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The crux between life and death, limbo as some refer to it, was painted as a grey canvas in many minds, devoid of character or distinction. It was supposedly an eternal sprawl of stagnation, the air coloured with a droning hum that eventually wiped away all trace of character from those who wandered its fields and knolls. Faces shed their distinctiveness and stories became distant echoes of what once had been, lost in both the minds of those who'd experienced them and of all who came afterwards.
As far as Eddie was concerned, that was a load of bullshit. Limbo, as he’d seen with his own eyes, was a little more imaginative than that. It catered to the desires of the recently-passed and the ones teetering between death and undeath, whether it be through illness or injury or age. For most, it was a re-creation of a place they held dear, populated with things they valued, a gentle sendoff into whatever lay beyond. It was a kindness from the Lady of Death, a boon towards all the creatures who walked the land and who would one day find themselves in her tender grasp, deposited in her halls to live out the rest of their eternity as they so choose.
Or at least, that was how it typically worked. He was, of course, involved with the destruction of the natural order, as some so unfondly referred to his livelihood. Necromancy. An apparently perverse violation of ‘the way it should be’, but he’d never been too concerned about what that supposedly was. How could he, when he rejuvenated blossoms that had long ago withered and breathed life into a nestling that had fallen to its doom from far above, body pink and sparsely feathered?
He’d nursed it back to health- his magic could only do so much, after all- and it’d stuck around, a stubborn barn owl that entertained herself by diving at him on occasion and leaving owl pellets on top of his sheets like he’d done something to personally offend her. He knew that she liked him in some capacity, of course. She didn’t ever stray too far, and some nights she’d perch on his arm and allow him to gently stroke her feathers, her claws digging into his arm ever so slightly.
He was, admittedly, a little bit lonely at times. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t shoo her away, nor did he any of the other creatures that made their way into his house from time to time, small, quivering little mice that scurried around until the owl got them, vibrant moths that were too curious for their own good. He’d made an exchange, not entirely of his own volition, freedom for solitude. Though it weighed on him on occasions, he was unwilling to give up the life he’d made for himself.
He knew after so many years of using his magic- how many it had been, he was unsure- he was changed. Could see it in how his canines and nails sharpened, how his hair grew thicker and he sometimes found a dark feather or two amongst the curly mass, the presence of which he was unable to explain, how some days he felt like fragmented pieces of a whole shoved together in one body.
"Magic has consequences," had been the first thing they’d told him at the mages’ academy, and he hadn’t paid the words much heed at the time. He was a scholarship student, plucked out of a life of tilling fields under a blistering sun alongside his uncle, who had always recognized the potential in him far more than he had himself. He had something to prove to his peers, who were comfortable in their wealthy and powerful lineages, incantations and potion recipes and summoning circles drilled into their heads since the time they’d been old enough to focus their gifts.
He’d spent many sleepless nights poring over ancient scrolls, putting words into practice, making himself into something more. He learned to speak to the forests and the rivers, to each little life that called this plane their home. There were measures in place at the academy to preserve all who entered its halls, to shield them from the harsher consequences of their experimentation. The professors could carry out their research without fear of being altered, without their humanity leached from them, and the students could hone their craft effectively without having to worry about their very souls rotting away.
He wondered sometimes, as sleep evaded him and he gazed at the ceiling, whether he would someday reach that breaking point, when he would cease to be himself. What then, would he do, when he was stripped of his personhood? What would come after he no longer walked this land and had retired to Death's halls? Or, conversely, would he tarry on ceaselessly like the liches he’d heard rumours of, selfishly guarding a phylactery to ensure his fortitude, despising the possibility of their own demise and limits? With each minor incantation, with each small patch of moss revived, he couldn’t stop the steady chant of ‘Is this it? Is this the end?’.
He’d been kicked out of the academy in his final year, when he’d brought back a cat from the dead. Wayne had died the summer before, and a ball of grief in his chest had become near-suffocating as he fought to untangle himself it. He wasn’t sure why this was something he’d thought would help. As tolerated as most types of magic were, necromancy was not one of them. He hadn’t truly thought it would work, hadn’t thought that the hum of power from himself would ring out like a perfectly-tuned lute, vibrating in his chest as it crescendoed. He’d seen a glimpse of someplace else when he’d spoken the final words of the ritual before he felt a sort of hook in him, dragging him back to the living world with the warmth of a presence behind his ribs.
