ZERO

The ring has been alone for centuries, kept in the arms of a corpse.

A corpse is not good company. Its hands are cold. There is no life for the ring to sup on. There is no soul for the ring to latch onto, like a leech, and draw upon its power. Whatever inhabited the corpse has long since departed, leaving the ring alone.

The clearing is still. Silent.

A solitary figure — a boy — trudges through the runs. His footsteps bring the clatter of loose stones and brick, slipping on debris flung far from its original home. They echo through the forest. He doesn't care. He knows he's alone.

No one ever comes out to the castle. Not anymore. Once, there might have been scavengers, who picked the ruins dry. But there are no treasures hidden here. Only ghosts and bones and memories. Nothing can survive out here, not for long. It's a suffocating pocket of nothingness and the pocket hungers. It consumes all that linger. The never-ending silence. The decay and grief. The lack of magic. It'll drive a man crazy, if he's not careful.

The ring can sense the boy. It can smell his life, his warmth, his soul. Like the land, it hungers. It wants to consume and consume until it has had its fill, until it is sated and the emptiness is no more. Half a soul, incomplete, missing. It needs more. A soul is not meant to be fractured.

The boy stands in front of a grave. So close. Charms have left it untouched, where all else have been ravaged. The only sort of magic that survives out here — old magic. The grave sticks out against the shore like a sore thumb, white stone too carefully made.

Once, this might have been a sacred place. Once, the thought of digging through someone's grave might have caused the boy to hesitate. But now is not the time for morality, for politeness. The dead won't miss whatever valuables might be hidden amongst their tombs.

He pushes the lid off with great effort. Gravity quickly takes over and he lets it slip from his hands. There's a great scraping, followed by a thud, as it falls to the ground. Inside is an old man, perfectly preserved. He's probably charmed, too. The corpse has to be ancient, but it looks as though it's only sleeping.

Hands clasped together over his chest, the corpse holds its only item of interest. A ring wraps around one blackened finger. Two gold serpents meet in the centre, mouths agape as if they once might have held something. When he pulls it from the man's cold, dead hand, it burns.

Burning. Anger. Fire. Hands covered in blood. So much blood. Soul beyond redemption, now. No going back.

The sudden flash of emotions — no, experiences — causes the boy to withdraw reflexively. He stares at the ring with wide, bewildered eyes.

The ring does not mean to bite the hand that feeds it. But the anger is too strong. The magic binding the ring compels it to hurt the boy before it can latch on. It is not in control. A rabid dog, a cornered beast. Instincts that are not its own surge through it. The ring does not like being powerless.

Wrapping his shirt around his hand, the boy tries to pick it up a second time. The lack of contact seems to work. There's no onslaught of sensations. He stuffs it in his pocket, and continues on with his scavenging. Rummaging through the corpses' pockets, he finds nothing more of note.

The weight in his pocket is heavy. He can hear the ring whispering to him. It wants to be held.

Later, far from the ruins, at camp, the boy pulls the ring from his pocket. It has a dark glint to it in the firelight. The whispering hasn't stopped, always calling to him. Chewing on a bit of hardtack, the boy considers it. The survivor in him tells him to throw it away. Get as far away from the magic ring as possible. But there's a burning curiosity battling it — the sort the others would tell him is going to kill him one day. He's supposed to ignore that curiosity, he's been told. Youth is too precious to be wasting on reckless questions.

But the boy isn't good at listening. To adults. To the rational side of him. He likes the questions. Questions provide an escape to the desperate slog of surviving.

He touches the ring. It burns.

A corpse lying on the cold bathroom floor. Stupid mudblood. It's all her fault. None of this would have happened if she had just minded her own business.

As he fights the pain, the ring provides him with more coherent feelings. More than feelings, he can hear a voice. It's muddled, distant, as if underwater. It purrs and growls and sobs. When he pulls away, it dissolves into the same pleading whispers.

The boy knows not to put it on. A touch is enough — too much, even. With each contact, he can feel the connection grow stronger and the ring grow hungrier. It wants him to wear it. He's smart enough not to bend to a ring's wishes.

Back in his pocket the ring goes. The boy shuts his eyes. He won't sleep — not really. But he can rest, at least, before the sun rises.

The ring likes the boy. It does not like the jostling around a pocket as the boy walks, but at least his pocket is warm. He is not frigid as a corpse. There is life in this boy, as he hums softly to himself and makes comments to no one. The ring thinks, perhaps, it might be sorry when it consumes him.

But not for long. When it devours the boy, they'll be one and the same. The ring will be alive and the boy will be alive. They will be alive together. At least, the ring thinks that's how it works. It has never possessed someone before.

Its last wearer was too strong of will. The old man succumbed to the bite, but would not surrender to the ring. A wall kept the ring out of his head. And the wearer before that — the creator, the one the ring protects — cast it aside as soon as it was created. Now valuable, it was too dangerous to wear.

The ring already misses the warmth of the boy's skin. It dislikes the distance between them. Stops them from merging. It wants to burn itself into the flesh of his finger. It wants to dig under his skin, until nothing will separate them ever again. Wear him like the clothes the boy wears. One and the same. Forever.

