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Cycles that occur in nature are looked upon with wonder, with fascination and mild curiosity, an odd need to know why they exist and how exactly they function. Cycles in one's life are generally viewed with less ardor and far less curiosity. Instead there is the need to stop them, for often the happy cycles are overlooked in favor of the unfortunate ones. But regardless if they are enjoyed or frowned upon, they continue, winding their way in and out, a constant string of tiny details that often remain overlooked until one has nothing else to do but think on them. And when a cycle grabs a person, when it stares at them and shouts in their face and demands to be noticed, it is rarely ever a good thing. Such a cycle can shake a person up, tear them from their daily routine and if they happen to someone young, someone not used to such an outlandish thing, it can have serious consequences.
Thus it was with Belladonna as she crawled into her bed after a day that had almost refused to end, so weary she could only be bothered to take off her shoes before she curled up under the thick blankets. After three days of Fright Night, only to be immediately followed by the torments of Insanity within the Haunted House, as well as all the other misfortunes of the night, it was a bitter relief to find her bed. Because the cycle had latched onto her back with its heavy weight, but she was just so tired there was little she could do. There was no possible way of asking it to leave, for cycles must run their course. This is something she knows like second nature, and does not bother to question it. Yet the cycle weighed so very much that she had to clutch at the covers in fear she would fall through the floor. That odd feeling of a hole being underneath her has come back and the witch finds herself wishing she would just fall because there is ground underneath, surely, and if she could just let go maybe the fall would save her.
But what she doesn't realize is that she has already fallen, already lost her balance and begun to slowly spiral downwards. What she cannot see as she blindly stares at her skellyphone and types a text message with numb, clumsy fingers and begins to sob again, what she cannot possibly understand with such grief heavy in her body, is that she has been falling for ages.




The morning is so painfully normal that when Belladonna wakes she is sick. With nothing in her stomach it hurts to retch, but it is something to hold onto because the numbness has set it. Already she cannot feel the tips of her fingers even though her hands are still scarred, still contain deep purple marks where she pulled so desperately against a metal arm. When she pulls off the clothing she fell asleep in, charred and dirtied and damaged beyond what she has the capacity to repair, she can feel it snaking up her arms. As she crawls back into her bed and Binx presses his warm body to her heart, she can only feel the sensation of his fur but cannot feel his warmth that he tries to impart. Legs and arms and neck and chest and hips and feet have no feeling, they are merely there. The witch welcomes this as she attempts to fall back asleep, ready to claim the nothingness that will help her through this.
But that too is denied. For in her stomach there is a sick pooling of something black and twisted. Its tar has already begun to spread its hooked fingers out, already made itself home in her hollow body. Still so weary and weak from her trials, sleep is easy to find, but as the witch drifts into darkness, she wonders if this hooked monster in her belly will fester, if it will spread.



On the first day, no one visits. Left alone with her sorrow and a thin black cat, Belladonna lies in her bed and cries. Already she has sobbed more than her fair share, more than any ghoul of her small stature should be allowed. An effort is made to stop, to keep herself under control, but there is no room to feel any other emotion. She had been so thoroughly drained that all there is left is numbness and pain. As the pumpkin sun rises in the sky, as clouds obscure its light and as rain begins to fall in thick, heavy drops, Belladonna realizes that her pain in multifaceted. It has tints of sorrow, of longing and grief to it.
There is deep loneliness too. It almost feels like a companion, having taken a seat in the corner and content to watch the witch attempt to cope. But it cannot be there, it cannot be a presence because that would negate what it essentially is. And that is utterly alone.
Binx is there, but he remains quiet, does not ask. In his way, he already knows. The cat does not need words to know that something terrible has gone wrong, otherwise the witch would be accompanied. There would be someone else in this bed with her, not only him. There would be no tears, no silence that is louder than a scream. And Binx, with his little kitty heart that breaks for his witch, hates the lack of smiles and singing and chatter. It is easy to pretend he dislikes them when she is bright, because then she would shine to spite him. As it stands there is little he can do. There are no words that will fix this, or even make it easier. So Binx only does what he can, what he finds himself doing once again because he sees the cycle too.
Just as when she had returned over a year ago, hollowed out and scared, Binx had stayed close and kept watch. The last time she had cried a little, but now even he is surprised by the amount of tears that pour from his witch. Last time she had died and come back, experienced the end and tripped at the beginning. This time, Binx is not sure whether she is hastening to the end or frightened of the beginning she has found herself in.



It is the soft vibration against her foot that swells and ebbs, intensifies and quickly lets off, that finally woke Belladonna. This first day afterwards has lasted too long even if she has slept through most of it, but she knows that it will soon draw to a close. When she looked out her window, everything is black and the sound of rain permeates the silence, dampens it to a manageable degree. The odd sensation at her foot, she quickly discovered, is Binx. Asleep and purring, kind enough to stay close. Belladonna, slowly as her aching limbs are heavy, pulled him close, finally able to sit up in her bed. Not displeased to be awoken in such a manner, Binx merely curled his tail around her arm before he blinks up at her.
“Do you think you can talk now?” He asked in a quiet voice, for these are the first words to have been uttered in over a day. The room has been silent and waiting since before the witch returned, and now it has come to this. It has waited for this moment and Belladonna lets it pass. She sits there and considers and only when the silence has found itself comfortable once more does she open her mouth.
There is nothing.
No words, no sound, not even a little squeak as her vocal chords attempt to work. At first the witch only takes a deep breath, clears her throat and tries again.
Still, there is nothing.
Panic comes easily as she blinks wildly, opening and closing her mouth in attempt to force something out. But the more she tries, the more Belladonna realizes that she screamed herself into silence the day before. Distraught turned to anger in a flash and she foolishly threw away her ability to speak.
Hasty hands reached out and snatched up her skellyphone, quick to clack out a message onto the screen that she shows to her cat.



