bellsofblueficlets

[bellsofblueficlets]

Choices Made, Chances Written

Time. Time. Time… It passed, it flowed, it served. His greatest tool, his greatest weapon, and the one thing too, that he couldn’t out weave, out think, out plan. Time moved at it’s own pace, to its own sway, and the rest of eternity was left to meet it’s rhythm, or be left behind.

The hound had a name now, he called it Barghest. UnDreamt had suggested the name, purportedly in jest, but didn’t seem displeased when it had stuck. The creature’s first loyalty was to its nightmare, as was such creature’s nature, and it stayed close whenever he allowed- but when UnDreamt extended a hand, it always answered. And he knew that UnDreamt would never admit how much this pleased him.

One more timeline, struck from his list. One more group of faces, of names, removed from his list. One more branch of his mage’s family, given to hellfire. He could have killed them any other numbers of ways, but he wanted them to feel the flames, wanted them to scream for mercy that never came, as the once mage had before…

This was the magic they had built their empire on, the magic they had used to raise up puppet kings, and cut down great kingdoms. They deserved to know it, intimately, in their last breaths…

Was he losing himself to that same magic? Maybe. Maybe one day the fire would take him, as it took so many before. If that day came, maybe he would regret. Once, he would have believed it. He didn’t anymore.

Time passed. It flowed. It served. But most of all, it changed…

He saw the tapestry everywhere now, saw Fate’s weavings behind every gesture, knew the shadows it might cast in every offered word. He guessed and second guessed and followed threads down a dozen different paths with every choice he made. Was this life? It seemed it was his. Constantly changing, writing and rewriting, constantly in flux-

Through every path though, one thing remained unchanged. One singular point, upon which he knew he would always be able to depend. And more and more, what that meant troubled him. The way his dusty looked at him never changed. Ready, devoted, his right hand, his trusted in all things. He didn’t know if there was anything at this point that could drive Soot from his side, and…

Sometimes he traveled down those threads of fate, that should. Just to see where they laid. Pressed things to the point of decision, to their furthest point that could still be withdrawn from, just to see. And every time, Soot stood beside him… right to the end. Even when that end was at his own hand.

Again, and again, and again. Even when he had the chance to stop him. He would die on his knees, blood on his lips, his gaze locked loyally on the demon’s… his blade in reach, his nightmare exposed for a blow, and he would just… die. Rather than lift his hand against him.

Further. Further. Khary traced the threads to bloody, horrible ends. A slow death. A butchering. A betrayal soul deep. Holding Soot’s soul in his hand, and-

This was the thread that fell from his fingers with a sudden, violent sense of nausea, sending him to his knees. UnDreamt had stared at him, a narrowed gaze, suspicious, as the nightmare was violently sick. His hound had whimpered, approaching slowly, and nuzzling him. Khary had lifted a hand, patting it, reassuring the creature, though the same reassurance was absent in him.

Soot… Soot waited for his master’s orders. His loyal dog, forever, and ever, to the end.

Khary stepped back from his threads after this. Tried to remember what the sky looked like. Tried to remember what color looked like, beyond this strange broken reality that was both his sanctum, and his living tomb.

Most of all, he tried to remember the moon. The stars. The night sky, that as a nightmare, bitty or otherwise, by all rights fell within his domain.

He needed to get out. But more than that… He needed to give his most loyal, his first sworn, something more than himself to live for. Because while he was willing to accept being damned, while he weighed the risk and the price, and found it one he was willing to pay… He feared what it would mean, If Soot followed his path all the way to it’s end.

His mage was dead. Reborn. Moved on. By necessity beyond his reach, forever and ever. Therefore, if he still loved anything anymore…

…It was the one he knew would share that path, forever. And the one who, above any other he might pull into his madness, might plow down before it, deserved better.

For days after this, he’d been silent. Withdrawing into himself. Soot had stayed near, refusing to leave him unless ordered, and he hadn’t been able to bear ordering him. Finally he’d left the clocktower, and left UnDreamt and Barghest waiting, uneasy, for their return.

