He had been spending less time in the bath and more time staring at the framed letter on the wall.  Which wall might you ask.  Every wall is the thing, every wall in his many homes, in whichever room Kronos should find himself.  It followed him by some kiss of magic like a shadow in its golden frame.  Never was it spoken of, but always was it there.  And since that fateful day in Hogsmeade, seeing off his son and letting himself be seen, Kronos had been often pacing in his room, pausing only to look, now at the gilded missive -- for it was written in some indecipherable code -- now in the long looking-glass at his brilliant, brimming reflection.

Now the framed letter dating back to 1936 was perched behind him on the wall, just beneath a giant sword, where he presently sat at the antique mahogany writing desk in his study.  His leg was drawn up on a victorian rosewood cabriole leg stool and his gaze was turned out the window.  Watching as a young man was led down the winding, narrow path toward the House of Skye, Kronos wetted his lips, and began to sing.

"I'll sing you one, oh, green grow the rushes oh, what is your one, oh?  One is one and all alone, and evermore shall be so, green grow the rushes, oh."  As he sang he sat still, naught moving but his mouth, and that only very subtly.  His words were sung low, ominous and strange.

The room he was in was rather dark compared to his usual surroundings; no artificial sun hung here.  It was lit only by several red candles and the window looking West, which was of leaded glass with four square red panels at the corners.  The room was made none the lighter by the black wood all around, nor by the early grey twilight peering in as the rain spat on the window panes.  Kronos's desk, alas, was held high above the rest of the room on a platform, so that he looked down upon his guest who was arriving.  He himself was, obviously, caparisoned in the finest clothes imaginable, wearing his pendants and rings and fine gem rosettes with a flourish.

"Two, two, the lily-white boys, all dress-ed in green, oh --"

A gentle knock at the door.  Dear Dreyfus.  A fragile, skittish, limber boy if ever there was one. 

"Come in," he said.  Dreyfus appeared with a bowed head but, chancing to look up to his master's face, his cheeks flamed scarlet just as a Sir escaped his lips.

"You may go Dreyfus.  Monroe?  Do sit.  Tell us a story."

The House of Skye was one location that Nero Donovan Monroe had not entered before.  He had done a bit of surveillance on it previous to this meeting, but that was just good business sense.  It wasn't so much that Nero anticipated an ambush of any sort.  The Master of the house likely had no such intent towards him, but that didn't mean that Kronos' enemies might not catch Nero in the crossfire.  It was always good to have a basic knowledge of possible escape routes, weaknesses in the "fortress", and various other such details.  Nero was in the business of taking life, but one had to remain alive in order to do that proficiently.

Kronos' song wafted down the hallways which led Kronos after Dreyfus.  Nero gazed about the room and seemed to pace it for a moment, familiarizing himself with its layout before easing his back against a wall.  His fierce blue eyes swarmed from weak points in the room such as doors and windows, before finally flashing over to Kronos himself.  Nero was clad in dark colors.  He wore a crimson scarf which obscured his nose, lips, and jawline.  The typical long, black, woolen trench coat lay over various shades of grey beneath.  His black boots were impeccably clean.  Nero always took great care to never leave much evidence of where he was coming or going...His hands were obscured in snug fitting, black gloves. 

"What story is it that you wish to hear, Mr.Malvivicus?"

Nero was already looking to Kronos as one of his superiors-an employer.  Nero's unique view of reality was twisted to the point that he believed those who hired him to perform contract killings were individuals sent to guide him on the path to restoring himself.  So much had been lost in those hazy blurs of his life before...

"I should like very much to tell you said story, once you enlighten me on its nature."

Nero sounded as if he were using code to speak.  The maddened mercenary was inquiring as to the nature of the services Kronos was asking of him.  It had been too long since he had killed.  It had been too long since he felt the power of the slain flowing through his own veins.  Too long since his mind had reeled with renewing life essences that were surely once his own.

"It is a story of stolen youth," cooed Kronos with a sad shrug.  "Of a man so struggling for his -- redemption."  He tilted his head, peering across the darkness of the room toward his mark.  He had knowledge of this man's curse, of his temperament, of his hunger for the kill, and he could deduce what that meant for him.  He had too many year's practice not to snuff it out and see that it could be used to his advantage.  Kronos jutted out his lips and traced the contours of his own face with a careful digit.

"I have need of your services, Nero Monroe; so many powerful people who's souls are your prizes,a dozen for the price of one, oh yes, you'll never have need while you're under my employ; I will take such good care of you, son.  Think of it.  What could be better karma sense than taking the rich and famous?  Witches and Wizards with great power about them?  But first I must ask, ask what your expertise is when it comes to the careful extraction of parts?"  He paused.  "Are you familiar with anatomy, Nero Monroe?  Are you in the business of bringing back little treasures for a grateful boss?  For I'll be needing whole parts firstly and mostly.  Some cases of which, son, well --" he chuckled.  "It could rather get messy!  But just think of those souls, boy.  You buy wholesale, get one hell of a discount!"

Kronos leaned back in his chair and shuffled some parchment before him on the desk.  "The story starts with a blood oath," he said more seriously.  "A man with a purpose vows to contribute to the young man's restoration... and the young man vows to bring home pieces of the talented marks on this little list.  Should you need room and board, or monetary help, or anything at all, that's a part of my commitment to you.  Yours to me is the collection of parts, and the discrete murders or rather -- collection of bounties for your own improvement."

Leaning back, Kronos looked to his guest's shadowy form at the far end of the room and, growing quiet, he waited for responses and reactions.  The young man seemed all but a shell.

Had Nero finally found his final employer?  Would Kronos Malvivicus be the man that would make his mind whole once more?  Nero could scarcely imagine the nirvana that would ensue once he was restored to his former glory. 

"This man has been lost for many long years, Mr.Malvivicus.  I can scarcely even recall his face or the sound of his voice now...It is distant and locked away from me.  His memories are blurred shadows locked away in a haze of death and blood.  Yet I have been brought to you for a reason...and if you are the one who can reunite me with this lost soul of mine...then I will indeed be forever in your debt."

Such a prospect seemed unimaginable and undeniable.  It would be the culmination of his lost years...This was everything he'd been seeking and grasping for.  His entire life hinged on there being truth behind Kronos' words.

"You have given me no reason to doubt your words as truth, Mr.Malvivicus...and I sincerely hope that you speak truth.  If you are my harbinger of salvation...then I shall be your reaper."

The shell waited to be filled again.  The shadow waited to take form.  The soul waited to take flight.