“Oh. Darling, oh...” Binx could only reply, yellow eyes unsure where to look, for Belladonna kept her gaze trained on her phone. It is a look he knows well, but did not fully put two and two together until just now. The distracted look on her face is one that means she is waiting for a message to be sent. Through out the day she has pulled out her phone, typed a hasty and shaking message and pressed the send button, but it has made no noise. Not a single message or call since her arrival, which is vastly unusual for her. It wasn't until then that Binx realized she was actually attempting to communicate with someone, but now he also realizes that the messages she is sending are most likely not being seen, for the only person Belladonna texts so much always replies. A moment passes in which the familiar is not sure what to feel, for what could possibly prevent her recipient from ignoring her?
In a flash Binx has twisted in her arms, his paws pressed against her to push himself back so that he can better see her face. Better see the sorrow at his next words, as quietly and in a low voice he asks, “Where is he?”
It is a special kind of torment to watch someone you love and care for and on a fundamental level share something irreplaceable with, crumple with sadness. Binx is a simple cat, would have always existed without his witch, but it was her magic, her FEAR that gave him voice. It was her ability to provide him a loving home, and a desirable place in her heart, and above all, to be a shining light despite horrid sisters or lackluster friends, to take him along with her even if he wasn't a real familiar, to a new school with new possibilities and chances, that made him special. No matter what happened, she has managed to bounce back, and even before when she sequestered herself away there was a modicum of activity. Even then she showed signs of getting back on her feet. All she needed was a push.
Now, as Binx stares up into the pink eyes of his darling witch that seemed to be quickly fading, he truly fears for her.
Slowly, as though she is scared that he too might bolt from her grasp, Belladonna collapses down around her cat, pulling him into her as she folds forward onto her pulled up knees. Another sob wells in her throat and before it breaks, she manages to whisper the smallest, most broken: “Gone.”
And then she is once more lost to her grief, all the more bleak and painful now that she has spoken the words that make what has happened true. Because she cannot see anything other than this hurt and this grief, she does not understand exactly what is happening to her. The pit has opened underneath her, swallowed her whole and continues into an abyss. There is time yet to be pulled from its depths, to be rescued and reverse all this horrid sadness. But who can save her? The hero is gone.

In the silence left behind by loss, there are always a great many things to fear. Countless little untied strings that turn into snakes who angrily tear with sharpened teeth at those who might try to bundle them up. Even a simple wave of hands will illicit a hiss and perhaps an unprovoked attack. But there are other worries too, a million of them that multiply as the days go on. Eventually they stop adding up, one day they begin to even out and finally lessen, but it takes a very long time. But worse than that is when loss happens, but it is unclear whether it will be a sustained loss or one that can be reversed. For what happens when the loose ends finally calm down enough to be tied, and then the one who is missing swoops in and undoes all that hard work? Have all those tears and wasted moments steeped in sadness been for naught? And will they be upset if you instead choose not to cry, but to pave the way for their return? Will they resent your sadness turned into action? Or will they defy your concepts and beliefs, your wants and desires, and simply return but not to you?
Not sure which eventuality to prepare for, Belladonna does her best to acclimate herself to the idea of all three happening. It is not easy, for it means actually letting go of the idea that her beloved is actually going to one day come back, as well as the idea that they will resume their relationship upon his return. They are not comforting ideas, they are not things she wants, but still, the witch is sure to carve a tiny piece of her heart away, just in case. It is small, not enough to even barely protect her should these things come to pass. And it is not that she is being pessimistic, or even vaguely realistic. In utter honesty she is being wholly irrational, for instead of preparing herself for an even sadder ending, she takes the cautionary little part of her heart and tucks it underneath all her love for her zombie. That way when he does return, the caution will cave under its brethren and can be forgotten entirely. It is a fool's plan, but Belladonna has never been an altogether cautious ghoul.



