Anyone and everyone; jump right in.



This was one boy who would never grow into a man. Corey had taken his time exploring the fields, searching for the perfect place to bury the tiny, cold body of the baby boy. Much to his surprise, he had come across an area filled with headstones, all overgrown with weeds and such. The Baron had gone down on his hands and knees, his thirst for knowledge intensifying when presented with this obvious historical landmark these headstones represented. He’d torn away the vines and pulled up weeds until his hands were raw and he could do so no longer. With a sigh, he’d sunk down to the ground and stared at the tombstone in front of him.

Corey Edan Conlan IV: Loving father and husband (1983 – 2015)

2015. That was the year the war began. This man—his ancestor, who had borne his name—had died at the age of 32 in the war. And beside him was another tombstone bearing the same death date and the same surname. This had been the graveyard of his forebears. Corey had been awestruck as he gazed upon the headstones nearby; some of them were hard to see due to all of the vegetation that had taken root atop the corpses, but they were there. He knew without a doubt that this was the place to bury the corpse.

That was why he was here, his hands and clothes dusted with dirt. He rested his hand atop the rock he’d chosen to mark the boy’s grave, and stared at the name he’d gone through hell to carve into the stone. Edan Mathias Conlan (2235) He sighed and drew his hand away, picking up the spade he’d brought along and standing up slowly. The boy had been buried where he belonged—with his family.

Anyone and everyone; jump right in.



Edan. It was a good name. The boy had come out already bearing traces of Corey’s bright red hair; that had made the name the obvious choice. Sita had chosen his middle name herself, but Edan was a family name, and it fit the poor child. It meant “fiery.” Corey only wished the boy had lived long enough to show some of the fire of his name. But he’d been stillborn, taken from Sita’s womb without a pulse. His heart had ceased to beat before it had had a chance to, his eyes had never seen, his fingers never touched. The Baron felt his eyes welling up, and he rubbed the back of one grimy hand across his cheek as a tear made its way down his face. It wouldn’t do to cry here.

He sniffed and brushed the tears away as he heard someone clear their throat, and he turned his head to see who it was, hoping against all odds that Sita might have dragged herself out of her box to come and see her boy buried safely. No such luck, though. It was only Cj. “Hi,” he said softly, his voice a bit hoarse. He looked a wreck—he still wasn’t getting much sleep, and he was dirty, but he didn’t care. Who was he trying to impress? No one.

Hmm meant to change that last ooc…oh well. Also short, but eh, don't care. <3



“You alright?” she asked. He almost laughed. Alright? Yeah. Maybe in a parallel dimension. He sighed and rubbed at his cheeks again, letting his gaze fall once more to the small plot of freshly turned earth marked with a new, makeshift headstone. There was no denying it; his son was gone, gone before he’d known what it was like to live. It wasn’t really the fact that Edan had died that got to Corey, though that was certainly a part of it. The Baron was more concerned with the fact that the boy had passed away without ever having lived. He’d come headfirst from Sita, eyes closed, mouth closed, eyes closed, ignorant to everything, with no chance of ever learning. That was what bothered him.

He held the spade near his side as he stared at the fresh grave, and slowly shook his head. “No…I’m not alright,” he said honestly. What more was there really to say? He couldn’t lie about this; the wound was too recent, and denying the sadness would only dig it even deeper into his heart. He couldn’t lie and say he was fine, because he wasn’t. And anyway, he was too tired to lie. Too tired to fabricate an answer. Just…tired.

Er…motion sickness? -confused-



He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, wishing that everything had gone right, wishing Edan was back in Sita’s box napping, that Sita was happy and eating, that he could sleep at night…but there were no stars to wish on, so how would those wishes come true? Who ever said that wishing on a star would make your dreams come true, anyway? What truth was there in a myth? None that he could see, and certainly no truth that would help him find peace with himself.

In some way, Corey would always blame himself for Edan’s death. He would always believe that some defect of his had been passed on to the boy, or that he was paying for some crime he’d committed. Paying for the murder of his family with his son. He accepted it as a fair trade, but he lamented the deed, and wished that there had been something he could do to save the baby.

