Onjondad the Lich: Part Two (rough draft)

Lastly Cove never existed, or at least, it didn’t until a while ago. It was new and old all at once, lived in, overgrown, but wholly and impossibly new. You had grown up here all your life, you new every nook and corner of the world, but Lasty Cove was a final frontier.

“What are you thinking about?”

You looked up with surprise from the herb garden to see Onjondad watching over you. You smiled, sitting erect and shrugged. “A few things.” You then looked back down to the freshly upturned earth. “Just wondering what else I’ll need to finish this little project off.”

Onjon knelt down beside you. He looked out of place next to the fresh dirt all dressed nicely in his deep purple suit. He smoothed his long fingers over the ground, and the seeds you had just planted sprouted up new green through the earth.

You were amazed watching him work. He did it in such an effortless way, it was hard to believe such a thing could be impossible. “That feels like cheating.”

Onjon's soft smile was warm upon you. “Considering how long you worried over the tomato plants, I wanted to give you a break.” He leaned over, kissing you on the cheek.

“Wait! I’m all sweaty,” you giggled.

“I don’t mind. But since you are so sweaty, you should come inside and cool down.” He rose back up, graceful as could be. “You’ve been out here all day working on your day off.”

You sighed and stood, groaning from having been on your knees all that time. You grunted, pushing the heels of your palms into your lower back.

“When did you last move?” Onjon said with a disapproving frown.

You chuckled. “Oh gosh, when I went to get the wonder-grow I think.”

He looked you up and down with those cool, calculating eyes. He shook his head and led you inside his house.

“Honestly, you work too hard, even when you insist you’re doing things for fun.” He fussed at you. He pulled a chair out for you at the breakfast nook.

“I need to stand for a moment.” You took off your sunhat and fanned yourself for a second.

He sighed, going over to the fridge and pulling out a chilled pitcher. “You promised me you’d take it easy with this heat.”

“I know, I am.” You walked over to stand beside him. You watched him pour the iced tea into a cup then smiled up at him. “I wasn’t just thinking about the garden. I was thinking about you.”

A slight flush appeared on his sharp cheeks, and he glanced at you. “What an honor. What were you thinking about?”

You stepped closer to him, smelling the scent of dust and moss that always clung to him. Ever since you first met him he had been an enigma, but bit by bit you had unraveled several mysteries about Onjon. “It’s been a while since we first met. Since we first-” You trailed off with a giddy smile. “in all that time, I still don’t really know how you came to make Lastly Cove. of all the places int he world, why this place of nothing but farms?”

Onjon turned towards you, bracing one hand on the counter and the other clutched your waist. “I thought I told you, I wanted somewhere safe. Somewhere simple.”

“I know,” you murmured. “But why exactly?” You brushed your knuckle along his cheek then gently tucked his long hair behind his ear. “All powerful, magic skeleton man, surely you could have your pick of anywhere.”

Onjon sighed, looking a bit sad. He took your hand and kissed the center of yur palm. “I don’t want to depress you.”

“Onjon,” you said sternly. You cupped your hand around his face and made him look at you. “I want to know you. Not just the good things. I want you to feel like you can tell me everything. I want to be your safe and simple too.”

Onjon sighed and nodded gently. “I know. But it’s hard sometimes.” He place both his hands upon you and bowed his head, pressing his forehead against yours. “I came to Lastly Cove, hoping to find exactly what I did.” He looked back into your eyes. “Being what I am…having done things I am not proud of, all I wanted was a sign that I was here, that I was still around with this life, for a reason.” His hands moved up your waist to your arms. “And you are safe, but you’re not simple,” he smiled.

You placed a soft kiss upon his lips. “As much as I adore that response, that’s not the complete answer.”

“Yes well, it’s hard for me to remember exactly. Mind you, I’ve lived a long life, I’m technically dead.” Knocked against his skull. “All that changes a mind.” he then took hold of both your hands and held them tight. “You don’t know what your friendship meant to me. It had been so long since I had any company, let alone someone to talk to. In a way, you brought me back to life.” He kissed you again, then handed you the iced tea. “Go and rest for a moment. I’ll go and pick up whatever you need in town.”

“Are you sure? I can change really quick and go-”

Onjon placed his finger upon your lips. “Ah ah,” he scolded. “You rest. I’ll go. Just make me a list.” He pointed to the pad upon the fridge.

“If you say so,” you huffed. You made him the list, and he went on his way into town.