The click of heels down the hallway, a methodical sound of importance, is the only warning that proceeds the quick rap of knuckles on the door. It will be the only warning for the remainder of the day, and as it has already come and gone with Belladonna completely missing it, it no longer has any purpose. The witch is surprised enough by the sound of the knock that she trips on her own feet, but regains her footing only to drop the little pile of assorted objects in her arms when a voice from behind the door calls out in a sing-song voice, “Mortie dear~ I know you're in there!”
The books and candle holders and box of matches and pens and pad of paper all clatter noisily to the floor, but there is no time to retrieve them. The person at her door is Ramona McNeal, mother of her now missing lover. This is not good.
Quick as she can, Belladonna shoves the fallen items to a side of her room, before she hustles over and cracks the door just enough that she can peer out. Standing there, looking crisp and perfect with a scarf carelessly tossed over her shoulders is the doll, the faintest of smiles on her face.
“Um... Hello Ms. McNeal.”
“Good morning Belladonna. Or good afternoon, if you'd rather.” Her smile for the witch quickly fades as she peers over the ghoul's head through the small opening of the door into the room. “Is he in here again? I tried his room earlier, but all I found was an unlocked door and an open closet.”
In attempt to prove her innocence the witch opens the door a bit wider for the woman, but she cannot find the strength to move. This is a moment she has been dreading, been hoping she could avoid.
“Um... He's not... He's not here.” Belladonna's gaze finds the floor, for she cannot bear to look at the older woman. “There was.... I mean... There has been...Someone should have... The school or- ah. Um...” For a quick second she squeezes her eyes close before she opens them back up and they are a tiny bit glassy. ”He's not here.”

A noise from inside the room distracts both women, and they look in unison to see Lanna toddle to the edge of the bed, having recognized a familiar voice. Though the witch turns and takes a step toward her, the pup beats her to the punch and falls from the bed, fluttering her wings just before she could land too heavily. Then she was up and across the room, her little stubby feet up to press against Ramona's. But the pup is ignored as the doll frowns at the witch.
“What about the school?” Ramona gives the younger ghoul a look of raised eyebrows and derision sprinkled with light worry. “Did he go on a field trip without telling me?”
The foxfire is ignored, but Belladonna had already taken the step back into her room, so she ushers Ramona in. With a polite nod, the desk chair is offered and though it is not the most comfortable of seats, the older woman still takes it. The witch takes a few steps away while Ramona crosses one leg over the other, her lips drawn in a thin line as she waits. Finally, though she will not look up, the witch takes a deep breath.
“Not so much a field trip as... A sudden trip he couldn't have told you about even if he wanted.” Another breath is taken, as though there is suddenly less air in the room. “A bunch of students... We got pulled into... Oh, you don't... You don't know what the Haunted House is, do you?” Only now does she glance up at Ramona, her hurt partially put away in favor of curiosity what this woman does or does not know.
“No. Why? Is that where he is?” Ramona replies in a clipped tone, ignoring Lanna who has come to sit at her feet and softly whine.
“Err... No?” For a moment Belladonna stands there, unsure of what to do. After another second of thought she becomes animated; A hand crinkles into her hair and she begins to pace, and after a few steps she take her hand away to worry the nails of her opposite hand between thumb and forefinger. Her pacing continues as she explains about the Haunted House, what it is and what happens there. About the Hunters, and how after Fright Night the students were pulled in the fog, the Insanity. She speaks of how it polluted their blood and made them more monstrous than before, about the trials of fighting and rescuing and more fighting. The part about their fight, all snarls and bitter words is absent from the story, but still the witch will not look at Ramona. Because of this she does not see the woman narrow her eyes, or become increasingly agitated in both face and body language. Still the story continues, on and on until Belladonna gets to the end, where she stops and lets her hands drop because it still hurts to say it. But once more the witch murmurs the ill fated, ”He's gone.”

“Stop, stop, stop.” Ramona interrupts, her hands swaying in front of herself. “Stop feeding me this scary tale, little witch. I've played nice with you for Mort's sake, but this is getting ridiculous.” Unimpressed she stands and smooths out her skirt, though her mouth quirks in an unsettled manner. “Am I seriously to believe my son is 'gone' because of a Christmas disease in some fragmented Haunted House?” A noise of derision is made. “Where is he, Belladonna? He hasn't been answering his phone all week, and I am not in the mood for fictional stories.”
All these accusations have made the witch flinch and step backwards, but it is the mention of his name that makes her pull her hands up, as though she must defend herself.
”Its not a tale its-- Its not from Christmas Town, its from... I don't know, no one knows!” Finally she is forced to look up into a pair of eyes that disprove of her, think she is lying. ”I... I do not know. He offered himself to Red and she absorbed him and he's... Gone.” But the woman's other words had sunk in, have found their mark. The witch frowns, looks mildly affronted as she gestures at Ramona.
”Why would I lie to you? What purpose would that serve? What could possibly have happened besides the absolute worst outcome that he would ignore you? You're his mother and while I cannot fully understand your distrust of me, I could not lie to you about this.” Frantically a hand scrunches in her hair as the witch takes a step backwards, dangerously close to tears. ”My Hecate, he's been gone a week! I have done nothing but cry!”
“Cry? Is that all?” Ramona matches the witch's back step with a forward one, her expression more cross than before. From the floor Lanna whimpers, but is shot a look from the doll that has her cowering backwards, ears pinned to her head.
”I was there and he gave me up to save us from Caelius, the leader of the Hunters! Why would I lie about that?!”
“I don't care about these Hunters or this Red or this damn Insanity- where is he?” The taller woman has drawn close to the witch, nearly threatening in her demeanor. “No one simply disappears! He's never mentioned this crystal-” And for a moment she falters, because he's mentioned something. Belladonna can tell by the flicker of uncertainty that crosses the woman's face. But it is quick as the anger quickly returns. “None of this makes sense.. And even if it did happen, Mortimer is smarter than that. He wouldn't... Where is your proof?”
”I don't know! If I knew do you think I would be here? Do you honestly believe I would sit around and cry instead of trying to find him?!” The witch is close to shouting, but more than that, she's getting angry. Her fists have been clenched and she's squared her shoulders, planted her feet in her spot and angled her face up in a gesture that means she isn't backing down, but also expects the person she's arguing with to be the one to back off. ”It isn't nonsense, and you're being nonsensical by ignoring this!” Quickly she sucks in a breath, because that was out of place to say, but why should she bother with being polite? This woman has hurled countless accusations at her, but the worst is that right now she thinks Belladonna is lying about something so important. ”I don't... I don't have any proof. But its here, if you look. His door was unlocked, his pets are here. He hasn't answered any of your messages, nor mine. I am alone. But if you do not believe me, go ask Arel. Go ask Nurse Cricket, or Professor Selene. They're teachers. You'll believe them.” There is absolutely no regret as she says this, because it does not matter. If Ramona doesn't believe her about this, then she'll never believe her. But the doll is cracking, she has to be, or else she wouldn't be asking for proof, would not even have considered it enough to demand evidence.

