The Ties that Bind

Disclaimer: I don't own him, he does. All that needs sayin

A/N: I know it's not good, but after reading so many great stuff on here for the last few months I thought I would contribute some little thing. I'll go back to just reading now. :)

An Undertaker story

"16 years…"

Two words breathed into the air followed with the sense there is more that should have accompanied them, but are left to fade in the void of what might have been. The soft sound of material on material soon fills the sound void, as a grunt of effort gives evidence of a moving body.

The room is dark. The room is always dark. The person occupying it tends to prefer it that way. Should another set foot within, they would find little way to rectify this situation, and would have to rely on what ambient light slips underneath the door to the room, or that slip past the edges of the deep purple curtains that hide the two windows in the room. But if they could see as he sees, they would wish that not even that much light could find it's way into this place; This sanctuary to darkness.

Then again no one would be foolish enough to tread the floors of this room. None are welcome; none would wish the "honor" of an invite.

Finally there is another sound, the striking of a match and the flare of a small flame that soon gives birth to the flicker of a candlewick. Several others follow closely on the heels of the first candle. As the simple light fills the room, more is revealed of it to the eyes of it's sole inhabitant. The first to greet them is the pedestal with a large glass case set upon it. Placed in the room, as if it held the place of honor of all things with in. Those eyes do not settle on the contents of the case, but seem to slide up to the wall behind and the large frame that hangs from it. The frame, more a display case, within are set 3 items of clothing. A battered wide-brimmed hat that looked like it had been through hell, and a pair of light gray elbow length gloves. Beneath the framed case is a simple golden plaque with the words The Beginning: Never to be forgotten etched on it.

With a sigh tinged with something close to regret, and maybe something else, the eyes pass from the wall to the near right wall, where a long table holds folded leather items. What they are cannot be made out easily, but they do sit under protective glass. Some show tears and cuts and the hint of a zipper peeks out from under one. There are three of these black leather objects and beneath each is a nameplate, bearing one word or name.

Tornado Warrior Hogan

Slowly the table is approached and a, pale, long fingered hand settles on the case, gently almost reverently as the eyes gaze down on the items and the names in the case. A short nod and the eyes move on.

They settle on the far wall and the frame/case that hangs there. Like the other wall, here hang 3 articles of clothing. Like on the other wall, it is a hat, and a pair of gloves. The difference here is the gloves. Worn and faded, the glossy purple of the material is still evident. As with the other framed case there is a plaque here etched with the words New Beginnings: Paths from dark to Darkness.

A dark shadow passes along the glass case as the long fingers trail away along its surface. Beyond the case is another, larger, glass-topped table, spread within are two large articles of clothing. One, that one would expect to find donned on Halloween, is a set of black wings. Stretched out below the wings a cloak with a high backed neck and shoulder epilates depicting the wings of a dragon. Again each bore a nameplate



A low growl fills the quiet of the room as the dark shadow moves quickly past this table, not even taking time for long fingers to touch the case.

The eyes seeming to seek something else to settle upon find rest upon a manikin set not far, from the large oaken door that would give egress from the room. On the large frame of the manikin rests a long black trench coat, tied about it's headless neck a blue and white bandana. The long fingers seem to linger along the coat as it takes, what seems to be a ritual, pass along the coats lapel. A long sigh slips from the dark shadowy form, as it turns, as if reluctantly from the manikin. Finally stopping in front of the door that leads from this room of darkness.

The shadow turns once more, to face the room, one last time, as the eyes that have bore sole witness to the rooms treasures rest finally upon the lone pedestal that sits in the middle of the room. This pedestal, in truth, holds the real honor of placement in the room. It is topped with a class dome and within, a very innocuous, battered, gold urn. The eyes of the shadow travel down to read the words etched into the pedestal itself: The vessel of Death, which carried a life.

A last grunt from the shadow as it turns to the door and opens it. Framed in the light of the doorway a large from, stands then turns once more as intense gray-green eyes sweep the room once more. Features still bathed in darkness one last sound fills the room before the door is closed and the room once more is plunged in darkness, as all the candles extinguish at once.

"16 years…."