For days they lay back to back, still and silent, alone in the Sketching.

Throughout all of this… the once mage was silent. Khary couldn’t even remember the last time they’d spoken. Had it been years? He thought it had…

Maybe they’d already fused. Maybe they were already one. Maybe he’d missed it.

At last, he fell into a fitful, feverish sleep. And when he woke? Soot remained beside him. Sitting up, slowly, for the longest time Khary just stared at his dusty, worn, exhausted, and resigned. And then he’d stood, and Soot stood with him, and they’d returned to the clocktower.

As though under some mutual, unspoken understanding, no one said anything about his breakdown, or following absence. No one asked any questions.

Then. UnDreamt was an empath too. Maybe he didn’t need to. But he felt the worry in the shattered, and saw the lingering glances. It wasn’t a day later that UnDreamt dragged a makeshift bed into the Sketching, told him in a mutter that he was a fucking idiot, and then stormed off again.

That night, for the first time in… How long had it been? Decades… He slept in a bed. Soot stayed close, the whole time. UnDreamt, maybe surprisingly, stayed close too, albeit on his own private couch- vacated by the hound, in favor of lying by it’s chosen master.

…Maybe he dreamed. If he did, he didn’t remember them.

In the weeks that followed, he slowly drew back into what had become his normal. Fell back into routine, even when it still felt like going through motions. But for now, he looked away from fate, choosing instead to look over the notes he’d gathered, and the things they’d done.

Maybe people weren’t meant to gaze so deeply into Fate’s threading. Maybe not knowing the many paths that could be taken, or what lay at their ends, was important sometimes. Necessary even. Part of being a person, being alive.

UnDreamt brought him food more often. Sometimes Soot brought back things clearly made by bitty hands, though he never said where they were from.

He didn’t need food or sleep to survive. Not really. But, it made a difference. It helped. And he remembered more and more, the final lesson that Rantrum had imparted to him. ‘Don’t repeat my mistake. Don’t do this alone…’

Soot knew his nightmare well, and had learned across decades to read his expressions and gestures, his intention and his need. He knew exactly what it meant when a brief flicker of annoyance crossed his nightmare’s face, knew the weariness in his movements as he stood, and the tight control in his voice when he said, “Stay.”

He stayed, of course, and offered not so much as a twitch as he waited in the shadows for his master’s return. His brother? Well, his brother didn’t obey, but he was used to that. He simply waited as the phantasmal skeleton wandered here and there, black streaked sockets all but lightless as he took in the meager surroundings, and as he did, laid out all he saw to Soot’s mind as well.

His Papyrus was many things, a second pair of eyes, a constant low murmur in the back of his mind, and a part of himself that he’d never understood how deeply he ached for the lacking of, until his brother was there to fill the silence in his mind.

Most of all, his Papyrus was his insanity, manifest. The violent impulses, the manic energy that gripped him from time to time, the self destructive nature, as well as the near constant urge to kill, destroy, and betray. It gave voice to all those urges, all those impulses, with a skeletal grin and an unsteady laugh…

A voice distinct from his own. At times, yes, it offered a jarring counterpoint to his own silent, inner dialogue, and yes, at times the urge to move, to strike, to kill, crept down his arm and into his fingers, his eyes narrowing, his breathing quickening-

That was when his nightmare would notice, and offer himself as a buffer against that need. Sometimes with a long and particularly violent sparring match, sometimes that meant giving him a mission, and giving him free rein, and sometimes that meant drawing off the worst of that urge, that need, and talking him through the rest with promises of suffering, of bloodshed, of screams…

Along with all of this? He called Soot his second, and his sworn. His lieutenant, and his right hand. And always, always, reminded him who he was. Papyrus was part of him. Papyrus was not him. And maybe, as a dusty, he’d always needed the distinction that offered.