Yet even still, Ramona stares at the witch, visibly rigid with emotion. Anger, panic, denial, it all wars within and flashes across her face in fleeting glances and twitches as she tries to remain in control. In a low, dangerous voice she speaks.
“Where we you in all of this? Did you do nothing to stop him from this decision?”
The witch crosses an arm over her stomach to hold her opposing elbow to her waist. It isn't that she is giving up, but she is tired of fighting. Especially about this.
”I was there the entire time... When he turned into a weapon, I burned myself on him trying to get him back. When Red took him the first time, I screamed myself hoarse at her to bring him back, and she did. But when he gave himself up, when he helped her to save everyone else... I pleaded with him. But you did not raise him to be a selfish creature.” Now she gives a mirthless laugh and drops her gaze to the floor. ”Why would you think I would be enough to keep him?” Part of that question is rhetorical, but there is a very small part of it actually glazed over in curiosity that hopes Ramona will answer her.
A tense moment of silence stretches out between them before the doll replies in a cold, sharp voice:
“You weren't. You didn't fight for him. All you did was scream and beg like a child.”
There is blame in her gaze mixed with the anger, in enough quantity that Belladonna actually smiles back at Ramona, though it is rather sadly.
”Perhaps, but I still tried. With all my heart. And that is far more than I can say--”