You sat in the kitchen for a minute, enjoying the view from the large bay window, but after a while, you stood up and walked through the narrow hallway into the foyer. You knew from experience the house wasn’t always the same. Sometimes rooms appeared and disappeared, hallways grew, ceilings shrank. You had wandered through this house many times, and had never seem it in the same state twice.

You went into the living room, wanting to take a seat when you saw a door just behind the piano. That was new, you thought to yourself.  You slowly approached it, seeing it was darkly stained wood and carved deeply. The color was so dark you couldn’t see the intricate detail of it until you were standing before it. The doorknob was a heavily used and worn brass knob. Figures were carved into the door, showing figures of men cowering to powerful creatures.

The doorknob clicked and turned on its own, opening up just enough so you could peer inside. You considered not looking, but this felt like an invitation. You peeked inside, seeing a dark room lit mostly by fluttering candles, whose flames cast moving shadows on the walls. The shadows danced and ducked behind the peeling wallpaper, appearing again on the other side of the room. An unlit fireplace held a massive cauldron which was illuminated from the inside. Something thick bubbled and groaned, sending thick, steamy fumes that giggled through the chimney.

“Are they filming Hocus Pocus Two here?” You murmured under your breath. You then laughed at your own joke and walked inside.

You stepped further in, hitting a stack of books that toppled over, hitting another stack, which hit another stack, which hit another like a domino effect. They coated the floor, along with papers that spilled out.

“That’s what I deserve,” you muttered. You knelt down to pick up what you could. You found the books were written in a language you didn’t know. It looked like nothing that existed, and the pages inside looked old and fragile.

“I hope I haven’t hurt anything,” you murmured as you continued to clean. As you stacked books back as best you could, you saw a painting upon the wall. Most of it was covered, but you could see a figure that looked like Onjon peeking from behind the fabric. The painting looked dusty, and the clothes looked old fashioned, very old fashioned. Onjon’s eyes peered out at you, stoney and cold.

“I shouldn’t be more nosy than I already have been,” you murmured to yourself. “But-” You lifted the fabric, if only to see Onjon a bit more.The fabric rotted, tearing as soon as it moved and dropping on top of you. It shredded even more as you struggled to remove it. You looked back up, seeing Onjon looking down upon you. But his expression was so cold, so far removed. His features weren’t as sharp and chiseled, in fact, he had a slightly doughy appearance that made him look so young. He was posed with a stack of books, and a flaming object you weren’t sure what it was. Then a cat walked through the painting to the other side.

You stared, wanting to jump from your skin, but you also remained still to make sure you weren’t seeing things. Onjon’s eyes then moved, following the cat. His eyes raised then rolled and he stood up from his seat.

“I’m exhausted, why must I sit here?” He asked.

You stared in disbelief until his eyes fell upon you. “Well?” He scoffed.

“It’s not like you’re going to be doing anything else,” a woman said. “You would be reading and sitting, how is that any different, dear brother?”

Onjon sat back down. “What do you know?” He sounded so sour, so bitter.

“I know you well enough,” the woman laughed. “More than you like to admit. Who else would?”

Onjon turned his head, glancing towards the window behind him. The sunshine began to fade, turning dark and stormy. Thunder boomed, rattling the frame. “People will eventually. The world will know of me and all my works,” he said. Lightning flashed so brightly it blinded you.

After rubbing your eyes for a moment, you looked back at the painting. It had changed drastically. The frame was crooked and the canvas was tearing along the corners. Onjon appeared in his other form, the ghostly one. He was laid over a stack of his books that were sinking into the mud while a house burned to ashes behind him. You could feel the flames on your face, as well as the dampness of rain. His books toppled and Onjon fell over, sobbing on the ground. He sounded like he was in pain wailing the way he was.

He rose up, boney and emaciated, his skin was taut, clinging to the bones, throbbing with thick, dark veins. He screamed in agony, sobbing into his books. Your heart broke seeing this, wondering if it was real.

“Don’t cry,” you whimpered. “Oh please, don’t cry.”

He looked up from the ground, his glowing eyes gazing at you. “Who goes there?” He rasped.

Could he hear you? You stepped closer to the painting and his eyes widened.

“I see someone there! Apparition? What are you?” He rose from the ground, clutching one of his books to his chest. “I know something is there! Are you from hell to fetch me?”

“No,” you replied softly. “I’m not…I’m-” You stepped and held your breath.before he was talking to a sister. He could be talking to someone else now.

“Hell is all I deserve! So what are you then? A lie? A figment?”

You weren’t sure.

