Desdemonism

[Shaon]

((I know, I know, I still haven't gotten anything on DH3. But this was originally a short story from Train of Thought, that I ended up expanding into yet another pet universe. It's mostly an experimental piece, as I wished to try out an urban fantasy universe and leash my desire to have an explanation for everything, as well as utilizing the much more personal, not-really-3rd person narration that Stephen King uses. I really do hope that this story intrigues you as much as it has for as long as I've been planning it, and that I may someday be known for something other than the Pantheon and DH.))

"Desdemona," the white-haired girl said, absently staring at something other than his falling figure.

He stood straight up, gasping for air he always had as cold sweat dripped down his brow.

There was no girl in this stark room, only himself. Desdemona? Desdemona...

Desdemona! Her name? His name.

Black hair covered his eyes as he surveyed the room, restricting his vision. He attempted to move it out of the way, but his hands -- his arms, in fact -- were being restricted by something. He looked down. Indeed, the too-long sleeves of his-- his-- his straitjacket, yes, his straitjacket were tied so he could not move his arms. So he couldn't harm others? Harm himself?

But it was to no use, his-- his instincts told him. For he could do something this jacket did not anticipate.

He could hear the bones in his fingers cracking -- familiar and yet sickening at the same time. The fingers grew longer, claws grew sharper. Fabric shredded and -- he was free.

Satisfied, he looked at his fingers for the first time he could remember. They were -- his arms were -- unnaturally thin, extremely malnourished. He should be starving, but no feelings he could identify as hunger stirred within his belly. White stripes -- scars -- covered them.

"Puck!" Someone outside yelled, waking Desdemona from his trance. Startled, Desdemona hid his hands behind his back as the door opened, a nurse walking in with a cheerful voice.

"Puck, dear, it's so good to see you awake again. Highland will be pleased to hear this when he meets with you-" She left the door open!

The next few seconds -- minutes, hours, days? -- were a blur of chaos, motion, and bone-cracking, except for one moment and one moment only.

The attendants and guards were all gone -- missing, disabled, it didn't matter -- and the white-haired girl stared blankly, standing in the middle of an otherwise destroyed room.

But the girl turned, looked not-so-blankly at him, and smiled. Desdemona ran, his hooves making clopping noises, echoing throughout.

At last, after hours -- minutes? -- Desdemona finally collapsed, the root of a tree being his pillow.
---

[Shaon]

"You know, Puck, we were going to pick you up."

Desdemonia blinked, clearing his eyes from the blurriness.

A girl -- a woman, -- unnaturally thin, clad in nothing but bandages, stood over him, staring intently at his sleeping figure.

Yet, at the same time, she wasn't a girl, wasn't a woman.

He could see other beings with her, within her, protruding from her -- all unfocused, and nothing would put them into view.

She held out a webbed, pale hand -- no, not webbed, not pale, completely normal -- and he took it. She pulled him up with surprising strength, for someone so dangerously malnourished.

"So, Puck, is he dead? Will it start at last?" The girl asked, with a gleam in her eye.

"Miss," Desdemona replied, his voice raspy for some -- he never changed back his horns, that's it, "You must be mistaking me for the wrong person. My name is Desdemona."

The girl froze, eyes wide. "Desd-?! What's my name?"

He thought. The woman looked familiar, yes, but he could not place a name to the face -- and the blurred forms around her were decidedly unfamiliar. "I don't -- I don't believe we've met before," he said at last.

The girl looked relieved, laughing a bit. "Ah, yes, so that is how it goes. It seems that you've lost your memories again, Puck. Your name is, indeed, not Desdemona, and I am not sure how you managed to figure that. My name is Madam Conchobhar, and for the last several years you've been apprenticed by Mistress Rin, Lady Shawe, as well as myself."

The names did ring a bell, yes.

The girl -- Madam Conchobhar, so it seemed -- raised a skinny arm, raised blurry fins and nonexistent scales, gesturing Puck, as that was his name, to follow her.

"Now, come," she said, in a grand voice, "the gate is far from here."