Without warning Ramona streaks forward and gives a harsh slap to Belladonna's face, made all the worse by her manicured red nails. Her entire being radiates harsh anger, livid as she stares down at the witch. The slap is both a surprise and not, but Belladonna manages to at least keep her footing and not be fully owned by the action. It still leaves her with her head turned away at an odd angle, her eyes wide and lined with tears and her mouth slightly open. But it is not the first time she has been slapped, certainly not by a woman taller than herself with manicured nails.
“Don't you dare.” Ramona's voice is even, but still remarkably cold. “My son is gone because you weren't strong enough to make him see sense. Don't you dare, don't you dare, turn this on me when I have given so much for him and remained in the dark, while you've clung to him like mold and heard his every word.”
Slowly the witch brings her face back around to look at Ramona. She blinks back up at the doll.
”Hit me again.”
The request is happily executed with absolutely no restraint. A second blow is delivered, this one causing the witch to be moved by it, as well as feel the particularly harsh cool of a ring. It bites into her skin and makes Belladonna realize that she can never speak of this encounter, for it would hurt more to admit it than for it to have happened.
“I knew you were weak the moment I saw you.”
Anger is rising within the witch and she laughs at Ramona, one hand pressed to her cheek that will surely bruise if she does not heal it soon.
”Weak? Is that what that was? Far be it from me to argue with you, but Hecate, I thought that was kindness and civility. After all, making a hasty assumption about someone is rather unfair, don't you think?” Once again she laughs again, but it is more as if she is trying to get something awful out of her mouth rather than actual enjoyment. ”And I thought you were kind from the moment I saw you! How very wrong I have turned out to be!”
“Hasty perhaps, but no less true.” The doll levels Belladonna with a steely look, her hands fallen to clench her nails into her palms.
“I should have never let him come back to this school. I should have kept him after his one year trial, away from these dangers, this... this trash.” But now Belladonna can see that the woman is struggling for something, either the right words or something else. She is frantic, a hand run through her hair as she turns on a heel, a movement that either parodies or has inspired the zomboil's own stressed reaction. It tugs at the witch to see this and recognize it, but she cannot dwell on it. With literally nothing else to lose, Belladonna continues on, her voice lacking the derision but now regaining a bit of its anger.
”Because you can control his fate, is that it? Because he isn't almost a man grown, but still a little scareling for you to hold close? Why? Why can't you let him make his own decisions about things? What am I trash? Why Ramona?”
It suddenly feels odd to speak the woman's name when they are not friends, when the doll is an adult, when permission for such has not been granted. But it is too late to stop it, mostly because of the ache Belladonna feels from watching the woman move. Her actions are ones that make the witch yearn for what she has lost, even if those actions are far enough removed that it does not hurt in the worst possible way. It is still pain. But the invocation of the doll's name was a step too far, for now she stops and slowly turns to face the smaller ghoul. It is evident in her clenched fists that the witch has completely demolished any semblance of reserve in her, that Ramona has finally stopped trying to control herself.
“Why?” The words linger in the air as she steps forward, slowly one after the other, her hands beginning to shake more with each move closer. “I gave him the freedom of his school of choice, I gave him that chance to make something of himself rather than sit in squalor at home, that option to have an actual life with friends, grades, a home to come back to if things didn't work. I've given him far, far more than anyone has, and more than was ever given to me. And I've pushed him to think about the future because, bless his damn rotten heart, he has so many doubts that he won't ever approach it on his own and he was just beginning to cement an idea of what to do with himself.
“And then he tells me the school gets infected with this or that, or a trip gives him trauma, or that's he's died one too many times- and that met you. And suddenly there are no plans anymore, no clear aspirations for the future because of these distractions!" Only conversational distance keeps them apart now, though Ramona's voice has grown shrill with anger. “Suddenly he decides to fall back on childish notions such as knighthood and the Boogieman prospect and thinks that if he hopes hard enough he'll make it, when the truth is that he doesn't possess the will or skill to take up the mantle! Worse, it gave him this idea that he had to prove it to himself that he could do it, he could be this fantastic hero that saves the day, and you <******** supported his ideal. That was why he did what he did in your damned story, that is why he's gone!!” Her face that is dangerously close to Belladonna's is flushed from shouting and her eyes shine with tears that threaten to fall. “He might have looked like a man, but he was a child on the inside, lost in his way and grasping onto things I thought I had rid him of when he first came to me. Why should I let him choose when he always chooses wrong?”
A slightly trembling hand lifts and reaches out a slender finger that digs into the witch's breast,.
“You. Everything came undone because you filled his head with fantasies, you and this accursed school. And now he's gone and you can give him nothing but tears and empty laughter.”
The finger placed upon Belladonna's chest only causes her to puff herself out, to press against the digit though the nail bites deeper in attempt not to let it deflate her. Even the tear that slides down Ramona's cheek does not detract the witch from her goal. Already the words have cut deep enough that Belladonna will feel this particular exchange for days, but she cannot let that be seen. Slowly her armor is rebuilding, slowly she is learning to steel herself better than before. So even though she flinches at the harsh words, even though she has to direct her gaze to the edges of the doll's eyes, she still stays rooted in her spot.
”He does doubt himself, more than most. But why do you think that is? Perhaps because someone thinks all his choices are wrong? That maybe, just maybe, the fact that you always belittle him or what he likes or wants to do, that is the reason he ever doubted himself!” The witch has not realized that she still speaks as though he has merely left the room, but she does notice that the finger against her hurts, but somehow finds the strength to push forward closer to Ramona, eyebrows lowered over her eyes in a dangerous tilt, one that can either be swayed toward letting this go or getting frightfully angry.
”And don't you dare say he isn't strong enough. Don't you dare. You can stand here and throw your little tantrum, b***h and moan about whatever else you want. But do not act as though he cannot handle whatever he puts his mind to. You are vain and selfish and wish you were even a fraction as powerful as he. If he wants to be a Boogieman, he'll be the best of them all and won't sacrifice a jack damned thing for it.
“And you know what? I make him happy. When he came back from his trips hurt and broken, I was the one who pulled him back on his feet. And I'd do that again and again, however many times it takes. Do not think I will give him only tears and hollow laughter. I will give him far more, and I will get him back. Because he is worth it. And you know what is even more important that all that? He will come to you and be glad that he gave himself so he could protect you. That he could keep you and Greogry and your boilfriend safe. What more could a mother possibly want?”
“'Safe'.” Ramona clicks her tongue sardonically, but the sound is watered down literally by the fact that she has begun to cry. Whether or not Belladonna's insults and determined declarations have reached her doesn't seem to matter anymore to the doll. Everything has come undone with one visit and now... “I just want him back.” Removing her finger, Ramona steps back and covers her face behind that very hand, trembling and still trying so hard to keep that perfect facade up even when tears keep falling, even when its clear she would rather just scream and cry and lament rather than keep fighting.
And just like that, all Belladonna's anger and frustration starts to shatter. She stops puffing herself out, her eyebrows lower and she lets go of her clenched hands she had not realized she'd been holding. It isn't fair to be shouted at for not doing anything when she has done so much, and Belladonna cannot do the same to the doll. Instead she fishes inside the front pocket of her hoodie and extracts a pale pink handkerchief, thankfully dry for the moment.
”That is what I want too.” Her voice has gone rather soft, nearly identical to what she used to use when she speaks to people in pain. Only this time it has a slightly knowing edge to it that she doesn't realize because she is too focused on pressing the little piece of cloth into Ramona's other hand. ”I will do everything in my power to get him back. I will not stop until he is safe once more. I promise you.”

