Witch Hunter Robin Fan Fiction ❯ Dreams of Madness ❯ Dreams of Madness ( Chapter 1 )

Title:Dreams of Madness

Author:Catherine Grissom

Rating:M

Disclaimer:You know the drill. Sunrise and Bandai own the series. Greensleeves is technically public domain.

Warnings:Death, violence, rather gloomy ending

I've startled her. Her eyes are impossibly wide as they lock onto mine. She breathes my name and there's a glimmer of joy and hope on her face.

I raise the gun, cocking it, drawing her attention to it. Her eyes obediently move to it, still wide but now confused and, dare I say it, hurt.

“Amon,” she murmurs. “What are you-?”

My mind screams at me as my lips curve into a cruel mockery of a smile. “You're a witch,” I hear my voice state simply. Wrong.

“Wha-“ I feel a sick glee as she looks as though I've struck her.

“Witches must be hunted. “ I advance on her slowly, still sickly grinning, still feeling unnervingly pleased.

She freezes, still looking pained. Her mouth moves silently before she swallows hard and begins to back away slowly. She reaches the back wall of the room and jumps at the contact, as though she didn't remember its existence.

I tilt my head in amused questioning. She's still frightened, making a brave show of it, though. I continue to advance, one hand coming up to cup her cheek even as the other presses the metal of the gun into her chest, not aimed at her heart exactly, but near enough. So wrong.

I lean closer to whisper into her ear, a travesty of a lover's embrace. “Any last words, witch?”

She exhales heavily, and I lean back far enough to note that she's closed her eyes.

“I trust your heart.”

She seems almost relaxed and I'm suddenly angry at her for it. The hand that had been lightly touching her face becomes a vice on her chin as I crash my mouth down onto hers. Her eyes snap open, shocked and frantic, as I taste blood.

I almost imagine I hear music. No, not music, humming: low, melancholy, oddly fitting. I don't pause to wonder at where it's emerging from; I've far more important things to do.

My index finger twitches once, twice, and her body jolts in response, eyes growing pained and dim, as her mouth gasps for air against mine. So very wrong.

I pull back, glaring at her face, my hand the only thing keeping her upright as she begins to drown in her own blood.

“I don't trust yours,” I spit at her, the sick smile returning as a single tear, all she has the strength for, begins to roll down her cheek. Her eyes start to dim. Her mouth opens to emit a panicked gurgle and a small stream of blood.

Disgusted, I let a sneer curl my lip as my hand releases her chin. She falls, predictably, and curls into herself.

I huff out a mocking breath. “Pathetic.”

This. Is. Wrong.

My eyes snap open, though darkness renders the action useless. My chest is tight; breathing is painful. My face feels wet, from sweat or tears I cannot tell. My hands twitch reflexively, arms wrapped around something warm and vaguely solid. My heart hurts, feels heavy.

I jump slightly as a hand comes down on my head, warm and light, and gently smoothes my hair. The humming I remember hearing is louder now, the tune familiar.

“Mo- mother?” I gasp out even as I realize that it isn't she.

I've never had nightmares often, even as a child. Perhaps once a year. Yet every time I woke from one, I woke to a gentle hand, soft humming, unspoken reassurances.

The hand is just as gentle, perhaps even more so. The tune is the same, the melancholy and soothing strains of `Greensleeves'. The feeling of comfort is there.

But the humming…

Mother's voice suited her: high, airy, distant, fragile. This voice is low, warm, strong.

“Robin,” I realize aloud and my arms tighten around her. Her humming stops, but her hand continues its movement.

I shudder out a breath, squeezing my eyes shut, holding back a childlike sob. “I thought I'd lost you,” my voice is quiet, weak, shaky, even to my own ears.

“I'm still here,” she murmurs gently, still smoothing my hair. “I haven't changed.”

My heart feels like ice in my chest.

“I won't change,” she reassures, working her fingers through a stubborn knot before continuing the soothing strokes.

I believe her. I have for a while: she's grounded, stable. She'd turn her power against herself before she'd lose control.

You'll change before she does, a small, cynical voice taunts. Something flares darkly in the back of my mind.

I whimper as I tighten my hold on her further. My power, I cringe. Mother's madness.

I will change before she will; I can only hope that when I do, I am too far from her to do her harm. If she's near, I may-

I choke back bile, burying my face into her stomach, acting every inch the frightened child I now feel.

“Amon?” her voice cracks, worried by my display.

If she were to lash out at me, to burn me, to kill me, I realize that I might welcome it. I may even give her the smile that she tries so hard to coax from me.

The monster I can feel at the back of my mind, coiling, waiting for the moment to strike, is strong, far too strong for me to fight back if it arises.

Before my mother vanished, only to be replaced with a mad creature who held her face, she pleaded with me to run, flee, leave her. I didn't and I can still remember the sight of my own terrified young face reflected in her empty eyes.

I fear I wouldn't be strong enough to beg Robin to leave. I would cling to her for comfort as I'm doing now. I would leave her helpless, vulnerable, right in the monster's grasp.

And it sickens me that I would probably smile as she screamed.

A/N:Amon's head is a very NOT fun place to be. He scared the crap out of me. At any rate, he's back in his corner, much calmer now.