But there was no way to save him. He was gone. Delivered dead and buried, all by the same two hands. His own hands. Corey opened his eyes and looked sadly at Cj. “We lost the baby,” he explained quietly. Saying the words somehow made this whole experience real, and made the loss hurt all the more. He wondered if he should have stayed silent.

Damn, I keep forgetting to change my ooc. And of course I forgive you. You rawk hardcore. <3



Corey thought he’d known what pain was like. He thought he’d understood loss. He’d thought a lot of things, not many of them correctly. He hadn’t known loss, nor pain. Not like this. Yes, he’d lost his family, but he’d killed them himself with the gun hiding in the back of the waistband of his pants. He had taken them away himself, and had long ago made peace with what he’d done. It didn’t change the fact that his mother and father came to him in dreams with bullet-holes between their eyes asking why he’d murdered them, but he had been at peace with himself over those deaths.

This loss was much stronger, and much more profound. He knew if it affected him like this, losing Edan must have nearly ripped Sita’s heart out. He knew her better than anyone else, and he knew that if it had hurt him, it must have hurt her more. He was strong—she was fragile. He would bend under the load, accept it and move on. With Sita, it could break her.

He set the spade down and wiped his hands off on his pants. He’d get rid of these clothes later; break the ties to the boy before they could take hold. When his hands were as clean as he could make them, he ran a hand through his red hair. “Not too well,” he said honestly. There was no point in lying to her when all it would take for her to find out the truth would be a visit to Si’s box. “She sleeps most of the time, and she won’t eat.” He shook his head, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I nearly lost her when he…he was born.” He covered his mouth with his hand, looking up at the sky. What had Sita done to deserve this? As far as he was concerned, he’d taken on the burden of the murders of both of their families, as it had been his idea to leave in the first place. Granted, she had been the one who’d decided it would be easiest to kill their relatives, but he felt responsible for that. To Corey, Sita was blameless. She was everything to him; he didn’t know what he’d do if he lost her, too. And it would make it all that much harder for him, thinking it was all his fault. But nobody would be able to convince him otherwise.

Hey, it was written by hot stuff, therefore it must be hot. Meh, short.



Corey sometimes wondered if Sita would be able to survive the world without him. He knew that, technically, he could live without her. Physically he would go on. He hadn’t been bested by life yet, and he didn’t intend for that to happen any time soon, either, although he’d thought once or twice recently that he wouldn’t mind if life would just…end. He was strong enough physically to be able to protect himself, and a bullet from his gun easily dispatched anything stronger than him. He could handle weres by himself, sure; wolves were the only creatures that could possibly conquer Corey. He was terrified of them, petrified—to the point where when he came up against one, he froze up. Someone would have to save him if ever he came up against a wolf again.

He sighed softly and looked back at Cj. “Physically…yeah, I guess…but mentally?” He shook his head. “Won’t make any promises.” He looked down at his soiled hands with disgust, his throat closing up again, the tears threatening once more, but he fought them back, knowing that he couldn’t deal with her crying if he was in tears, too.

That was clever. Very clever.



I will not cry, he told himself. I will not, will not cry! He clenched his jaw, feeling his teeth grind together. I should just walk away and forget this ever happened…and then maybe it won’t hurt. He snorted mentally. Yeah, right. Like life’s that easy. He ran a hand through his hair again and looked at Cj as she spoke. It would be nice to go back. It would be nice to forget all of this had ever occurred. But he knew the only way to forget would be to die…and he didn’t want to do that. Not yet.

“Yeah…let’s go back,” he said, bending to pick up the spade he’d brought along with him. It had been strange, walking through the fields with a shovel and a box about as big as a loaf of bread. Corey wanted to get as far away from this grave as possible; he wanted to wash the dirt (and the responsibility) from his hands, but he knew he could never be fully clean. Edan was gone, and Corey would never be the same.