It disappeared as the cat began to stir, the places where its flesh had decayed now mended and concealed behind newly-grown fur, and it had stretched languidly moments before the door to his room had been thrown open and he’d been dragged to the headmaster’s office and banished from the premises. He’d come across the house in his desperation for shelter, shocked the first morning when he’d woken up somewhere entirely different than he’d been the night before.
At first he had explored with wonder, hiking across landscapes that he’d never before had the chance to witness for himself. He’d gathered plants enthusiastically, made his living as a wandering healer, of sorts. He’d healed the deathly ill and mended bones, reveled in the gratitude and relief in the eyes of those he helped as he erased their ails. Occasionally, he restored someone to life. Then, slowly, the appeal began to fade, around the time when he began to notice the changes in his body and mind.
But he was wanted in more than one place by people who’d borne witness to the things he could do, so he kept himself tucked away out of sight as the seasons began to pass, the cycle flowing together in his head until he was no longer sure how long he’d been absent from the rest of the world. He no longer ventured to the little towns, not even when he heard the suggestion of music in the distance. His uncle had played the fiddle, had taught him in turn, and they used to play at the harvest festival with a band.
Sleep would always come for him eventually, and he would awaken with the same question at the forefront of his mind.
Is this it? Is this it? Is this it?
He’d heard the yelling and sounds of battle from a distance, and normally he wouldn’t dare approach their source, but today he was restless and desperate to walk around. After nightfall I'll go, he decided. Right now, it would be only too easy to wind up with his head separated from his body- though these days he was less inclined to protest such poor treatment.
He emerged from his home after dark, the metallic stench of blood sitting heavy on his tongue. Despite his reservations, he continued his journey across the moorland, the moon travelling its path across the sky as the moon spirit rode on wing’d beast.
The night was alive with insects and birds despite the devastation that he discovered. The earth was scorched in some places and churned up in others, grasses uprooted and clovers smashed beneath cleated boots. Red blossoms bloomed around the dead, a gift to humanity from the god of life long ago, when his beloved had been torn apart by the insatiable beast Beonbellinae.
His hearing and sense of smell were far sharper than they had been in his youth, which was the only reason he heard a faint, distant laugh. It was garbled, the maker of the sound perhaps on the brink of death, but it got his attention. He turned away from the carnage before him and stared in the direction of the sound consideringly.
He could turn and walk away, and he would bear no fault for whatever fate met the one who had made that sound. Despite his lack of culpability, though, he got the sense that he might have some regrets if he left now. His dreams would probably be haunted by the faceless dying soldier. Well, he assumed they were dying, as no other living person was to be seen here. He waded through the soft-tufted grass at a measured pace, eyes scanning the area for any signs of life. He knew that he could see far better in the dark than he ought to be able to- this was a newer development, one that had sent him spiralling with panic one day a few weeks before.
He found him eventually, a young man propped haphazardly against a boulder, his eyes boring into Eddie’s with oscillating levels of clarity as they considered each other. Crimson stained his punctured armour and his hands, painted his face in a few spots that a part of Eddie wished to wipe carefully away. The silvery sheen of a blade in his gut plugged what was doubtlessly a fatal wound, his hands carefully resting on the flesh near it.
In a small, hoarse voice, he asked if Eddie was there to kill him, and he knew he responded in some manner, felt his mouth move and his vocal cords vibrate. His mind, however, was far away from this conversation, already running over a list of everything he’d need to restore this man to vitality.
A few moments later the man was unconscious, and it was then that Eddie had to make his decision. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, hesitation lingering a moment more before he sprang into action. He knelt beside the man, slicing his thumb open on the same blade buried inside the man and began to draw rune after rune on his stomach surrounded the injury, a bit beyond where the blood had dried and coagulated in a last-ditch effort to keep him alive. Balance, he wrote with shaking fingers, feeling clumsy in an instance he wasn’t allowed to be, like his hands belonged to someone else entirely. Fortitude, stability, luck, mending.
The words he needed rose in his throat and he spoke them into the world, imbuing them with power from nature itself. Around them, the grass withered and blackened as he drew life from them, and he felt a piece of himself swept away alongside it, but he did not have time to mourn it now. The runes glowed blue and then turned inky black, and the man’s breathing became steadier. Only then could Eddie scoop him up in his arms, cautious not to dislodge or shift the blade that was keeping him alive.
