He had warned them; they couldn't ever say that they were ignorant, never use that as a shield. He had warned them and they had all laughed. Not aloud, maybe, but they had laughed none the less. And that had surprised him. After all, they had never laughed at his predictions before. So what had made this one so different?

It was, he mused later--there wasn't much else, after all, to do now than muse about his situation--the night. The fact that he had predicted that this would happen on that particular night. No sane person would believe warnings of vengeful spirits walking the night when that night was Halloween. But they should have believed him; after all, Arus was already a weak spot in the barrier between worlds. How else could Alfor "speak" to them, how else could the dead king's spirit appear? And on Halloween, the night when the barrier was at its thinnest, how could they possibly believe that they would be safe from the spirits?

He had believed, though. He knew the purpose of this night, new what wards to set around his doors and windows, knew what sacrifices were to be made. He knew how to prepare and he had done everything he could to prepare the others. But apparently it wasn't enough.

All's Hallow Eve. How could they have forgotten the stories so soon?

He wished that they would just get on with it. He wished that they would just judge him and punish him and get him out of this hell. But he knew, logically, that his punishment had already been assigned. He knew that this was to be his hell, that this constant waiting, this constant not knowing of what had happened to his friends, was his punishment for eternity.

They really couldn't have chosen a better--or perhaps, worse--punishment for him. After all, it was his worry for his friends that got him into this mess. If he had been smart--if he had ignored their screams--than he would still be alive, still be safe. But then he had always been weak.

And the cycle started again, the torment was relieved as his mind created his own hell for him, forced him to relive the last hours of his godforsaken life.

Had he been smart, than he would have never left his room, never left his sanctuary purified and guarded with the strongest magics he knew; stronger than anything he had ever used before, for his danger had never been greater than it was now. He should never have left, never have broken his wards until the morning light banished foul darkness and the dark beast that walked the night. And he hadn't while the others had cried out his name, cursed him for setting this monster upon them. He had been able to block out the deaths of his friends, ignore Allura's wails and Hunk's angry roars and even the silence with which Keith met his end, too proud, too perfect to every cry out in pain.

But then Pidge began to scream. And at that sound, all caution left, all his grand resolutions disappeared and he burst through the warded door, sprinted as fast as he could to reach the courtyard that was drenched in the blood of innocents.

The moon shone bright upon the spilled blood, twisted the shadows of the broken bodies that lay in scattered pieces on the bloodied stones. But the pale light disappeared in the pulsing darkness that surrounded the beast he had inadvertently summoned. There was no light strong enough to pierce the shadows that hid the hell spawn, no light to shine upon Pidge's ravaged features. But he had need no light, for he knew the beast intimately, knew the thing that had killed his friends as well as he knew himself.

He stepped forward, legs stained with the dark blood of his friends, soul trembling in fear at the dark power before him. And it was right that he should be afraid, for even this close he could feel that goodness in his soul--those better parts which he fought so long for, worked so hard for--break and disappear beneath the surge of pure evil which had for so long lain latent.

The beast cast aside Pidge's empty shell, long teeth some how bright despite the pure night that it shrouded itself in. And he shuddered at the sight, but stepped forward, the last shreds of his once bright soul forcing him to do good, to be good. He knew he would die. He knew that he would be sent screaming to the darkest hell for this defiance against the one who had sired him. But that was better than living with a dark soul, an empty shell filled with the twisted remnants of a once human life. He knew and he accepted his fate.

And perhaps that was what made him strong enough, in the end, to withstand the twisted words, the guttural tongue that tempted him with eternal life, eternal power; the voice that promised him the power to resurrect his friends, let those mortals he had loved live again. It was that knowledge that led him to realize that there was no promise worth the price of his half-demon soul. Besides, what life would his friends have, what hope, when they owed their lives to darkness?

And it was that knowledge that helped him say "no."

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