Ira knew he was dreaming as soon as he opened his eyes. The air was still, neither warm nor cool. He guessed he was sitting on the earth, but the dirt beneath his palms had no touch, no temperature, no structure to lean against. He pulled his arms to his chest and inspected his hands. The fingers were slender, pale, and tipped with flawlessly kept claws.

He was too scared to inspect the body further. He knew it wasn't his own, but only denial could keep away the feeling that overcame him each time he found himself stuck in another's skin. The sensation of being torn in half was impatiently hovering just beyond the doorway. And yet, there was a part of it, of this moment, that felt comfortably familiar. Just as there was another part that screamed to be released, as violently as a wild animal stuck in a steel trap.

Ira's mind was slipping away from him, melting into molasses. Begging to play the role. He had to hold on. He had to sink his teeth down until he tasted blood. Ira dug the beautiful nails into the soft flesh of the hands and pushed until the skin broke, but it didn't sting, and it didn't bleed--and it didn't stop the glue from consuming him.

"I am Ira Rule, Ira Rule, Ira Rule, Ira Rule," he chanted, whispering tightly from behind sharp white fangs, in the hope that it could keep him in control--but it was an entirely hopeless belief. As naive as a child thinking nightlights could chase out the monsters. The dreams were always stronger, and they always won.

His clenched fists slowly relaxed, and with it the last of his resistance melted away. He laid back on the hill, stretching out into the soft green grass. Where it licked up against his skin, he felt tickled. The breeze chilled his sun-warmed skin, carrying on it the soft scent of strawberries from the nearby fields. Bird song began to fill his ears, and his head.

All his fear disappeared--because they belonged to him, and this moment belonged to her. To the body he was falling quickly into. This peace, this contentment, the joy--it had happened. It had happened for her, and now it echoed inside of his too-crammed skull.

The stronger the emotion, the brighter the illusion. So he hated her. He hated her because she loved everything. She loved everything so deeply that even a boring day of laying on a hilltop had become strong as stone.

"Elsie, are you going to fall asleep?" Her voice was as comforting as the grass. The music of her soft laugh was as warm as cotton. It filled the summer air, stronger than the scent of strawberries.

Ira turned his head to look at the small girl perched beside him on the lawn. He had no recollection of when she'd come to sit beside him, only that he'd been lonely until she had. Her unruly hay yellow braids had been stuffed under her straw hat. It had been ripped only a few nights ago. The dog had chewed on it, but Papa fixed it.

Ira felt a sudden hot spike of panic in his gut. He couldn't know that. He didn't know that. The girl called Elsie, her memories were leaking into him, consuming him and all that he had once been. Soon, he would no longer exist at all.

He opened his mouth. He wanted to scream.

I am Ira Rule, "I am. . ."

Elsie blinked hard and sat up. Her sister leaned back at her sudden action.

"I am. . . waiting for someone, if you must know." Elsie laughed, and her little sister did, too. Her face was still soft, baby-round. Her cheeks turned coral pink at the thought of the boy. Because there was no one else Elsie could be waiting for if her sister was already at her side, and they both knew it. So, Ira knew it too.

"I am going to tell papa that you are seeing him." His--no, her sister protested.

She crossed her arms over her chest and puffed out her bottom lip in a childish display of mock displeasure. Elsie smiled softly and brushed her sister's soft yellow braids over her shoulder. She wasn't worried, nor concerned at all. Because she knew that in truth, her sister didn't hate the boy. She was only jealous that someone could take her away. And sometimes that fear was stronger than any amount of animosity.

"Fine, Marie. Tell papa." She teased. "I shall need to get his permission anyway if I am to marry him." Elsie tapped Marie's nose with her finger, causing Marie to turn an even brighter red.

Marie, yellow braids amiss and round cheeks flushed pink, pouted up her lips and sunk into quiet consideration of this declaration. While she ruminated, she watched the sky. So, Elsie did too. She admired the orange-red clouds spreading across the horizon. She recognized that as Marie's favorite color, and likely the reason she was so entranced. Elsie had gone to the furthest markets to find flowers half as bright for her, but nothing could match the sunset. If she could, she would buy her the sun itself.

"Do not stay out much longer." Marie warned, gathering up her skirts in her hands so she could climb to her feet. "I shall ask mama to teach me my stitches. Then you will have an hour more--but mama will eventually notice."