The boy dreams of fathers, of schools and students and professors with disapproving frowns, of great bombs falling from the sky and ruined streets. Fear and anger. He wakes from his drowse in a sweat, terrified, the memories clinging. The thrill of fear that does not belong to him courses through his veins like adrenaline and he wants more.

A snap of a twig in the shadows sets the boy off. He stiffens, turning toward the source. Only oppressive darkness awaits him, obscuring whatever hides within its depths. It seems endless, shifting, full of creatures thirsting for his blood. The longer he stares, the more shapes he creates out of its nothingness. Anything could be out there. Everything could be out there. Waiting, creeping.

Unconsciously, he grabs the ring. As it presses against his palm, their paranoia is one.

Then the ring returns to the pocket.

The boy is scared.

The ring can feel his fear, as if it were his own. His feet thud heavily against the ground, throwing the ring around in his pocket. His breath is quick, panicked. Prey. Hunted. The ring knows this feeling all too well.

There is growling outside the pocket. The noises don't belong to the boy. Someone — or something — else is there. The hunter. It pains the ring that it cannot help the boy. It cannot protect its host.

It hopes he won't die. He'll make such a lovely body; it would be a shame to lose him.

The boy never stops moving. The growls fade and he slows to a walk, but he never rests. The ring misses the camp, where it would be given attention. It misses resting in the palm of his hand. It whines and begs and pleads.

Reaching into his pocket, the boy withdraws the ring. He shouldn't. He needs to remain alert. But he's so tired. He just needs a distraction. Something to keep his feet moving, even when everything in his body is begging him to stop.

The ring knows this. It can feel his exhaustion. It gives him one of its few good memories.

A pat on the shoulder shouldn't feel good, but the praise is nice. Never been praised before. The old man thinks I have potential. Good lad. Keep up the hard work, he says. I can do that. I'll work hard. I'll be good, I promise.

It isn't a useful memory. It doesn't compel the boy to wear the ring. But the ring remains in his palm for longer and that has to count for something. Before he can let go, it gives him another.

The kids like me here. They think I'm clever. Want to be my friend. Don't know what that's like. Will I be a good friend? Will they like me? If they like me, that's all that matters. All I want is to be liked. Liked by everyone. Everyone in the world. Want them to love me. Adore me.

The memories are old, faded. New memories override the old ones, taint the emotions of the child. They blur together until they're indistinguishable. Surely the eleven year old did not want to be worshipped.

Smells like Christmas. Better than the orphanage. Presents under the Christmas tree, some even have my name on it. Would feel bad I didn't get anyone anything, but they said it's okay. They understand. They pity me. Pity me. PITY ME? How dare they. I'll show them. I don't need their pity. I don't need anything. Just myself. I'll show them.

The ring panics. It had been a good memory, once. It's sure it was. Now all it feels is anger. That's not right. Christmas was a time of joy.

But the boy runs a finger around the edge of the ring, curious. He doesn't pull away. The pocket remains a distant memory. Does he want more?

They tell me it's okay when I don't know wizarding things, but I see the look in their eye. They're judging me. They think I'm stupid. Stupid because I was raised a muggle. But I'm better than them all. Royalty is in my blood. They won't think I'm stupid then. How foolish they'll look, kissing my feet, begging for my forgiveness.

Wrong anger. The boy pulls away. The ring laments the loss. So close. It was so close.

Magic cracks and fizzles in the air as the boy conjures water in a hole he's dug. Oh, the power. Such a simple action fills the ring with warmth. There is so much magic in this boy. The sort of power you could get drunk on. It'll keep the ring fed for eons. It's almost as good as its creators.

The boy rubs cold water into his face. He's tired. So incredibly tired. It has been days since he's had a proper sleep and it'll be days before he can relax properly. He's camped in one of the few safe spaces, too isolated to be bothered by anyone unaware of is existence. But even then, rest will evade him. Out here, paranoia seeps into his bones. It's so easy to die out here.

He had a near miss with a pack of werewolves the other day. He's not convinced he's lost them yet. Wolves will hunt a man for weeks, if they're bored enough. It's just entertainment for them. They like to watch their prey get to the brink of insanity in their exhaustion. Toy with their fear. Then finally they pounce and end it all.

The ring's whispers are incessant. An ever-present noise. He wonders, as he stares at it, what's so bad in wearing it. What's to lose?

Nothing, the ring assures him.

More importantly, what's to be gained?

Everything, the ring promises.

He could do it. He could put the ring on and stop its constant noise. The burning curiosity that eats away at him every time it rests in the palm of his hand. He's close enough to home that, should something go horribly wrong, help isn't far away. A patrol will probably find him, eventually.

Slowly, carefully, he puts the ring on.

His power is the ring's. They are one now. The ring thinks this must be what love is. To be one being in perfect synergy.

There is a soft chime as a tall boy taps his finger against the hourglass. He stares at it curiously, like a cat batting a mouse. Everything is a prey to his whims, his entertainment. When he looks up, Ariel comes face to face with softly angled features, a pleasant but empty smile — the sort of face that would be decided innocent even covered in blood, with the murder weapon in his hand.