Horror bitties had their cracks for a reason, his nightmare would remind him sometimes. Almost absently. Dust bitties had their Papyruses…

…and nightmares, had their dreams. This part, always unspoken, but Soot knew it just the same. He knew too, when the way his nightmare didn’t say it, changed. Saw the added glance towards ‘his’ dream, ever huffy and irritable, something he found there briefly gentling the nightmare’s eyelight.

And Soot? Soot understood. After all, his Papyrus had come late too.

When his nightmare returned, his lieutenant was exactly where he’d left him. Soot read the agitation that prickled at his corruption, not an actual shape, but a shifting in the dark tarry liquid somehow reminiscent of a bristling cat. His single eyelight was pure ice and fury, but he said nothing of why he’d been called away, looking past Soot, towards their target for the night.

After a three count, he looked away, his socket closing briefly. The fingers of one hand curled tightly into his palm as he weighed what to do next.

Finally, he turned back, giving his dusty a long look. The dust bitty waited. Whatever his nightmare decided, he would serve. It was the part of his existence without doubt, without qualm, without hesitation. He didn’t try to anticipate, he didn’t worry, he didn’t second guess, he just waited for his nightmare’s order.

Two long tentacles twitch. His claws twitch. He turns away. Soot waits.“Destroy the records.” Deep rage lie beneath his words, despite the control in his tone. “Destroy the equipment. See none of them leave. See everything burn.”

An extended silence follows, the small movements slowing, and for a moment, his gaze seems fixed at some point in the sky above. At least, if the sky could be seen from where he stood. Maybe all the more significant then, that the moon lays right where it would be if he were.

“Spill whatever blood and dust you need,” He finishes at last, his voice rough, bitter- but decided. “Tonight my magic is yours, and you, my will, manifest. See it done. But above all else-”

His nightmare turns enough for a glimpse of cyan, no more, no less than this, “See that what is mine, returns to me.”

…Soot understood. A small incline of his head, no more. It seems to satisfy his master, who grunts softly, muttering, “One hour, my dusty.” And then, he was gone.

To Soot’s eyes, his nightmare seems to rend apart at the seams as he vanishes, to be twisted by the wind into nothing at all. But there is deep certainty that he’ll return.

“My dusty…”

Maybe there were emotions that aligned with this. He gave them little thought. For him, it was simply a reaffirming, a reminder of his place in the multiverse, and his worth in the eyelight of his master. It was enough. It was everything.

In his mind, his brother shrieked silent glee, laughing and goading, promises of the satisfaction of yielding flesh, of gushing blood, and the exhilaration of splintering bone. His laughter filled Soot’s senses until he could feel it pounding in his chest, feel it pulsing in his fingertips.

He let it wash over him, looked up to the air vent grate some eight inches wise by four inches tall, nearly ten feet above, and silently promised his brother blood to come.

It was easy to tell that they’d used his nightmare’s own magic to ward and seal the place, but there was no point reflecting on the kind of thought process that led people to keep using locks that still actively bent to the locksmith’s command. It was his master’s magic, and therefore it was his to call on.

He knew how to move without even stirring a recognition of magic to magic- as it echoed in him, therefore he was part of it, therefore he wasn’t there, as there was nothing to recognize. Short cutting into the little vent was about as much effort as breathing, bypassing the grate, and leaving all the little alarms and traps that guarded it undisturbed.

He knew the way in, he knew the locks that guarded it- from here though, he’d be going in blind. His nightmare had never bothered with windows or grates before, his ‘Sketching’ as he called it, able to slip past without ever needing to take them into account, much less circumvent them.

This time though… he’d hesitated. Stared a long time at the building. Muttered about unfamiliar magic, strong magic, and spatial disruptions. And something… had made him unsure.

To his mind, this meant only one thing. Something here posed a danger to his nightmare. And that something needed to be destroyed.