Ramona's fingers slide down from her eyes to try and wipe the tears herself, but it's useless; they remain cupped over her mouth as she listens, only noticing the handkerchief being pushed into her hands when the witch finishes speaking. It sits in her hand, finger limply curled around it as she surveys Belladonna with steady, tear-stained eyes as if trying to validate her promise by taking a peek at her very Core. Abruptly she sniffles, crumples the handkerchief and brings it up to wipe at her face.
“How?” There is a hint of her formerly condescending nature, but its diluted by her growing despair as the knowledge continues to hit her like the coldest iceberg, slow and unstoppable. It is a bit tortuous for Belladonna to watch the older woman cry, mostly because there is little to be done considering said older woman heavily dislikes the younger ghoul. All she can do is stand there and wait and try not to look scared when Ramona gives her such an intense look. Massively unsettled, the witch only manages to square her shoulders a little, not quite defiant but definitely not in a position of backing down. The witch takes a breath, because Ramona has opened up to her, even a little.
”I do not know. But there are countless mysteries here in Halloween, countless ways of righting wrongs. But I will do my best and find a way. I promise I will bring him back.” Perhaps it isn't the best answer, but it is the only one the witch has, and she cannot even make it better or more poignant by actually saying his name.
“Very well. It isn't unheard of for someone to take longer to return from dissipation, especially under stressful circumstances.” The return of her hopeful denial at once does and does not startle Belladonna. The woman has cracked when composure should have reigned and now she tries to patch the fractures before they grow. But it is clear on her face for a quick second, before it dissolves into her familiar cool mask, that she is just as confused about what happened at Belladonna. But the witch would like to think that when Ramona levels her with another look, it doesn't quite contain the hard edge is usually does. “Do what you will, Miss Divine. But tell him he is in deep trouble when he comes back.”
Belladonna allows herself to go a bit pigeon-toes to help lend herself further to the idea of being a child. It has ceased being an insult and now is almost a comforting idea. Her head ducks in semblance of a bow and she mumbles a dutiful Yes ma'am.” With nothing much in common there is little else to say, which is a shame really for the witch feels she was just about to break through the barrier and finally win Ramona's approval. Satisfied as she can be for now, Ramona gives a small sigh and tosses a glance around the room- specifically at the minipets.
“Do you need me to take one of them off your hands? You seem to have a full house.”
At the mention of the pets, Belladonna heaves a heavy sigh and raises a hand to touch lightly at the back of her neck. This action is rewarded by Ramona with a brow raised that the witch misses.
”I do not think Victor or Trouble will want to leave. Lancelot is fine, but Lanna...” Belladonna pauses to sigh again, eyebrows and face crumpled with worry. ”She hardly eats, but she has responded to you far more than she has this entire week to me. If you would like to take her and see if she does better with you, I would... Deeply appreciate that..”For a moment the witch looks totally defeated to have to admit this, but she only gives Lanna a pitiful smile, sad that she could not have done more. The pup perks up at the sound of her name, and is content to be picked up by the doll.
“Take care, Miss Divine. And... Thank you.” She offers the wrinkled handkerchief back, which Belladonna takes with a small smile, faintly astonished at the woman's words. “Give him a little more time. He's always been slow, my Mortie.” There is a shadow of a smile on her red lips, one that accompanies the words of a mirthless mother. But it is merely a flicker that flees as quickly as it appears and without another word she turns and leaves the room, sure to close the door behind her. There is a moment of pause before the clicking of her heels signals her departure and finally grows distant, but Belladonna remains rooted to her spot for a long time after they have disappeared. A bit of pink light forms around her hand that she presses to her cheek, healing the bruise from Ramona's hand and ring.
Engagement ring.
Belladonna is not sure what to think of this, she cannot form any more thoughts or feel any more emotions. Though it is early in the day still, she crawls into her bed and lies there. The rest of the day is spent in idleness, as she reads or watches a bit of skeev or even passes the time by clicking around on the interwebs. A new sort of numbness takes over, an odd thing that isn't worth examining. Because if one were to look at it too closely, one might find far more frightening things than loss. One would find such utter depravity in hitting a minor neck deep in sorrow. One would find the cold acceptance of said minor merely because it is what one's son wants. One might even find similarities between minor and elder that unsettle and rankle. But loss is the only thing Belladonna can still think and feel right now, and she welcomes the numbness. It is far easier to handle now that the raw ache has begun to ever so slowly ebb.




Lots and lots of thank you's to Ol-j for writing Ramona for me and letting me use her for some additional durama~ OuO//