He’d been strong as a boy, after countless years of hard labour, and had softened slightly during his time at the academy. Now, he had muscles that came from carting around buckets of water and lifting rocks and his heavy cauldron, and he was grateful for it as he took step after step towards his abode. By the time he’d kicked open the front door, he was practically wheezing, sweat pouring down his face from exertion.
He set the man carefully on his bed- any other available space that would have suited his purposes was by now far too cluttered- and dashed around his space. He collected bottles and herbs, haphazardly tossing them on the space beside the man, muttering feverishly to himself as he worked, tossing his cloak aside and tying his hair up as he went.
When he’d gathered all he needed he set to work, drawing sigils and coaxing potions past the man's lips. He slaughtered a hen and painted them both with blood, burned bundles of herbs and feathers, sacrificed beads of amber and small, glimmering pieces of diamond to whatever deity exchanged them for a fraction of their power. His voice carried, running from tongue to tongue without hesitation as he encouraged life back into the man, felt his heart stabilize beneath his fingers and his skin brighten from the greyish tint it had held.
Soon, it was time for him to draw the blade from his flesh. He grasped the handle and tamped down the flutter of fear that danced in his chest, withdrawing it smoothly from its sheath of muscle and organs. Despite his worries, new blood did not seep from the torn flesh, and with a relieved sigh he saw it begin to knit together once more. He smeared it with a balm and bandaged it carefully before he cleaned the man’s skin, wiping away the smeared substances painted across his body, trying to avoid scrubbing too vigorously.
More of himself slipped away, larger and larger pieces until he was frozen with the terror that this might've been the final push, that he would be no more after this. His fingertips blackened, not with necrosis but with something else entirely, and his nails lengthened into talons, his molars sharpening in his mouth. In his reflection, his eyes held an odd sheen to them and his ears were pointed and similarly darkened at the tips, mimicked by his toes. He felt unmoored and nauseated, and he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the fall.
Slowly, he sank back into himself, and startled when he heard a snore behind him. He laughed then, a hysterical thing, and ran an exhausted hand over his face. He’d really done it. Now the question was, how was this man going to take all of this?
Surprisingly well, it turned out. Steve- yes, apparently his name was Steve, of all things- was amicable and seemed rather cheerful about the circumstances. His hazel eyes were bright and he looked around Eddie’s home with poorly-concealed curiosity and wonder. The moles on his skin were painted across him like constellations, and on more than one occasion Eddie found himself tracing their path with his eyes and marvelling at the love and care the gods had put into him when they’d shaped him.
He was also endearingly stubborn, trying to wander around the place before his body could support such an endeavour, and Eddie had caught him on several occasions just as he was about to tip over and reopen his wounds. When he was younger, he might’ve considered him foolish, but Steve had a glint in his eye that quelled any such thoughts. He didn’t complain when Eddie slipped him bowl after bowl of a brew meant to keep his body functioning- he would need less with time, but for now it kept him from succumbing from blood loss while his body replenished its stock of the incredibly necessary fluid- and he seemed to delight in the owl that resided here with them, even going so far as to give her a name.
He came back one day from gathering honeysuckle for his potions to find Steve conversing with the owl, rambling to her about his life. Eddie eavesdropped as he plucked the tiny blossoms from their stems and ground them with his pestle into scraps. When he’d concluded his work, Steve had greeted him with an easy smile and continued his one-sided discussion with the bird.
When Steve was finally up and walking around without assistance, he knocked over countless pieces of pottery and would frustratedly apologise for the destruction, which Eddie would wave away. It was all replaceable, and he could seal the cracks magically if he wanted to.
He didn’t want to. Since he’d healed Steve, his worries had cycled through his mind louder and louder, stealing from him night after night of sleep. Potions never took much from him, so he stuck to those, though he was unable to banish his racing heart each time he performed the final steps of their creation. He felt at times that he himself was in a sort of limbo, hovering in the space between the familiar and the unknown. Wished that he could find Wayne and tuck himself into his arms as he’d done as a child, but he had no idea where his uncle had been buried and no desire to die. Wayne would probably turn him away if he could see him now, a shambling imitation of the boy that had once been his, lovingly called “Critter” when he’d emerge from the woods around their home covered in mud with pockets full of edible mushrooms.
He slept in front of the fireplace when he could sleep, unwilling to encroach upon Steve’s space while he was healing. One night, Steve seemed to have enough of this behaviour, and he patted the space beside him on the mattress.