Elsie tipped back her head with a smile. She raised an eyebrow quizzically. "I thought you were going to tell on me to papa."

Marie scowled and shook her head. "I like him," she admitted shyly. "He brings me candies. You should marry him so that he always brings me new candies."

Elsie laughed. "Of course."

Marie smiled. It was far more stunning than the clouds. And then she was gone--slipping away down the hillside. It was in her departure that something came undone. A series of strings snapped, dropping the performing puppet onto the blunt stage floor far below.

The grass lost its' scratch, the birds quieted, the scent of strawberries ceased to flow in on the breeze. Ira came to, as if he'd been dropped in cold water. He clawed to the forefront of Elsie's mind just in time to watch the last of the sun lower over the hillside.

"I. . . I am. . ." Ira's tongue whimpered behind her teeth, moving as if it was ten pounds heavier. "I-"

"I have been waiting for you."

The body moved on those same invisible strings, rising from the ground to greet the man with a tight hug. His arms wrapped around her, carrying heat as scorching as open flame.

"Elsie," he whispered against her ear.

What little was left of Ira turned suddenly hot with anger instead. He wanted to scream, to kick, and to claw. He wanted to shout that it was not Elsie--that it was him.

Say my name. He wanted to demand.

Elsie's mouth remained her's to operate. It curled back into a smile, filling the air with radiance. Ira wanted to wake her up. He needed her to know that this was all his fault--their minds had been collided together in an agonizing explosion between the walls of time--and it was his fault!

Don't smile at him! He wished he could tell her. This is his fault!

Yet, when Ira reached for his hatred, he found it missing. His chest was full of electricity instead--because it was her chest, too. When Elsie pulled apart from their embrace, she took his face into her warm palms. Ira had tried to hurt those hands. He wanted to make them bleed. And now she held him so lovingly between her flawless claws.

"Monsieur Pangeran." She said it the same way a drowning man might greet the surface. As if she needed him. As if, without him, she was lost to the depths.

He raised an eyebrow over his oil-dark eyes and smirked at her with his blood red lips. "Do you prefer my surname, Manquer Allard? It has been a long time since you have spoken to me so formally."

She laughed and wrinkled up her nose. "Your name is strange." She teased, because it was easier than admitting she had been testing the sound of his name, imagining that it was her's, too. She did not want him to call her childish. Nor did she want to reveal her hand too soon.

He gasped playfully and slung his arms around her hips, pulling them together until their hearts touched. "I will change it then. What would my Manquer Allard prefer to call me?"

"No, I like it," she assured quickly. "I like you, Bezel."

Ira snapped upright so quickly his muscles strained against his bones, squeezing until nearly breaking. He was screaming, shredding his throat to pieces. Sweat poured down his skin. His hands stung where his nails had dug into his palms, cutting crescent moons into his pale flesh.

His screams sounded like cotton in his ears. He was still underwater--she was inside of him. He could still sense her in the corners of his waking mind. He wailed to drive her out. He screamed louder in defiance of her and of the memories she'd left inside of him. He wanted his voice to be the only thing remaining.

"-Ira, Ira," a familiar voice cut through the turmoil fogging his fragmented mind. Ira twisted, flinging out his hands to find the source of the comforting call. He rushed forward, rapidly coming into his own skin. "Ira, can you hear me?"

He gasped in deep shocks of air. He must have stopped breathing at some point--likely in favor of his own screams. His head was spinning. Tears cooled his hot cheeks and rolled down his raw throat. Ira blinked until his eyes began to clear. Until he could finally drink in the dimly lit night around him. His gaze swept the room until landing on the figure just a few inches from himself. The man was perched on the edge of Ira's bed, his hands firmly locked on the boy's shoulders.

"Father." Ira whimpered.

He wrapped his arms around the older man and pressed his face into his chest. The familiarity of his oud scented soap helped Ira come into his true surroundings. He was home, tucked safely into his bed. His desk still occupied the corner, covered in worksheets and half-written essays.

The bedroom was still perfumed by Father Pine's favorite incense. He would light the sticks once a day, the smell stuck better than glue in their small two bedroom apartment. Petrichor tickled at his nose, slowly masking the nauseous stink of strawberries and fresh grass.

"Ira, you're behaving like a little kid." Father Pine murmured, but his grip tightened in return, locking Ira into the hug before he could come further into his senses and push him away. "Did you see another memory? Tell me what you saw."