It is almost ridiculous how her dreams do not even bother to hide its own presence anymore.
The four figures are there again, turned away from her, each with their long flowing cloaks. They've all got the edge of one side held in the hand that crosses their hearts, as though the fabric will help lend themselves to some greater ideal. Alexander's is bright red, easily the most colorful and eye catching. It seems appropriate that his would be so vivid, as he was the first to offer himself up. Next to him, clothed in a cream, bone colored cloak is Aymet, someone the witch only knows in the briefest of passing and mentions. Shehk is naturally there as well, her cloak more saturated in color and devotion, deep purple and her face solemn. And lastly is... Is...
”Mort, please.” Even as she forms the word, even if its only in a dream, the witch knows this is the first time she's spoken his name in what feels like ages. The syllables want to feel foreign on her tongue, but they don't, they simply refuse. And the witch rushes forward, back once more underneath the altar, once more unable to stop this inevitable sacrifice. A hand reaches out for the electric blue cloak and actually manages to grab a hold of an edge. The witch tugs backward, but the cloak only expands, adds onto its own yardage to keep the same distance between them.
”This is ridiculous.” Belladonna asserts and throws the fabric from her, because this is just a dream, and a stupid one at that. There is no one here but her and the sacrifices, not even fighters on the field.
”Ofelia and Clover should be here too!” The witch shouts at the four who do not look at her, for still they remain kneeling. A huff of derision escapes the witch and she whirls back to face the field and begins to stomp off. And just as she is about to break off into a run, a note above her catches her attention. High in the air, circling the battle field once, twice, three times before it turns and swoops toward her is the bird from before. But as the bird grows steadily closer the witch realizes with mild shock that it is the large gray phoenix. Not entirely sure what to make of it, Belladonna stands her ground and watches as it lands before it. The phoenix is beautiful up close, if only in a fragile manner. It is streaked with blue that fractures and falls from it in wisps, while the rest is made up of insubstantial gray.
It too is made of Insanity. She knows this now, but still finds the thing marvelous. The last time the witch had an Insanity dream it ended with the death of her lover, so she expects the same from this one. When the phoenix turns its crystalline eyes upon her, when it gazes at her steadily, Belladonna realizes this dream may not be so silly after all. Its beak parts to speak, but no words come out, no sounds even exit. Only a long stream of fog that covers the witch and forces her backwards to avoid its curling grasp.
A voice from behind growls at the witch, a scratchy thing that sounds as though a human is speaking through a toothy snout.
”If you sacrifice yourself too, you'll escape.”
Quickly whirling around, Belladonna can see the darkened figure from her first dream is on the altar too. It has a long, clawed hand extended toward the witch, but it is the blue hand that reaches out to her that makes her seriously consider taking the offer.
”Bells--” A loud shriek interrupts the zombie's words, a clear note that breaks off his voice. Claws dig into the witch's hair and pulls her back, and she realizes suddenly that the scream that keep her from hearing what else Mort has to say is her own. A concentrated effort is made to keep from calling out to him because she has not heard his voice in over a week and even if this is just a dream, just hearing him say her name is sweet enough to make her cry, but the phoenix has dug its claws into her hair and is pulling. Back and further back she is pulled, away from what she wants and what she wants to hear until the witch is flung from her dream with an angry shriek.

At least when she wakes this time it is not on the floor, for now she is still on her bed, but the phoenix is still pulling on her hair. Belladonna screams again as she sits up, but the scrabbling through her locks does not stop. Both her hands reach back to frantically pull it free and her fingers close over a little, furry body. The witch manages to extract the creature and finds herself staring at Lancelot. The little zquirrel looks up at her innocently, one long, curly red hair twisted in his mouth. In a flash he has hopped back up onto her shoulder in attempt to dive back into her hair, but Belladonna is too fast for him. Once more she gets ahold of him and actually laughs.
It is a sound that startles her for it keeps going as she pulls the little creature into a hug. It is something she feels she has not done in far too long, but it feels good. There is not a trace of traitorous guilt, for she cannot be sad forever. Mort wouldn't want that.



“I think its broken.”
”Shut up. Its not broken. Its just not working right now.”
“That means its broken.”
”No, it just means that--”
The rest was drowned out by the high pitched yipping from Trouble.

With a heaving sigh Belladonna pulled her head back out from underneath her sewing table where she had been attempting to figure out the exact reason why her sewing machine was no longer functioning. It had sat by the wayside, mostly unused for the better part of two weeks, but now it sat lifeless and quiet. If she were being as dramatic as she was once inclined to be, Belladonna would think it was pouting over being passed up in favor of other pursuits. As it stands, the only thing she can think now is how wonderful a little zap would be for the thing. All it really and truly needs is one little shock and it is sure to get started back up again.
But, not for the first time this very day, Belladonna sits back on her heels and wishes that Mort would come back to her. The red ribbon she tied to her finger has remained and occasionally glows when she starts wishing for him, which makes her wonder what she did wrong with her spell. Its supposed to glow when he thinks on it, or at least that was the plan. But now she wonders what she's done wrong, how she messed it up.
“You cannot live your life like this. Constantly wishing for his return, always relying on--”
”I know.” The witch admonishes to Binx quickly before she rises to her feet and crosses the room to her bookshelf. The little ivy leaves still have lost their color, the book full of lively green plants still stares at her in grey, swirling patterns, but the witch ignores these. Instead she focuses her gaze on finding the little book on sewing, on hand stitches and old fashioned stitch magic. It has to be here somewhere, hidden among her other novels and spell guides. But as the witch looks, as she contemplates where this book could possibly be, a small force hits her shin. It isn't much, just a tiny skull covered in fur that she knows so well. A sigh is the only warning before Belladonna is on the floor, cradling Binx close to her chest.
”What am I to do? If I cannot... Find help?”
The only reply for a long while is the sound of Binx's purrs as he curls around his witch, first his too-long tail around her arm and then a paw around her wrist. Finally he replies, but it is soft, muffled by her own body.
“You do not find help. Make your own path.” His small black head butts against her chin and Belladonna finds herself laughing. “Isn't that what you always say?”
There is no immediate reply, merely a small smile as she considers his words. It is something she's said, a few times. When Mort told her of Medea's mark, when Ren told her of his horrid deeds in the Human World. Countless other times when a problem was presented to the witch and she needed an alternate path. But where has that gotten her? She is alone on her path and what is she to do now?
”How is Victor? And Trouble?” The little pup yips at his name and hops over the lip of the cauldron, as though summoned. Victor has vanished into the closet, but has continued to remain stoic, if not slightly... Off.
“Trouble...” Binx begins with a sneer and an angry flick of his tail as the pup draws closer, “...Is fine. Victor, not so much.” Though Trouble had curled up on the ground, his warm little body pressed to Belladonna's hip, he did touch Binx so the cat only gave a small pause before he continued. “Ah, he... Does not understand why both Mort and Lanna have gone. He feels as though he has done something wrong.”
”But he hasn't! He hasn't done anything wrong, why ever would he blame himself?”
“I have been asking you the same thing for quite some time.”