“Answer me!” He wailed. “Don’t just speak and then vanish! Am I alone or am I haunted?”

“Perhaps both,” you murmured. You placed your hand upon the painting, feeling rain against your palm. “It hurts to see you in such pain.”

Onjon snarled and thunder echoed behind him, vibrating the frame. “Do you even know pain?” He whispered. “No one knows. They think they do but they don’t.”

Was this really your Onjon? It sounded like him, but you had never heard him like this before.

“Maybe not, but you don’t have to hurt this way,” you murmured. “There is hope for you. I promise.”

“Look at me!” he roared, his body illuminated by lightning. His skeleton, his shape, they were malformed and grotesque. “Where would I ever belong?” Thunder boomed closer, shaking the painting more.

You gazed upon him, heart overflowing. You didn’t know this Onjon, however long ago this one existed. But you wanted to know him, you wanted to understand where he was now, the man you were in love with. You reached out, feeling the coolness of his skin through the painting. Onjon flinched, recoiling and whimpering. How long had it been since he was last touched, you wondered.

“Where, specter?” Onjon cried. “Tell me what hope awaits me? Where would I ever find it?”

“The last place you’d look,” you said. Lightning flashed, blinding you yet again. When your eyes focused, the painting had gone back to normal.

“I know your magic, sweetie, but that was a bit too weird for me,” you said. You finished picking up the books and left the room in a hurry. You shut the door behind you and headed back towards the kitchen.

You sat down at the table again, looking at the condensation running down your glass. Was that all real? A vision? Was it the past or something else? You really couldn’t decide. With everything you had already seen on Lastly Cove, you wouldn’t be surprised. Onjon could summon storms, control plants, he seemed to do as he pleased. But that painting didn’t seem like something he would do.

When Onjon came home you went out and helped him unload what he had purchased, setting them on the porch so you could look them over.

“I think I got everything,” he said. “Did you have a good rest.”

“I think so.” You became lost in thought as you inspected the plants. You knew you’d have to quarantine them a couple of days before planting in the garden.

Onjon kissed the nape of your neck and put his arms around your waist, cutting off your train of thought. “What would you think about joining me for a nap?”

You turned your head back to him. “A nap? Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

He kissed you while your head was turned. “It’s what this old fool is calling it.” he took your hand, taking you inside. As you walked into the living room, he saw the big black door.

“Odd,” he murmured. “I’ve not seen that since-” He hesitated, looking back at you with a curious look.

You nodded. “I went in.”

“Oh,” he didn’t seem bothered. “What did you find?”

“Books, candles,” you shrugged. “A painting of you.”

His brow furrowed. “A painting? Of me?” He pointed at himself. He then strode towards the door. “I don’t recall ever having a portrait of me done-” He stopped completely when his hand touched the doorknob.

You placed your hand upon his shoulder and he opened the door then. Stepping inside he looked around the floor, his eyes glancing at the stacks of books and towards the fireplace. “So thats where it all went.” He knelt down on the ground to look at the books, then his head raised. He saw himself in that painting and he swallowed.

“That is you, right?” You asked.

“I was so young,” he whispered. He turned back towards you. “I think I was, I don't-” He cupped his hand around his mouth. “I can’t quite remember.”

You bit your lip then went to him, putting your hand upon his back. “Do you remember who painted it.”

“No,” he shook his head. “But maybe yes…I can’t-” He huffed. “I feel like…if I place myself-” He stood before the painting, staring hard at it. “It was a woman I believe.” he looked at you. “Yes. Yes! A young lady.” He smiled but it dropped just as fast. “She was someone I knew very well.”

“Like a sister?” You offered.

“A sister? No-” he stopped again. “There’s so much I’ve forgotten. Some of it I have wanted to.” He turned away from the painting.

You put your arms around him, holding him tight. He rested his cheek upon the top of your head, holding on fast to you.

“This was the last place I ever thought I would end up.” His arm then tightened as he said this. “The last place…” he recoiled a bit, a confused look upon his face. “Where have I heard that before?”

You took his hand into yours. “Maybe it was some sound advice from a long time ago.”

Onjon smiled sadly. “Maybe.” He looked back around the room, lacing his fingers with yours. “The house started with this room,” he told you. “It was all I had left. From here I built on, added more rooms, more halls.” His eyes grew soft with nostalgia. “These books and candles were my only companions for so long.”

You kissed the back of his hand and smiled at him. “Did you want to forget about it?”