“Look, my back hurts even looking at you curled up on the floor, will you just get up here?” he’d asked, scooting over to make room beside him. The bed wasn’t truly big enough for two people to sprawl out, so Eddie made himself as small as possible and left space between them. This earned him an exasperated eye roll before he was being yanked back into a solid chest, a pair of well-muscled arms twisting around his middle and trapping him in place.
“Trying to prevent me from running?” he joked, trying to tamp down a blush that was threatening to bloom across his face. He’d always had a soft spot for pretty boys, and Steve fit the bill with his meticulously-styled chestnut hair and well-sculpted features. An unfortunate facet of his solo stint was the lack of good conversational partners, and even now, after only knowing each other for about two weeks, he could feel his defenses beginning to crumble.
“Well, partially,” Steve admitted, his voice taking on a humorous edge of its own. “I was also wondering if this would cure you of your tendency to rant to yourself in the middle of the night.”
Mortified, Eddie drew a strand of hair over his mouth. He couldn’t really recall what a lot of his late night ramblings had been about, but it probably wasn’t anything particularly attractive or mystical. “Your complaints have been noted. I will try to reduce the frequency of my late-night musings.”
“Musings, he calls them,” Steve said, shifting behind him to get comfortable. Eddie shrugged helplessly and earned himself a laugh, which he supposed he deserved. Eventually, he heard Steve’s heart slow as sleep whisked him away, and he took slow deep breaths to try and induce the same in himself. Eventually, the lulling rhythm of snoring in his ear, the crackle of the fire, and the rustling of feathers overhead afforded him the same relief, and he awoke the next morning far later than he was used to. With the comforting warmth of another that blanketed him then, he couldn’t find it within himself to complain.
Steve had a love for new places that far surpassed how Eddie had felt even at the beginning of his tenure as a solitary wanderer. He cheerfully pointed out creatures that he’d never before laid eyes on, bounding through forest and across meadow with vigour. At night, he’d try to work out where they were based off of the constellations and some of the old maps that Eddie had lying around. He was lovely in the moonlight, eyes luminous in the weak silver light.
Every so often, the two of them would clamber onto the roof, an increasingly enjoyable endeavour as the world around them thawed and life emerged from where it had been tucked away during the frigid winter months. Steve liked to lay out a blanket from inside- one that an old dwarven woman had given Eddie in thanks after he’d revived her recently-drowned grandchild- one that was thick and soft, carefully crafted by skilled hands. They’d lay side-by-side, and Steve would point at celestial bodies, giving them names and putting together the pieces of a puzzle, grinning delightedly when he had an inkling of their current location. They tried to determine whether there was a pattern to the house’s movements, but quickly realised that it was completely random.
Eventually, Steve would get cold, his body trembling from prolonged exposure to the cold wind, which had not yet eased into lazy zephyrs of late spring and summer, and they’d climb down and head back inside. He’d been startled that first time they’d stargazed to find himself unaffected by the cold, another side effect he suspected came from the magic he’d poured into saving his companion.
When it was finally warm enough, the house whisked them away to the seaside, and Steve had plunged into the cold surf without hesitation, cutting through the water like he’d been born in it. Eddie had never been a big fan of the ocean, raised far from its enormous waves and the fathomless depths. He’d taken a few dips in it before, but retained his distaste nonetheless.
He also couldn’t forget the time that some angry villagers had caught him working his "evil magic" and thrown him off of a cliff, his feet bound together as he was tugged into the depths by a heavy stone. He’d freed himself quickly enough, the rope poorly tied, though he’d nearly drowned from exhaustion before he reached the safety of the shore. When he was a boy, Wayne had insisted he learned how to swim after a neighbour’s toddler had drowned, and he had, paddling in placid ponds and meandering rivers.
“The sea was too dangerous for us to swim in, back home,” Steve said later, as they watched the sun set. They nibbled on sandwiches and fruit that he’d retrieved from the house when the familiar ache of hunger began in his stomach. “It was cold enough to send you into shock and the waves bashed against the cliffs with such force that it would take little effort to kill a man.”
“Did you ever try?” Eddie asked, trying to picture tumultuous waters in his head, accompanied by splintering boats and screaming fishermen scrambling to grab onto bits of driftwood in the desperate battle for survival.
“Once I tried to sneak down to it,” Steve laughed drily, staring down at the sandwich in his hands. He glanced up and flashed Eddie a self-deprecating smile. “I was caught, though, and my parents were furious. I was given lots of unpleasant chores as punishment. Did a lot of swimming elsewhere, though.”