The already silent cackling of his brother now grew more silent still. He was ready. Eager. All but vibrating. Soot could hear the sounds of life. No words being exchanged, but movements. Clicking, clacking, clinking. He reached the end of the vent, and peered out-

Usually, these things had cages, or cubicles, or binding sigils of some kind. They were businesslike, efficient, well orchestrated. People moved to and fro, talked, worked-

What he was looking at now, more than anything, was a room filled with people standing perfectly still. There was a wall of computers, there was a wall of tubes and piping and strangely colored liquids, but while he suspected many were magic, he felt no trace of any magic but his nightmare’s, and his own.

And in front of the computers, the scientists and workers stood completely still, silent, save for the scratching of pen on paper, and the near silent pressing of of computer keys. The sound of clinking, clacking, clanking, came from the tubes. From time to time, there was a sound, like a releasing of pressure.

He was no empath, nor had he ever attempted to draw on that part of his nightmare’s magic, but even to him, for all the emotions that may have been ‘scraped away’ when he was made, fear was one he knew, and one he recognized. And it was one he saw before him now. A held breath, a soft exhale, a tense stance, a twitched finger. An aborted attempt to reach out. A heavy swallow.

Soot watched, and felt a sense in the room like a great weight, almost like something being restrained by an enormous pressure, but even that was his nightmare’s magic, so he shrugged it off with ease. Maybe that was what had them so still, so afraid- Maybe not.

Clink. As he watches, fluid slowly crawls up one of the tubes. One of the scientists catches his breath. A glass vial slowly turns, the liquid within almost spilling out, but never succeeding. Each time it seems about to, it suddenly seems as though it never had been to begin with. Another scientist is so taunt, watching this, that he’s almost shaking.

It looked wrong, to Soot’s eyes. Like things half happening, then half happening differently, and then doing it again. Like everything and everyone in the room was just on the cusp of… something. And everyone was aware of it. And nobody knew how to take the next step. And he watches, waiting at first too… Then frowning, and instead, stepping forward, and shortcutting through this grate too, landing in a tucked away space behind-

But the folders he’d just been standing behind weren’t there. In fact they’d never been there at all. In fact they’d never been at all. He narrows his eyes, and shortcuts again, this time to a higher vantage point. He chooses on of the humans, a woman, with short, messy blond hair, and a clipboard in her hands. She’s writing. And writing. And writing. But what she’s writing flickers and shifts while he watches.

This was what his Nightmare had sensed. Soot’s gaze scanned the people in the room again, this time seeing them for what they were. Everyone in this lab was a prisoner. Some seemed to realize it, others just knew something was wrong. There was no telling how long they’d been trapped this way. There was no telling if the world outside even knew they still existed, or if, in the world outside, they still ever had.

He looked around again. As seconds passed to minutes, he picked out more and more things that changed, and changed again. But a few things? A few things never did. A single manila folder, tucked just to one side, next to a pile of others that flickered in and out of existence, changing form, shape, contents, and then vanishing altogether. A single screen readout that continued scrolling, rather than winding back, changing or repeating. A single vial of fluid, that while it never fully emptied, continued to pour its contents smoothly, without interruption.

Here and there, were a few others things as well. None though held his attention for long. None of them were important. Whatever was… He wasn’t seeing it.

His Papyrus shifted, narrowed his sockets, and began to dart back and forth with increasing urgency. Then stopped, gaze fixed. Soot instinctively turned, following his brother’s gaze-

One of the researchers was staring at him, confusion, disbelief, and fear in her eyes. A moment later, she was facing away, and she’d never seen him at all.

His Papyrus continued to stare, something like confusion itching at his mind.

Soot had seen enough. He had his orders, and one of these had been to meet his nightmare in an hour. And time here seemed like a fickle thing…

There’s no sound of warning, just a sharp black bone, driven deep. A researcher, sinking to their knees. He waited for them to rise again, for someone to raise alarm, for panic, and blaring sirens-

But they just laid there, dead. No one looked towards them. Silence continued.