Ira flinched, driven by his own dislike. As if his anger was a venom that could contort his muscles. He didn't like that Father Pine called his nightmares memories, even if it was true. He didn't like talking about them either. And he didn't like that Father Pine was pretending to ask--because they both knew that he had. He saw the visions each and every single time his eyes fell shut.

He tensed up his shoulders and used them to break free of Father Pine's embrace. His mentor fell away frowning. His eyebrows knit together. "Was it important? If you need to testify we could seek immediate council with the Cardinal."

"No!" Ira insisted a little too strongly. He hadn't been to testify in front of the Cardinal since he was fourteen, when he'd been made to recount the events of an intimate scene to a gallery of frowning clergymen. He could still recall the sting of sweat dripping in his eyes as the Cardinal dragged his most embarrassing confessions from his mouth.

It had been uncomfortable to experience that moment in his sleep. It had been shameful to know he had really done it. Humiliating to realize with who. And mortifying to recount the details to the Cardinal as he glared down his nose in disgust.

It had been one of the worst moments of this lifetime, but it had served a purpose--Father Pine didn't take him back for another confession, and that was a small price to pay for this mock normalcy. "It was nothing, Father. She was just--"

"You." Father Pine interjected. "You were."

Ira's throat became suddenly dry, forcing him to swallow hard to knock the knot he'd formed there. A bitter hot spike pierced between his ribs. Ira would live as a conduit for a million lives lived, he would. He'd give over their secrets, their stories. All he wanted in return was one semi-semblance of a present self. It was cruel to deny him even this, yet how could he deny that punishment was meant to be unpleasant.

He couldn't risk forgetting that all this anguish was his own fault, he was all these lives lived, countless mistakes, pioneered by a sin so terrible that it angered the angels and had this weathered soul tied to an endless purgatory.

So, Ira choked back his sour expression and forced forward the words expected of him.

"I was with my. . ." with her sister.

It was harder to speak about her than it was to speak of his own past self. He couldn't deny the iron-hard ache blooming in his chest. He missed her, more than words could ever fully recount. This was another cruel jab. Ira had never in this life experienced family, he was an orphan raised by a mission-driven man. Yet he endured the loss of countless mothers, sisters, brothers, fathers. He decided then to keep Marie to himself. That afternoon lazing in the lawn had been sacred enough to Elsie to survive time, and it should remain between them.

But he had to say something. He understood his responsibility to retell all the memories he'd collected of the man. He paused momentarily to roll it over in his mind. Ira glanced up into Father Pine's curious cerulean gaze. He didn't want to see those eyes that held him so gently become full of repulsion.

Ira was too ashamed to speak of her actions like he'd been responsible. Not that it really mattered, everyone knew anyway. The incident five years ago had merely reiterated what everyone suspected. That he was a plaything to the devil. He'd made the same mistake in each life since--but he would not again.

Ira forced himself to say something to distract from the building silence. "He was calling himself Pangeran this time. It seems he returns to the same aliases every few decades. Like I said, it really didn't matter."

How many times had he stressed the mundane nature of this night terror now? But Father Pine would never accuse him of lying over something so crucial.

"No, I guess not." Father Pine exhaled sharply. "He's gone by many names over the eons."

Ira recognized that he had, too, and quickly banished the note. He should refrain from comparing himself to the being responsible for his damnation.

"It won't matter much what name is on the collar when you put down the dog." Father Pine scoffed bitterly. He might have been about to say more, but his azure eyes found Ira's face in the dark room, instantly dissolving his anger. He sighed and wrapped his arms around Ira's thin shoulders once more, dragging him into the soft scent of oud soap. "It's okay now, kid. I should have said that to you first."

The words filled Ira with something he had been denying: exhaustion. He slumped forward and returned the embrace with force. Ira was content to be held, even if it reduced him to a small child. He'd been scared, beneath all his venom, and now it leaked to the surface of his skin.

The dreams always took something human from him. No matter the content, he woke terrified. Or maybe he was always terrified. When his mind was a bear trap, he was the beast clawing at the flesh and bone of his own limbs to break free.

"I know. . . that it's the decision of the Cardinal," Ira whispered hesitantly. He was scared that once he made the words real they could be taken from him. He couldn't stand the idea of seeing the last of his hope withered. "but I think it's time."

