Word Count: 682

His bedroom flickered with dull candlelight. It was still dark out, nearly five in the morning on Christmas day, though it hardly felt as if any time had passed at all. He could still hear it, the commotion that had been the battle in Town Square, as if he were still there, lost among it all. The voices had faded, ghostly words that slipped from his mind, his memory, so that he could remember only faint traces of what he’d heard and said. There had been shouting, screaming, the chanting of magic, barked commands and bellowed insults, but they all blended together, merging into one large, indecipherable blur.

The adrenaline had worn off. It had probably been the only thing that had kept him going -- that and his tenacity. The rapid pounding of his heart had returned to a more moderate rhythm, though it was still somewhat accelerated. His thoughts would not allow him to calm. The memories might not be so clear, but the knowledge that things could have turned out much differently this evening remained, and it haunted him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, in the depths of his heart, fear lurked -- dark and menacing -- and it threatened to consume him alive.

The candles were lined up on his dresser, exactly where his snowglobes had been before he’d taken them with him that evening. Paris sat on his bed, staring across the room, in nothing more than pink panties and a black shirt. He’d removed his torn clothing -- soaked in places from snow and ice -- as soon as he’d returned home, and had replaced them with nothing. He’d merely turned up the heat in the house, waiting as his body thawed, as his fingers unfroze, reveling in the feel of warm air against his frigid skin. The candles were his only source of light, throwing shadows along the walls and shrouding much of his small bedroom in darkness.

His father hadn’t asked where he’d been, but then his father never asked.

He felt tired and drained, but he couldn’t sleep. He was afraid to. He didn’t want to know what he’d see in his dreams. The woman from his snowbloge-inspired reveries, he knew, would be gone, and she would probably never return. Paris didn’t know if he preferred it that way or not. On the one hand, reality had turned out to be far different than he’d expected, a colossal disappointment and an excursion into danger; on the other hand, she had given him something to want -- more than empty pleasure -- and something to hope for.

Paris had not hoped -- truly -- for a very long time.

He looked from the candles to the palms of his hands, red and raw from his tumble to the ground, and he wondered just how close he’d come to losing it all. Too close, he supposed. He should have left the moment things had spiraled out of control. He knew that; he’d had no place there, no purpose. If it had not been for the harsh wind and blinding snow, he would have found his way out, wouldn’t have bothered fighting at all. He’d had many narrow escapes that night, but he had not avoided injury entirely. In a way, the scrapes on his hands were proof of his mortality, proof that he was alive.

Half of him was relieved; the other half -- the bitter half -- wondered if it even mattered.

Weary, empty, Paris leaned toward his bedside table and picked up his cell phone. He needed a distraction. He needed to think of something other than the events of the evening -- the monster and the terrorists and the voice in his head. He almost messaged one of his lovers, had it all typed out and prepared to hit send, when his gut twisted and his heart lurched. He didn’t want that tonight. It wouldn’t be enough. Not now. He needed something different, something more -- something real.

He deleted the message and texted Ladon instead.

‘I almost died tonight.’