It had been seven years since the disaster at the Village of Shadows, and since that evil witch's death. It had perhaps been the worst several days of your life, without exaggeration. You'd walked away. Scarred, but alive.

He hadn't.

The strange happenings had been growing more and more difficult to write off. The dreams. Well... nightmares, really. Memories of that village and the horrible creatures that filled it had never really left you. How could they? They were the cast of your own hellish production.

He'd never liked for you to drink. But two fingers (or three, nowaday) of whiskey helped you to sleep without waking with your throat hoarse from a scream. And... he wasn't really here to protest, was he? So it didn't matter, anyway.

The first few months were the roughest. Constantly waking and feeling for him, only to remember that his side of the bed would forever be empty. Making two cups of coffee and shattering one mug against the wall because he wasn't here to drink it, damn it, and he never would be again.

And then there was the curse that had been imparted on you. The things that you could do that led to constant surveillance by armed men in armored vehicles. They didn't scare you, not anymore, since he'd once been one of them. Strong, proud in the bulletproof vests, looking intimidating with a large gun in hand.

But his bashful smile had always taken away any fear he could have caused. The way his eyes would go soft whenever he caught sight or you or smelled your perfume in the wind.

You'd thrown away that bottle. You'd been wearing it the night it had all gone wrong and the smell made you feel sick.

But now this. An attempt to rid yourself of the powers. Monsters to fight, yet that were unlike those before.

And writing on the wall. It appeared whenever you began to get discouraged. Whenever you cried or collapsed from how exhausted you'd become. It was like some kind of guardian angel. If guardian angels could exist in Hell.

You'd finally collapsed to the ground, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. The silvery text appeared by your hands against the stone. "I know you're tired, baby, but you gotta keep moving." It was a habit of whoever was writing the words to refer to you that way.