Eddie opened his mouth to reply, but his words turned into a furious shriek as one of the gulls that had been bothering him all day dove in and snatched food from his hands. He leapt to his feet and started chucking berries at the little monster, but soon it was far away. Beside him, Steve was laughing so hard that tears welled up in his eyes, and something in his chest softened at the sight.
“So, you’re telling me that you went to a fancy wizard school,” Steve said, shooting him a look of disbelief as they weaved down the narrow lane, stepping closer to avoid people trying to pass them. “But you refuse to do one little tiny trick? You sound like a liar. Plus, I can’t imagine you in one of those bathrobe uniforms.”
It was the harvest, and like many places across the land had, the town they were visiting was throwing their annual festival in celebration. Stalls lined the edges of the streets with mechants hawking their wares, some handing out free samples in efforts to convince festival goers to purchase more from them. Eddie had watched Steve wolf down a truly obscene amount of free samples in the last hour or two.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Stevie, but I did go to quote-unquote ‘wizard school’. I did wear a stupid little uniform that I hated. And I absolutely will not perform any paltry parlour tricks for you presently, nor will I in the near future,” Eddie responded, snatching a piece of candied apple offered at him from a well-muscled orc woman. He took a bite and stifled a moan. Fuck, that’s good.
“Why not?” Steve grumbled, making his fingers into a rectangle shape and holding it up to Eddie like he was a subject in a portrait, most likely trying to envision him in his stupid uniform. Cute. He allowed Eddie to tug him to the side while he bought two candied apples, handing one off to Steve before he even had to ask for one (because he knew that he would, recently the guy had been stealing bits of his food and he could not for the life of him figure out why).
“Personal reasons,” Eddie said, taking a large bite of his apple emphatically.
Suddenly, there was a wail from nearby, the crowd parting at the commotion. Steve's head snapped towards the sound immediately, hand shooting towards his belt on instinct, but there was no scabbard there. Soon, the source of the distressed sounds appeared, a woman with a child bundled in her arms, no older than eight or nine. Eddie’s heart sank when he saw the amount of blood pouring from his neck, and he waved her over, Steve close behind him.
“What happened?” he asked, gesturing for her to lay him down on the street, and the crowd made way for them, gathering around but not encroaching on their space. He could sense Steve behind him as he dug open one of his pouches. He’d brought some of his materials with him just in case anything happened, and his preparedness had paid off.
“Someone tried to rob me!” she cried, chest heaving as she tried to spit the words out. “My son got in front of me and they slashed his throat open!”
“How long has he been like this?” he asked, feeling for a pulse in the boy’s neck, his heart sinking when he couldn’t find it. Fuck. Around them, the crowd murmured and shifted.
“I-I don’t know,” the woman stammered, racking her brain. “Nobody’s been able to help and I-”
Steve knelt beside her and began to speak to her in a low tone, and Eddie took that as a sign to begin his work. He'd never been good at soothing people, and was grateful that he didn’t have to. Steve was good with people, from what he'd bore witness to from the populated places they'd been. Pretty and calm, speaking with great deliberation as he eased their panic with words alone.
Eddie withdrew some chalk from his bag- he didn’t have animal blood right now but it was a decent alternative in a pinch. He’d just have to give up a bit more of himself in exchange. He drew a sigil around the boy, the proper shape of it forming as he worked, his body the extension of some greater force, a tool in the hands of the Lady of Death.
He sliced a finger open with the dagger he kept tucked in his boot and whispered his magic over the boy, the familiar vibrations beginning in his chest and soon thrumming throughout his whole body, curls of light and power accompanying his words. He allowed his blood to drip down his hand before he pressed a bloodied palm to the boy’s head, and in an instant he was somewhere else entirely.
A warm room greeted him, with wooden walls and floors, thick rugs tossed haphazardly about and a wide bed situated carefully in the corner. Toys were scattered in one corner, and reading a picture book in a rocking chair before the hearth was a little boy. He glanced up at Eddie curiously, head tilted.
“Where am I? Who are you?” he asked, smoothing the pages of the book carefully before he shut it and set it aside. Eddie approached, glancing out one of the nearby windows. Outside, it was pouring, the glass of the window slightly fogged. As soon as he noticed this, he heard the sound of rain drumming on the roof.