Father Pine tensed. He held Ira suddenly stronger before slowly pulling away. He brought his hands up to cup Ira's cheek. "Be very careful what you say next. It can't be taken back."

"I know, Father." Ira agreed. "Once I ask--you have to bring my request to the Cardinal. I've not been thinking of this day lightly, but what choice do I have?"

Ira had suffered through years of painful testimony before a man that looked at him as if he were scum, and it was not nearly enough. He was getting no closer to clearing his slate. He was beginning to fear that this was all that was meant for him. Rotting alive.

"Kid, did someone say something to you?" Father Pine asked wearily. "You know that taking on a pilgrimage has to be your own choice."

Ira scrunched up his eyebrows in confusion. "Someone like who?"

Ira was not a complete stranger to the Progeny, even if he wished he was. Still, they didn't invite him to the birthday parties or company retreats. He'd lived a nearly solitary existence with Father Pine. They took small jobs tossed to them from the Cardinal, but not much else. Not that there was much else these days. Demonic activity had been limited in their era to a few Lesser Demons and a few rouge possessions.

And him--but that was far out of Ira's reach.

Father Pine ignored him. "Ira. . .I know you feel a responsibility to the Sect, or perhaps even to yourself, but how you feel now is how I feel every second of my life. I have something that is more important than my own life--I have a divine calling. I was pulled from my ordinary life to meet you. My only reason for being is to keep you safe."

Father Pine sighed and shook his head. "You are my responsibility, and my Deacon. If you ask me to take your request for pilgrimage to the Cardinal, he will return to you a task that could very well be the end."

Ira narrowed his ice blue eyes down into daggers. "What are you saying? Am I to never prove myself?"

"Prove yourself? Ira, you're one of the best Deacons to ever be called to the Progeny. No, you're seeking something else; redemption. And no man can give you that." Father Pine creased his eyebrows together in his own silent study. He mulled over his thoughts for many moments before finally speaking again.

"Believe me. The Cardinal will order something impossible. He'd sentence you to killing that monster with your bare hands and if you can not, which let's be clear--you can not, you will be stripped of title, acclaim, honor, and knowledge. You will be left as a husk in the streets."

"I've killed demons before." Ira bit back. He had killed He-Goats, and Ze'ev, but no one had ever truly faced a Greater Demon in their own flesh. No Greater Demon besides him had even walked the earth since the Demon-Born war, when the angels had sealed the Trammel between their worlds.

"No one has ever killed this demon before." Father Pine retorted.

"Is that why you've never let me send a petition? You think I can't do it?" Ira was strangely hurt by the realization.

"I know you can't! It's just not possible! Not without a Vestige, and in case you forgot, those are in dire supply." Father Pine's voice had lost it's mild nature, it shook with anger and cut with sarcasm that didn't suit him. "The vow we all take only allows for a pilgrimage to be given when asked for. It's the only thing keeping you safe right now. This desire to fix your reputation, it's not a good enough reason to invite chaos into your life."

"My life is already full of chaos!" Ira snapped, barely containing the burn of his words. "I'm being torn apart! I can't keep living all these hundreds of years, I'm exhausted. I don't know where this soul will go next time, this could be my only chance to finally end my purgatory."

Ira threw his hands up in the air, dispensing his anger into the air. This life Ira had found for himself had never been easy, but it had been brimming with blessings.

Angelic coincidences, such as a woman abandoning her newborn on the doorstep of a church--and it being the headquarters to the Sect of Saint Francis, a branch in a large organization of demon-killers. And this specific limb--it had been charged with slaying the Greater Demon that had led that baby to that cursed existence in the first place.

It had always been painfully ironic. Or maybe this was his miracle. Either way, it was a motion of divine intention to place him exactly where he needed to be to end his curse. The only obstacle in his way now was a worried man trying too hard to keep a temporary thing, such as Ira, alive when there was a greater purpose to this lifetime.

"The Sect of Saint Francis has existed nearly as long as this soul has, and they've served tirelessly for only one goal: the eradication of the Third Prince. I could be your hand, and you will not wield it, why? Fear? Guilt?" Ira snarled.

Father Pine was still. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and slumped his shoulders. Something had seemed to cave beneath a mountain of pressure.