It was… an execution. He mind, had no problem with that, once he understood how it worked. And Papyrus? Papyrus shrieked in silent joy, darting about the room is wide swathes to see the devastation from every angle. And when the last one fell, it wasn’t enough, and Soot was breathing fast, his pupils dilated, sweat beading his brow, gaze darting around as he looked for one more target, just one more-

No movement meets his eyelights. A shiver traced down his spine, a promise of something wrong, and an uneasy counterpoint to the rush of adrenaline that came hand in hand with killing, and LV, but nothing in his expression changes to betray the brief trickle of fear.

Reality shifts. Profoundly, completely. One is standing again. Two never fell. A fourth had never existed at all. The memories of what had always been overlapped with what, beneath that, he knew had actually been. But he killed them once, he can kill them again.

After four more times, killing them again, after they change in age, in number, and identity, only one remains. She looks… tired. Confused. Scared. Human. Her hands are trembling as she looks around, like she doesn’t know where she is.

His orders were to see that none of them leave. He doesn’t hesitate. A blaster skull appears, its jaws already around her. Sharp teeth snap closed. Her eye widens, briefly, as they meet in the middle, her middle. It lets go. She falls. She isn’t dead, but he fixes that quickly. Ruby liquid spreads across the floor.

Now there are two, ruby red in color. Not human, not monster. Just a wet ruby red, but standing there like they belong. One takes notes, the other asks questions in static.

Slowly, his hand lowers. He has his orders, but this isn’t working. What is he missing?

Destroy the records. Destroy the equipment. See everything burn. He summons the blaster again, not his, not strictly, but where his powers begin and end has long blurred. It’s close enough to his. There’s a familiar sound, a powering up of energy-

Gaster blasters were dangerous things, but it was easily to underestimate the damage they could so, when they belonged to bitty. His though? His dripped black tar. His breathed in blasts of raw energy, and in hellfire-

And as the demon’s magic rushed through the room, as desks and computers and papers and figures of liquid ruby red were vaporized, something else, made with that magic, cried out a thin, high wail of recognition, and fear. And Soot? Went briefly still, before reaching out with the demon’s magic, and searching for the source of the sound.

It was something that touched everything that had been made from his nightmare’s magic, after all. Him, his brother, the beast, the dream- He knew like he knew his own breath, his own magic.

Hellfire grew in a ring around them, but advanced no further. Something held it back. And it took that something almost everything it had to hold it back.

Then, with one final rush of effort, of magic, a conclusive force of magic erupted through the room, and the hellfire went out. Then, as he watched, reality, the deeper reality that he’d felt beneath the rest from the beginning, reemerged, and stabilized. Everything reverted to what it had been before he arrived, but this time, the scene he saw was very different.

It was almost like a glamour had fallen away. The researchers he’d seen, upon entering? Little but bones remained now of the humans, and these months old, and rat chewed. Not even dust remained of the monsters, if they’d ever been there at all. Soggy papers laid everywhere, damp files, moldy charts- the computers that had been humming and beeping and clacking away were dead, and silent.

And in the silence, Soot heard tired whimpering. It wasn’t hard to find the source. A containment tank that hadn’t been there before now stood at the very center of the room, filled with a bio-gel that had been intended to sustain and sedate the creature within in a suspended state.

Easily ten feet wide by seven feet tall- it held a single, tiny, babybones within, bare and fragile, and all appearances brand new, encased behind multiple protective barriers and behind what had once been an extensive defense system, like some weapon of mass destruction.

‘Subject X- 355,’ a plaque on it’s surface said. Nothing less, nothing more. Still, he could hear the seemingly brand new bitty whimper, despite being trapped deeply in sleep.

Whatever he was, it seemed he’d been having a nightmare. And made it everyone else’s too.

The containment tank was running on backup power ‘now,’ however long ‘now’ had been, but it was beginning to fade, and his magic had been all but exhausted. Whatever they’d created, whatever risk he posed, it would end soon. Soot watched through the glass as it tried to move, tried to open it’s sockets. Watched as the lights on the tank dimmed, flickered, and started to go out…

The walls of the container were made made from the type of material that could withstand a detonation at close range without collapsing. No less of course, for their newest dangerous little weapon. Resisting the sharp impact force of a blaster ramming it though, again, again, again, in the same place over and over- Well, that it wasn’t designed for.