Onjon shook his head. “No. I think the room itself wanted me to leave it. Because it never came back to me until now.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised you have a room that thinks for itself,” you giggled.

“I wouldn’t either.” He squeezed your hand again as the pages on the floor scattered and rose. They formed a bed there in the room, something that looked like they had done countless times in the past. Onjon sat you down upon this bed and touched your face. He smoothed his longer fingers along your cheek and through your hair, stalling for a moment as he gazed into your eyes. There was knowing there, a sweetness and warmth. You kissed him, pressing in close and breathing. He moaned softly, caressing you until you both fell back onto the bed.

“I’ve never shared this room with anyone before,” he murmured.

You took a quick glance around the room then whispered to him. “Do you think it minds, you know, if we…?”

Onjon grinned, kissing you lovingly. “I think this is what was supposed to happen.” He laid upon you, kissing you more and more.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, grabbing hold of his long beautiful hair. You moaned softly as his fingers made your clothes disappear, so all he touched was your warm, soft skin.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Onjon couldn’t help but laugh.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. You just bring it out in me I suppose.”

You brushed your hand along the side of his face, seeing the visage he placed upon himself fade away. He took on the gaunt, bony appearance, his true appearance, and his eyes became more tender.

“You really don’t mind me this way?” he said in a voice that could break a multitude of hearts.

“It’s you, how could I possibly not like you?” You pulled him closer, kissing him as his cold hands began to touch bare skin. He whimpered softly, he always did, and it was so sweet. You stroked your hands down his chest, feeling below so you could grasp him.

Onion let out a whimpering gasp as the storm outside began to rage. He gave you one last look, pitiful but alluring. He broke into a smile again, closing his eyes as you took hold of him. Stiff and long, his cock felt so nice against your palm.

“Careful,” he moaned.

“Careful?” You giggled. “What do you think I am going to do with it?” You began to stroke him as a pulse radiated from it. “Have I been nothing but gentle?”

“Always,” he whimpered. “I’m just not great at the uh…s-sexy talk.” He touched your face, smoothing back your hair. “All I can say is that you are beautiful, and I am lucky to have a vision like you near me, let alone sharing my bed.” He whimpered again, burying his face into the curve of your neck.

“You’re sexy enough,” you whispered. You then placed him at your folds so his tip began to press inside. “I want you now.”

He grunted with resolve, slipping his hand down to your lower back as he pressed himself inside. You whimpered softly, biting your lip as you felt him deep inside you. You gasped softly as he stilled and Onjon raised himself up above you. His eyes shined, flickering with the lightning outside.

“See? Sexy,” you moaned.

Onjon let out a breathless chuckle. He rolled his hips to grind himself inside you, his eyes watching every move you made, every nerve twitch, every vein pump with blood. His eyes saw everything, but even better he understood what it all meant.

He stroked his finger down your cheek, along your neck, then between your breasts. His cold hand grasped your chest then slid his hand back up and grasped around your neck. Your lashes fluttered and he moved deeply, thrusting his hips to match the pounding of your heart.

Gasping you threw your head back, pressing your neck firmer into his palm. Onjon moved faster, feeling your body responding more the rougher he grew. He snarled slightly, hitching himself up more angling until he struck that sweet spot inside.

You cried out and that was all the fuel he needed. He let go of your neck, grasping your legs and pulling them up over his bony shoulders. It was there you found elation, unable to keep your voice down, not that it really mattered. The storm outside crashed and raged, booming with an intensity has your body became wracked with pleasure.

Onjon slowed, he breathed, he lowered your legs and them himself. He fell upon you, moving slowly as the last bit of thunder growled in the distance. He kissed you, feeling faint and sloppy. He laid beside you, untangling yourselves until you moved to be on top of him. The veins running along his body shimmered and glowed with a pulse, fading as you rested.

“I keep thinking you would not have liked the old me,” he suddenly whispered.

You raised your eyes to see his thoughtful expression as he gazed up at the painting. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t think of myself as a good person. And when I was young I thought I knew everything.” He squeezed you close. “But I truly knew nothing.” He turned and looked at you with sorrowful eyes.

You kissed him, hoping to remove that look. “Do we ever when we’re kids?”

He chuckled, rolling over to look at you. “There are times I still feel like a child. That hurt from when I was young still feels raw.”

You knew that, you saw it int he painting.

“But I found peace, and in the very last place I’d ever look,” he chuckled as he rested. “That’s why I’m here.”

You smiled, closing your eyes as his fingers combed through your hair. “I know.”