. The ghosts of his lost friends pressed in, their whispers a haunting chorus urging him forward. The stakes were higher now, and he refused to lose yet another home to the likes of them.
Jareth's heart raced, not with fear but with an adrenaline-fueled conviction that surged through him like a storm. He was no longer the child who had cowered in the face of terror; he had grown into something sharper, forged by loss and tempered by the fires of struggle. The memories of those he had lost became his armor, and the pain he carried transformed into a weapon.
Let them burn, he said, his voice steady and unwavering, filled with the fierce resolve of a warrior ready to reclaim what had been stolen. The night was dark and fraught with danger, but Jareth was ready to face it head-on.
Gabe’s eyes flickered with a mix of surprise and appreciation as he watched the shift in Jareth’s demeanor. The mage’s fierce declaration resonated in the air between them, charging it with a raw, unspoken understanding. Gabe’s grin widened, touched with something more genuine than his usual wry smirk.
Now that’s the spirit, Gabe said, voice low and almost approving. We’re gonna get along just fine, you and me. He took a final drag on his cigarette before crushing the smoldering butt under his heel. The scent of smoke mingled with the crisp night air, a brief indulgence before battle.
He tightened his grip on his staff, fingers flexing as he mentally prepared for the clash ahead. The estate loomed over them, silent and malevolent, its shadows deepening with the promise of what lurked within. Gabe cast a sidelong glance at Jareth, the tension in his expression easing for just a moment. There was no room for hesitation now, not with a mage like Jareth at his side, a man who carried his own demons but refused to let them define him.
Let’s make sure this place doesn’t forget who walked through its doors tonight, Gabe murmured, his voice dripping with the kind of reckless determination that had seen him through more close calls than he cared to count. He turned, taking the first step toward the estate’s dark heart, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. And if those bastards think they’ve got the upper hand... well, they’re in for a bloody rude awakening.
Jareth took a step forward, his senses razor-sharp, every nerve bristling as if the air itself were watching. Without warning, his memory flared—unbidden and vivid. Years ago, the Circle Tower had stood proud and gleaming, a monument to knowledge and magic. Now, in his mind's eye, it lay in ruin, a crumbled shell where once there was promise. This estate, with its weathered façade and sagging rooflines, bore the same hollow desolation. Vines clawed at broken windows, and the stone walls were stained with streaks of black and green, as if the earth itself rejected their presence. The gates screeched as they entered, the sound swallowed by the estate's oppressive silence.
The threshold felt like crossing into another world. Instantly, a crushing force hit them, an unnatural pressure that defied gravity, pulling at their very cores. The air thickened, cloying with a stench that gnawed at the senses—acrid and foul, like burnt flesh mixed with sulfur. It invaded their lungs, making each breath a battle.
Jareth gagged, covering his nose with the edge of his robe. By the Maker’s breath—what is that? he snarled, his voice sharp and full of disdain. His gaze swept the rotting hallway ahead, the floorboards warped and the walls oozing with unnameable filth. Filthy demons. Can’t even take a place without stinking it up.
He cast a glance at Gabe, his tone grim but steady. Well, the path splits here.
Gabe stepped into the estate behind Jareth, the oppressive air hitting him like a gut punch. His lip curled at the sulfuric stench, and he shook his head, muttering under his breath as he adjusted the grip on his blade.
Left or right, mate? Gabe echoed with a wry smirk, glancing down the two diverging hallways. Does it matter? They both lead to hell, one way or another. Personally, I say left. Always felt luckier turning that way—though luck’s a cruel mistress, innit?
He cast a sidelong glance at Jareth, his expression somewhere between grim determination and dark amusement. And yeah, demons do have a habit of redecorating. Real interior design enthusiasts, aren’t they? Blood on the walls, bodies for carpets… all very ‘chic from the pit.’
Despite the bravado, Gabe’s gaze flicked over their surroundings, sharp and searching. The shadows seemed to press closer here, heavier, almost alive. His instincts screamed at him to keep moving, to avoid standing still for too long in a place that practically breathed malevolence.
With a nod toward the left-hand corridor, Gabe started forward, his footsteps deliberate but quiet against the warped floorboards. His blade hung low at his side, ready, the soft gleam of its edge a stark contrast to the decay around them. He glanced back briefly at Jareth, raising an eyebrow.
Hope that fancy glyph of yours can keep me in one piece. Would hate to die a second time tonight—it’s exhausting, y’know?