“Between life and death, kid. I'm a wizard, of sorts,” Eddie said, sitting beside the chair slowly, not wanting to startle him. It was a well-loved chair, little nicks in the otherwise smooth wood here and there. “You got cut open pretty bad. But I can bring you back to your mom, if you want. She’s really worried about you.”
The thing about necromancy was that the deceased had to want to come back with you. They couldn’t be forced or coerced or bullied. They could be promised many things in limbo, but only a true desire to return to their bodies would bring them back. Some of his worst memories were trying to explain to the grieving family members of the deceased that their loved one didn’t want to return at all, happier in a place where they didn’t have to suffer.
The boy looked between the fire and Eddie consideringly, and Eddie offered him his hand, making no move to grab at him, simply waiting for him to make his choice. He’d already put his magic into this. Regardless of the outcome, he would have more pieces of himself chipped away.
“Can I sit here for a while?” he asked softly, and Eddie nodded and settled back. Time here passed differently than anywhere else, and he was in no hurry. It was kind of peaceful, if he was honest. It reminded him of when he would get sick as a boy, and Wayne would stay by his side and nurse him back to health. On rainy days, they’d cook stew, his uncle patiently walking him through each step and every so often adjusting his grip on the knife handle so that it didn’t slip and rid him of a finger or two. In the evenings, Wayne would read to him, constructing fantastical worlds that he would long to see for himself.
"I was scared," said the boy, glancing over at him, fingers ghosting over his throat. "I couldn't breathe and mother was screaming. It hurt a lot."
Swallowing heavily, Eddie nodded. "Well, regardless of what you choose, you're safe now."
Eventually, the boy took a deep breath in and stood, extending his hand towards Eddie. Eddie smiled at him reassuringly and grasped his hand, and the boy’s form dissolved into a shower of light, the familiar sensation of a soul tucking itself behind Eddie’s ribs to be carried away assuring him that the boy wanted to live. He stood slowly and glanced around, trying to figure out the escape route. If he had to guess, it was probably the little door adjacent to them, so he made his way over.
As soon as his fingers brushed the handle, it flew open in a burst, heavy winds buffeting against him before he was pulled outside, familiar tug bringing him back. He came to with a gasp, back on the street with the crowd surrounding him and the boy and his mother before him. The boy’s torn flesh smoothed back together, one cohesive, seamless piece at his throat once more, and he took a shuddering breath in and opened his eyes.
In the distance, he heard the rallying call of the guard, and he scrambled to his feet. The woman gave him a grateful look before he was being tugged back through the streets at a rapid pace, Steve pulling him along. He could feel himself shifting, changing, his mind partially untethered from his body as they fled, and he was unable to quash the fear that boiled now inside him, the nausea that threatened to empty his stomach of its contents. Tears gathered and blurred his vision, and he was thankful then that he had Steve, steadfast and kind, to pull him along.
They made it back to the cabin without any signs of pursuit. Perhaps the crowd had slowed the guards, or maybe they hadn’t been after them at all. Either way, he was glad to be back where he knew it to be safe, especially while his body and spirit were reshaping themselves. He felt as though he couldn’t breathe all of a sudden, a heaviness in his chest, and he was wrapped in Steve’s embrace as he did his utmost to soothe him. Gentle hands stroked through his hair and rubbed circles on his back, a low, reassuring voice imparting reassurances that went in one ear and out the other.
Gradually, he calmed, though he was still shivering- not from cold, never from cold, not anymore- and he drew away, marching over to where he knew there to be a mirror. Soft, dark feathers sprouted incrementally along the zygomatic region of his face and he could feel some on his chest, and the blackened skin of his fingers and toes spread further and hardened into scales, up to his knuckles now. Around him, scents sharpened and grew stronger and clearer, and foreign, animalistic desires whispered in his mind. He swiped at his tears, but more took their places as he shuddered and gasped for air.
He scowled as he met the eyes of his reflection. Staring back at him was a monster, bitter and angry and afraid. He could not banish the thought that the next time he used magic might be his last.
“So you lose a piece of yourself each time you use magic?” Steve asked, gently working some kind of oil into Eddie’s hair as he sat with his arms wrapped around his knees in a chair. It felt nice, and he felt calmer than he had earlier, something that was undoubtedly due to his companion’s proximity coupled with time to mull things over. “That doesn’t seem very fair.”