Later that day Belladonna takes Victor on a run. He is nonplussed by the idea of a walk, but accompanies her nonetheless. When she tugs him into a jog, he sets a high pace for the witch and though she struggled to keep up, still manages to end the run with the hint happily wagging his three tails. It is small, but it is the first time in what feels a very long time that Belladonna had been able to help someone. Maybe Victor, like she, will only be happy upon the return of Mort, but still they manage to find a little bit of brightness in the gloom.
By the time they arrive back to her dorm the sun is quickly headed down, and Belladonna finds it is time to see if she has lost everything or not. Untrustworthy of her very self, the witch hurries back out onto the school grounds before she swings a leg over her broomstick handle. It has felt ages since she last flew and if she cannot do it today, she will know forevermore that she has failed herself. It is an odd ultimatum of sorts, but one she readily buys into, even if she was the one to set it.
A moment stretches out before the witch as she stands there in the Reaper dormitory yard, her broom clutched in her hands. Either she can fly, or fall forever.
It is then, with the strangest feeling as though her stomach has plastered itself to the ground, that Belladonna's feet leave the dead grass. Toes press down onto only air, the wind pulls backwards at her hair and the witch rises into the space between ground and sky. A laugh breaks from her chest, loud and bright as she crosses her ankles underneath her and raises her face to the sky above.
Air speeds past her as she soars up and up and up and up, gaining speed as she continues onward. The little hood she has pulled onto the top of her head is wrenched back by the force of flying, but it isn't something the witch fights against. It isn't letting go, its holding hard with one hand and pulling forward with the other.
When she has cleared the tree tops and the campus actually looks small beneath her is only when Belladonna finally stalls. Untethered, she lets the broom be buffeted by the lights winds. It feels so nice to just let go, to just float in this nothingness between ground and sky. The witch lets one hand go of the handle to pull through her hair made wild by the wind. It will be a torment to brush later that night, but for now, she does not care. Now she is simply in this moment, experiencing this sky and this potential free fall.
From here she can see everything. She can the school below and the nearby buildings and bits of Halloweentown, but she can see herself too. She can see how very sad she has been, how desperate and lonely her loss has made her. The ache that lived within her is still there, but it has shrunk and with a breeze that makes her feel wrapped up tight, it is almost gone. But from this angle, she can see that it will never truly leave, not until Mort returns.
And from here, way up in the air, just a little witch all alone in the huge world, Belladonna realizes that this is not the end she has thought it was.
Through all her tears she kept saying he would come back and wishing for it to happen, but it is only now that she realizes... He might actually return to her.
The thought is enough to drop her a few feet and leave her gasping as she rights herself and her broom, half because she had not realized how very lost she was, but also because it seems so very true. For now she is lonely, but her darling would not truly leave her alone long if he could help it. There is nothing short of death that would keep him from her, but she knows that death is only temporary.
With a head suddenly clear, Belladonna sucks in a breath and watches the sun set over the horizon. She'd unconsciously chased its last rays of light and now that she begins the descent back to ground, she finds her little red ribbon meant for Mort to be her guiding light. It burns bright in the growing darkness, but Belladonna cannot help but smile. She is alone now, but it cannot be for much longer, and even if it is she will at least stop despairing as much.
It is an equally odd feeling to find the ground still firm and welcoming beneath one's feet, but it is there and the witch stands once more in the yard, cheeks flushed and a smile undiminished on her face. There is time yet for all the things she wants, even time yet to still be sad and mourn her loss. But there is also a new path, one that stretches before her. A path that will bring them back together, that will find her truly happy again.
As the witch turns back to head to her room, she spies the golden light of the moon just peeking through the trees, a crescent grin full of light. Belladonna tosses a kiss to that shining light, a laugh breaking free as she finds her ribbon is still glowing. Things will get better, she knows this much. She cannot fall forever, and even if no one is there to catch her, at least Belladonna now knows she can always catch herself. Thankfully she knows she has friends who have cast out their hands to her, that she is not truly alone. Her love for her zombie is strong enough to see her through this until she can hold Mort's hand once more and be content to bask in their love. For he loves her, and she love him enough to know that this is only temporary, that they still have a scarily ever after in which to realize.
This too shall pass, and neither of them can be lost in the darkness for long when they have the love of the other.