A ring rests on his finger. The ring. Once Ariel notices it, all he can hear is its whispering. It fills the air like a breeze, easily missed but always there.

Something compels him to reach forward, to take it. After all, it is his. Isn't it?

When he does, the other boy's gaze snaps toward him. The memory turns into reality, though it feels more like a dream. His features are no longer recognisable. Ariel thinks he can see his own face reflected back at him. The boy's face never settles, always shifting. Adjusting. But his eyes remain constant. A window to the soul — or lack thereof.

"Don't be afraid." The boy purrs and he sounds like the voice from the memories. He sounds like the ring. The boy takes a step closer. Ariel steps back. "This is how it should be."

As the boy draws closer, Ariel is backed into a desk, where he can move no further. Cold fingers press into Ariel's cheeks, clawing at him. The ring rests heavily against his skin. So close. They'll be one, soon.

"What is your name?" The boy asks as his gaze drags across Ariel's face.

Ariel remains silent. He knows not to give up his name to the unknown.

"You're scared." The boy remarks. "I told you, there's no need to be. I won't hurt you."

Despite this assurance, the boy's hand trails down from Ariel's face and to his neck. Thin fingers wrap tight around his neck, threatening to steal his breath. Ariel tries to push him away, but all the boy's weight is on him. He's stronger than he looks.

"Don't fight it." The boy whispers. His lips pull into a strange smile, all teeth, no emotion. A mimic. "You wanted this. You offered yourself up to me."

"You tricked me." Ariel spits, pulling at the hands around his neck.

"A necessary deception. You won't regret it, I promise." The boy says, entirely neutral. "Your body won't be wasted. I'll put it to good use. But two souls can't inhabit one body — it isn't natural. One of them — the weaker — has to go."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"That's what the last one said. Look at him now." Malicious amusement clings to the edge of the boy's words. "You're strong, but not as strong as him. Your body will serve my creator."

With one great, heaving shove, Ariel manages to break free. He pushes past the boy, running nowhere in particular. All that matters is putting distance between the pair.

He's trapped in a small study. Now aware of his surroundings, they come into focus suddenly, as if forming as his eyes travel across them. There's a desk, a chair, a fireplace. Bookshelves, paintings on the wall. Where is the door? There has to be a door.

A hand grabs his wrist, spinning him around with the abrupt force. They both go falling and the boy lands atop Ariel. Rage contorts his face into a grotesque mask, twisting the edges unnaturally.

Before he can get a proper grip on him, Ariel scrambles backward. He slams his foot into any place it can get a purchase. He kicks the boy's side, his stomach, his shoulder, his face. None seem to make a mark, but they leave him disorientated. It gives Ariel just enough opportunity to crawl away. The boy claws at his ankles as Ariel stumbles to his feet, unable to stop him.

A door. On the other side of the room, which feels infinitely longer now that he's found it.

Ariel runs. The boy runs. Only their gasps and pants fill the air, in concert with one another. They are a mirror image. Everything Ariel does, so does the boy. When Ariel makes it to the door, crashing into it, the boy is right behind him. Ariel finds himself pressed between door and body, trapped. He can't even breathe. Every attempt to escape only bears more pressure down on him. Their bodies are glued together. One beast in unison. All Ariel can do is surrender.

Allowing himself to grow limp, the only thing holding Ariel up is the pressure on him. As he falls, the boy catches him. Their unity is no more — whatever trick the boy was playing, he has now given it up.The face that stares back at Ariel is his own. It's blank, devoid of any emotion as it examines the other boy. But not for long. As soon as Ariel pushes himself out of the boy's arms, his face contorts into rage. It seems the only emotion he knows.

Ariel throws himself at the door one last time, pulling the door open. Right as he hangs on the threshold, freedom within his grasp, the boy grabs his wrist. It burns.

"You haven't won yet. You're still mine." The boy spits, as though Ariel has already escaped. Where his fingers wrap around Ariel's wrist, the skin blackens and decays. It looks like the hand of a corpse. Of the corpse the ring had come from. Even once Ariel has escaped the boy's grip, the marks remain. "You're mine. Mine. MINE!"

The boy's screams follow Ariel as he slams the door behind him. Heavy thuds reverberate against the wood, as though the boy is throwing himself against the door.

Ariel stands in a larger sitting room for barely more than a few seconds. A boy kneels in the centre, trembling hands covered in blood. The boy. He looks up at Ariel with a surprised expression, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Though he looks the same as the other boy, there is something different about this one. Perhaps it's the blood covering him. Perhaps it's the guilt etched across his face. The brief flash of humanity that the other one lacked.

Ariel doesn't have much chance to consider this. Just as soon as he's stepped through, the entire room falls out from beneath him.

Ariel doesn't even realise he's lost consciousness until he's suddenly waking up. As soon as he's aware of his surroundings, he flings the ring off his finger. But, by now, it's clearly too late. That same decay has started spreading from where the ring had sat.

The ring, lying on the ground, whispers. Gloating. Its promise hangs heavy in the air. It'll only be a matter of time before it claims what now belongs to it — unless Ariel can somehow stop it first.