“It’s meant as a sort of balance,” Eddie said quietly, startling when something like a purr rumbled in his chest at Steve’s ministrations. That was definitely fucking new. “To make sure we mortals don’t take more than our share, or something along those lines. Some creatures don’t have these kinds of limits imposed on them because they’re inherently magical. It was repeated often at my ‘fancy wizard school’ because the consequences for using too much are pretty severe. I use too much magic, and I cease to exist, in a sense. Whatever makes me myself is chipped away and replaced with something else. It’s hard to know what exactly, but I suppose I’ll figure it out at some point.”
Steve’s hands paused as he absorbed the information. “Gods, that’s horrible. Is that why you didn’t want to do party tricks at the festival?”
“Partially,” Eddie admitted, then flashed him a small grin. He didn’t like to see Steve upset. “It was mostly because I wanted to irritate you.”
“Hardy har har,” Steve grumbled, and resumed his messing with Eddie’s hair, countenance slightly brighter. “Still, it doesn’t seem fair. From what I’ve seen you’ve mostly used your magic for altruistic purposes. When you were reviving that kid your eyes got all glowy and it was incredible to watch, if not a little terrifying.”
“Life isn’t fair,” Eddie said, because what else could he do? No use crying over spilled milk. The pieces of him that were gone weren’t coming back, and he had to focus on retaining what remained. Well, that and not haphazardly spilling his big gooey feelings for Steve. The intensity of the attention that he was giving him right now certainly wasn’t helping, instead it was stirring up warmth in his chest like disturbed silt on the bottom of a lake, a shadow of possessiveness curling through his mind even as he tried to banish it. “Now tell me Stevie, what is this shit you’re putting in my hair?”
“It’ll help decrease breakage of the individual strands of hair and make you smell better,” Steve said, a mischievous lilt to his voice as Eddie turned to scowl at him. “You do have nice hair, it could just use a little extra love.”
“You’re the one with the impressive coif on his head, so I suppose I’ll listen, even though you’re implying I smell bad,” Eddie said, narrowing his eyes in a glare. Steve capped the bottle of oil and set it aside before partitioning his hair and beginning to braid it.
“You do get awfully sweaty whenever we go anywhere,” Steve said thoughtfully, and yelped when Eddie swatted at him. “Watch the talons, man! You’re going to take someone’s eye out like that!”
“I should banish you from our bed!” Eddie cried dramatically, contorting in a way that had Steve swearing as he tried to maintain a grip on his hair. “Thou shalt sleep only in front of the fireplace, you knave! You may weep and gnash your teeth, but shall receive no mercy from I!”
“You’re so dramatic,” Steve groaned, but Eddie could tell it was an affectionate groan. He’d learned the distinction early on, from his uncle. “Now sit still so I can finish up. And, for what it’s worth, I’ll do my utmost to help you retain your humanity and remind you who you are if I need to. You’re probably one of my favourite people, Ed, and I won’t let bad things happen to you. I won’t let you lose yourself.”
Eddie wished he could hide behind one of his strands of hair at the sentiment, but that option was unavailable to him at the moment. Instead, he pressed his face into his knees and resisted the urge to do something embarrassing like scream or squeal. Steve’s words did more than fluster him, though. It soothed some of the anxiety that lived inside of him, and he exhaled slowly and allowed his eyes to slip shut as Steve carefully braided his hair.
Winter was upon them again before he knew it, and he reluctantly departed from the house each day, gathering what he needed while Steve tagged along. He was different these days, especially after the events of the harvest festival. He stuck closer to Eddie, and told him more intimate recollections of his childhood and his insecurities that stemmed from that. Eddie kind of wanted to hunt his parents down and strangle them, and he was pretty sure that that had nothing to do with the animal part of himself that he was beginning to adapt to.
He continued his trend of only making potions unless strictly necessary, though he’d had to assure Steve several times that it probably wouldn’t push him over the edge. The worries had been a lot quieter in his head as of late, and he no longer stayed awake terrified of his uncertain future, his fears quieted- at least temporarily- by Steve’s presence.
Things hadn’t really changed on the romantic feelings front either, he just felt consistent yearning that refused to shut up or go away. And if he did manage to banish it for a little while, it would eventually come roaring back full-force when Steve inevitably did or said something endearing or slightly bitchy. He wasn’t sure what to do with all these smitten, lovelorn thoughts that circled in his mind, so occasionally he went outside and snapped some sticks in half. It was incredibly therapeutic. Also, he was pretty sure Steve went into the woods to jerk off sometimes.
