He lay, sprawled on the rocky shelf of a vast mountainside, and shivered convulsively. His claws dug into the thin film of soil as best they could, wedging painfully into the rock, and he let out a whimper. Why him? What did he do to bring this upon himself?

He was born. That was enough. But it was beside the point. He would control himself. He would never hurt anyone again—his demon would never take over his body and force him to feed on an innocent…or someone he loved. The pain wracking through his mind at memories of Laya—lying there, so broken, so used—was nearly physical, and his claws curl deeper into the rock, pulling away from his pads and beginning to bleed. The memories…they would haunt him all the while he was here, he knew.

Deolaya…sweet, tender, beautiful Deolaya…how he had buried his muzzle into her chest and breathed in her scent…how he had felt the exquisite lines of her body…the perfect muscles against his own…And then how the demon had risen inside of him, shoving him into a corner of his own mind, forcing him to watch as it had first acted as him, contorting what had been beautiful into an obscene mockery of truth. He had been forced to watch and forced to act, his body being used like a puppet, feelings of his beloved mate coming to him through muted senses of limbs guided by strings held by a sub-natural being.

How long had he been here? How long had he been hiding? He didn’t know; he had felt cold and heat on his body alternating many, many times…but Solaires would not chance to open his eyes or his mind to the outer world. He had received one gift from his demon’s rampant feeding; it was there in his mind, quiet and strong and silver, and he had learned from his own victim how to use it. She had told him to look inside himself—to truly know himself—and he would. …He would. But the images in his mind, the memories…he didn’t want to look inside himself anymore. He had looked inside for days now, perhaps weeks, and was nothing more than disgusted at what he found.

The demon held him futile in a corner of his mind, moving with a mockery of tenderness across Laya’s prone and lovely, delicate frame. But the demon didn’t play at this for long…Solaires could still taste the blood in his mouth, after all these days. He could still feel the demon forcing his jaws over his mate’s muzzle, shoving his tongue back in her throat, choking off all her air as he bit into the bridge of her nose. He could still feel the demon forcing his claws to curl into her flesh and hold her still. He could still feel the demon grow inside of her and spread consuming flames throughout her cavities. And he could still fear her terror and her pain as her innards were burned by surreal flame—and could still hear his own pitiful cries for his demon to stop.

And now, even at the memory, he could feel his demon awakening. It was hungry; he had been starving it as best he could, laying here away from the world, away from everyone. His demon was angry. It began to rise upward, preparing to take over Solaires—desperate to feed, desperate to turn his host into a monster once more so that it might consume.

But he wouldn’t let it. No…no, it was all ending tonight. Solaires pushed his body against the rough rock wall, his muscles singing tension, his mind spreading out like fluid behind the demon’s approach. Satyrias. The name pierced back into Solaires’s consciousness with a harsh stab; his demon, the beast he had met such a short time ago, had a name. A shudder ran through his body despite his attempts at control. A name…solidity…and all this while it had been dwelling inside of him. A wave of disgust pushes through him, and his mind lashes out at the beast trying so desperately to control their communal body.

No. It would not take him again. Solaires thrashed, physically and mentally, striking out with the culminated wisdom of that silver part of his mind, clawing and biting, tearing, wrestling.

Never again would Solaires taste the blood of his beloved.
Never again would he hear her cries.
Never again would he be forced back in his mind to watch her wide and teary eyes.
Never again would he be taken over, losing control and puppetted.
Never again would consummation take the form of devouring flames and leave ice in its wake.
Never again would Solaires leave his beloved bleeding the last of her spirit onto the unloving earth.

He was finished. The game was over. Satyrias would leave him—would leave him now. Another thrust of the mind, a parry, a duck, a dive. Satyrias was bigger, stronger…but Solaires was complete. He could walk and love and live and be gentle and loyal and forever. He was not a shell and a beautiful body aching to be filled with desires he could not produce himself. He was not a beast that would take endlessly and laugh at recoiling pain. He was not a parasite dwelling in a half-soul.