"I often see you as a child I raised, kid. I forget how many years you've truly endured. You're wise beyond any Bishop. Maybe if you were not our hand, you could have been our head some day." Father Pine smiled and stroked a lock of Ira's bright yellow hair. "I can't always defend you from destiny. I'll. . . I will reach out to the Cardinal on your behalf."

Ira felt suddenly and childishly giddy but decided to hide it behind a delicately neutral nod. He thought it would not prove the case of his maturity to celebrate.

"Still," Ira met Father Pine's warm blue eyes. "I don't want you to feel hopeless if you can't. . . some things are just not possible by our mortal hands."

"These hands may be mortal, but I am not. I will find a way to send the Third Prince back to Hell. I promise." Ira watched his mentor's lips quirk into the corner of his mouth in a small sad smile and he wondered, not for the first time, what life would follow him next if he failed here and now. He wished the next body would protect these moments, keeping them close as Ira did for a pair of sisters laughing under the sun.

Father Pine sighed. "What if the price is just too high?"

"Higher than the price of inaction?" Ira scoffed. "If I do nothing, I'll stay stuck in this purgatory."

"You would do anything to secure your own future?" Father Pine asked. "Even if you had to steal someone else's?"

Ira blinked, his mind rolled over on itself. Robbing who of a future? The Third Prince--Him? He deserved nothing. Much less one more day beneath the sun. "I'll do what I have to."

They sat in silence for a moment until finally Father Pine nodded. "I pray you never regret those words, kid."

Ira held his breath.

"Okay." Father Pine murmured hesitantly. "I'll send notice to the Cardinal. For now get some sleep."

He nearly scoffed. If only that was possible. Father Pine stood from his slump on Ira's bed--and Ira wanted to ask him to stay, but he was already moving towards the hall. Every moment felt short to Ira, knowing that time would erode it to a few seconds in a twisted dream.

Father Pine paused by the door. His hand froze on the handle. "I'll . . . I'll leave it open a little. I'm just down the hall, kid." And then he was gone. Feeling much further than he really was.

Ira was left suddenly alone with a crushing wave of rapid thoughts. He leaned against the headboard and took in the drab ivory walls of his bedroom with an empty stare. He couldn't bring himself to lay down, or close his eyes.

He was scared of returning to a place where he wasn't himself and where he had no control. Ira was relieved for a moment from the possibility when the bedroom door creaked. Slipping in through the space Father Pine had left, sauntered in a tabby cat.

Her brown and white coat seemed luminescent beneath the city lights trickling in the window. She announced her arrival with a small chirp and leapt up into the blankets. Ira smiled and scratched her left ear.

"Oh, Peter." Ira laughed quietly. She purred in response. Peter rubbed her head against Ira's palm before curling at his feet. Ira watched the gentle rise and fall of her ribs as she began to settle into the soft mattress.

He'd seen a soft glimmering of hope just beyond the horizon, and it felt like watching the sun rise over the crest of a great mountain.

"I am Ira Rule." He whispered to no one but Peter. It never felt quite enough to just be a new name, not even a new body. Ira felt doomed to repeat the same mistakes. How could anything he did today matter when his soul had already done it a thousand times before.

He ached to be someone separate from it, and so he reminded himself of all the dreams he'd seen and all the things he'd counted. Things that made him Ira Rule.

"I hate dogs." His nose felt full of the stench of an old brown farm dog, one that liked to eat hats and lay on a grassy lawn with two girls.

"I don't like the piano." He thought of the way ghostly pale fingers danced over paper white keys, filling his ears with melodic cries.

"I love the color blue." He paused to watch the fall of Peter's side. He'd remembered adding this difference to his list, but now couldn't recall why. They were still dreams after all, and they dissolved at just the slightest touch.

"I love peanuts." He would have laughed at himself for how silly he sounded, but he rubbed at his throat, knowing how it felt to shut after accidentally eating a few of the nuts. It didn't feel funny after that.

Ira Rule felt his ears heat at the last count of his list. He was drowned in the plethora of dreams about a man who went by countless callings. Many of them indecent enough he would be forced to omit them all together in his testimonies to Father Pine.

"I hate him." It felt the most significant of his list because of all his many lives, the Third Prince of Hell was in each one, and Ira could always feel a sickly sweet scent of affection. "I'm going to kill him, I swear it."

Peter mewed softly, her olive green eyes glowed with echoes of moonlight. They found Ira's face in the dimness, and he knew that she was the witness of his vow.

1 | Ira Was Someone Else

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