And then, one day, out of seemingly nowhere, Steve confessed his love, his eager, desperate face paling when he realised what he’d said. He had been staring more than usual, and leaning into him more, recently. Eddie could see the uncertainty in his face as he silently processed his words. Could see him wavering, ready to run if need be, and he couldn’t have that.
He dragged him inside and into a kiss that left them both breathless, mouths working against each other, fingers winding in hair as they pulled each other closer and closer, as if they were attempting to meld into one being. They rutted against each other, pants and gasps spilling from their lips as they chased their pleasure.
When they parted, Steve looked like a wreck, pupils blown wide and lips swollen, his cheeks stained pink with blush and his carefully-styled hair tousled and messy. Eddie wanted to keep him, to tuck him away in his chest forever. He also wanted to bite him, affectionately. But he didn’t know if Steve wanted to stay, had never given any indication of the longevity of their time together.
Later, they worked out the finer details of their relationship. What they each wanted and hoped for, the things they weren’t too keen on. It was strange, to express such mutual devotion and care in this way, for he was more familiar with showing his love through actions. He found that he didn't mind it too much. Steve rested his head on his chest as they talked, toying with the feathers there absently.
Eddie would splay himself open, offer Steve his beating heart from his chest if he wanted it, would give up the remaining pieces of himself without hesitation. Steve didn't want such a thing though, and perhaps thats why he loved him so dearly. He had other things to offer, whether that be food or affection or companionship.
Their conversations followed similar paths that they had before, but interspersed with new things. With whispered declarations and professions, with lips on his and a body eager to know his own. Steve fucked him with more gentleness than he could’ve anticipated, and he fucked Steve in return, their spend mixing as they imbibed from each other, licking cum and sweat and spit from each other's mouths.
Stay, he wanted to say each time, with each smile his way and brush of skin against his. With each snore and each lazy morning where they dawdled and huddled together in bed longer than they needed to. With each mole that he kissed, tracing the constellations into Steve’s skin and the blood that spilled into his mouth when his teeth pierced his skin, soothing an itch in his mind that he was used to now.
To keep Steve with him was a desire held by every part of him, human and inhuman, a unified whole where they knew they knew they had to be. What would be the point in experiencing all manner of miracles and beautiful things if he didn’t have the one he loved by his side? What would be the point of worrying about his humanity if there was nobody around to cherish it?
He did not want to return to what he was once, stuck in an endless display of fear and uncertainty. He did not want to wake up to an empty home, devoid of warmth and canaraderie. So he took his own leap of faith, and gathered his courage to ask the question that had almost leapt unbidden from between his lips on countless occasions.
It was an early spring morning, the birds outside the window singing their melodies when he whispered, “Stay?”
He knew of his answer immediately, could decipher it from the curve of Steve's mouth and the slope of his eyebrows. His eyes were soft, practically molten as he gazed back at him, twisting one of Eddie’s curls around his finger as he leaned in and softly pressed their lips together.
“I’d like that,” he said, and Eddie launched forward and put as much feeling as he could into the kiss, licking into his mouth eagerly, shivering when Steve’s tongue traces the shape of his sharp back teeth. They lose themselves in each other for a while, until eventually they need to get up and start the day- the owl will start loudly demanding to go outside if they’re not up soon anyhow.
Their routine is well-practiced and familiar, and they move around each other in a rehearsed dance, one honed over almost a year together. Eddie had to bite back a grin eavh time Steve playfully bumped his hip and slyly caught his eye afterward, looking all-too-pleased with himself. It’s the same that night, and then the next day, a comfortable routine that repeats over and over again, and Eddie can’t find it within himself to grow sick of it, even as months pass and then years, the two of them sinking into something warm and unerring, a continual decision to love each other and stay together despite the occasional challenges. They’ll grow together, invite friends into their home and build a family for themselves of their own design.
They'll visit places beyond imagination and return to familiarity soon afterwards, hand in hand.
One day, the house will stand empty, the lovers that made a place in its walls long gone. It will have moved one last time, and then it will never move again. It will stand empty, lost to the annals of time as it decays- as all things do.
But for now, at this moment in time, they will hold each other and be content in the knowledge that they love and are loved in return, unconcerned with the inevitabilities that are an intrinsic part of being human. They'll go see what the world has to offer them today, only looking back when the sun begins to set, and watch the sky transform above them as they return.