And he would not allow any such parasite to live in his heart any longer.

They fought, wrestling, snapping within his mind. The image of Deolaya, her lovely petite frame, her subtle silver flames crawling delicately up her limbs, burned brilliantly in their conjoined mind. Satyrias ripped forward, striving toward the image, yearning to feed and destroy. Solaires ran to beat it, his heart beating love. Impossible love…before Deolaya, he had never known it was an emotion that existed. He had never known it was true…but now it burned in him, deeper and more encompassing then Satyrias’s hunger, and as he brushed past his demon he knew he was winning.

Blood was pooling around his torn claws now, but he did not notice. He was too far within himself to feel pain, to realize that he was writing his fate on cold granite like a headstone. He pushed the demon out, crowding him back, turning, snarling, snapping, defending the only thing he had left to hold onto—defending the memory of Deolaya in better times. Satyrias drew back, staring at his softer reflection with brilliant eyes, but seemed to waver, seemed to weaken. He stumbled, and then leapt forward, striving for the weakest spot of Solaire’s half-soul—and began to push his way out.

Despite the depth Solaires was resting in, he felt pain sear his body. He was being ripped open, split in half, and climbed out of. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut through unfeeling lids and whimpered to unhearing ears. He could feel his side burst, ache, transfigure and transform. It broadened, shifted, mutated, ripped away from his muscles, drew away from his skeleton. He screamed from an unfeeling throat and thrashed numb paws, but no one—not the rocky hillside, not the somber sky, not his own unheeding ears—heard him cry.

Satyrias ripped, slashing open his forced canal and crawling free like a parasitic worm whose host had been worn down. Solaires was powerless against this, lay twitching on his side as he was ripped in half, whimpering and sobbing piteously as the bloodless wound resealed behind his demonic half.

He felt dreadfully empty and cold then, used and worn. He felt like an arctic storm had filled his cavity and his bones were dripping ice. A fierce shudder wracked his body, and he lay senseless and pained for a time, forever sobbing a fluid thicker and bloodier than tears onto his lonesome corner of a forgotten world.

But the chill dissipated eventually. The warmth of the ever-faithful sun rose up and spread across he and his demon, and both twitched into wakefulness, drawn from slumbers of pain and exhaustion to rise back to the living world. Solaires chanced to open his eyes—and when he did, it was like he was back within his mind.

He stared now at his clone, his second half, his alter ego. Satyrias was slightly larger, whiter of fur and thicker of build—but from a distance they were identical. His eyes were boring pools of pupiless white-hot matter, like the sun hidden behind a haze of clouds, and Solaires shuddered without realizing. He was on his paws, wavering and unsteady, aching desperately—but he was free. For the first time in his life—all his life—there was no one in his mind but himself…

Satyrias was not one of words. He spoke in simple language of passion and violence, of the hinted innuendo and the press of flesh against flesh. His unnatural eyes gleamed, and a wicked smile crossed his too-sharp muzzle. Solaires leapt forward, releasing a strangled cry of realization—but he was too hurt, too slow, too weak.

Deolaya.

The demon was running already, moving like the wind over flat earth, unheeding of injury and steep descent. It would get to Laya first. It would beat Solaires there, use her with no hint of pleasantries, dry her off of all her passionate nutrients and suck out all that was good in her soul. And then he would leave her there, a broken shell, for Solaires to find.

No.

He couldn’t let it happen. He wouldn’t let it happen. He was his own entity…and now he had a choice.

He was running before he could feel his paws move beneath his body, and he too ignored the threats of death upon loose footing. His life was not important now. He had only one thing to live for—and if Satyrias beat him to it, he would have no reason left in this world. He was spurred to greater pains of movement, running blindly over terrain that his paws barely knew, stumbling and catching himself painfully. He had a goal. He was organic and natural and smaller and slower than his demon—but he had more invested interest than hunger. It would not happen this time. He wouldn’t be pushed into his mind. He would push his demon away now and show Laya why he was worth her.

Satyrias. Would. Not. Use. Her. Again.