Cracks spread, across the container’s surface, and across the blaster’s skull, spilled magic leaking from the injuries- But it was the container that gave way first.

The fluid within… didn’t rush, or gush, so much as it oozed out, slowly. Soot summoned his blaster back to him, climbing on top of it, and then commanded it back to the tank. One last nudge from the blaster’s muzzle brushed away the swaying veil of connected shards, and Soot climbed inside, wading, trudging, and sometimes swimming through the thick liquid to reach the child still out of reach, and beginning to grow still.

The dangerous bitty’s hand’s closed about the infant’s waist, and pulled him into the air, where his ribcage swelled as the infant gasped his first real breath-

Here is where most babies would have cried. He’d been crying, only moments before. But as the killer, the murderer, the assassin, the living weapon, like him, slogged through the gel, struggling not to loose him footing, or drop the tiny little babybones, all it did was open it’s sockets, and look up at him.

Such a strange, glowing purple…

It watched him as he carried the baby to safely, it watched him as he removed what remained of his scarf and tried to wipe the child clean, or as clean as he could, and it watched him as he looked back the way he came, before shortcutting back into the vent, and began the trek back along it’s length towards the outside. It watched him as, exhausted himself, he summoned his blaster one more time, and climbed on top of it, letting it carry them both back towards where he was to meet his nightmare-

Then it closed, and the infant fell into sleep. And with a rush of fury and heat, the hellfire returned-

No records would survive. No equipment would survive. Everything would burn. It was just as his nightmare had ordered-

Except, maybe. That someone had left, alive-

Soot hops down to the grass, and waits for his nightmare. It doesn’t take long. Khary looks first surprised, then concerned, but offers no protest as he steps into the Sketching.

“…What’s his name?” The Nightmare asks, quietly, gently taking the child to look over.

The dusty thinks. Then signs, simply-

“Excess.”

[bellsofblueficlets]

Met For The First Time, Again

The place lying before them could have been any of a hundred different labs they’d set their hunts in, they’d seen so many by now.

The main differences to Khary’s eyelight were twofold, the equipment used- and the smell. For all their claim to being laboratories, many had in fact been little more than death pits, places to be ‘born,’ and then to die, by means of quick hands, and sharp needles. Sure, they kept their instruments clean, but that was the limit of it. They wanted to be certain their final product wasn’t contaminated, after all.

This place though? It smelled chemical. Almost sterile. But bleach, alcohol, and strong soaps did little to cover the scent of dust, and death, or spilled magic. If anything, something about it felt worse, as though they genuinely thought they could just wash away what they’d done, leaving the smell of a hospital and the overpowering scent of death, commingling as one.

Beside the demon, his shattered dream bristled, every feather on edge as he shuffled in agitation, talons twitching with an eagerness to sink into something. Into someone. Sitting around and waiting wasn’t his speed, and it had taken a lesson hard earned to convince him that waiting for the right moment gave them a better chance- especially when it meant sitting back, and watching, as-

The bitty howled, snarled, struggled and screamed. Even heavily drugged, it did it’s damnedest to struggle as it was half dragged, half lifted into place, and pinned down its paws were fastened into restraints. The fitted muzzle clamped tightly around its face left it only able to part it’s jaws far enough to snap them shut again, and this it did, over and over, throwing its head back and forth, its jaws frantically and uselessly, in desperation and fury.

And oh, it screamed-

“…Improvement over the recovery speed of previous subjects. Promising.” Her eyes were cold, without mercy, gray, and lacking the telltale spark of magic that Rantrum’s family carried. But very clearly she was the one in change. “But not nearly enough. If we don’t come up with better results soon-”

“…Let’s see if we can push it’s regenerative abilities even further.”

“She’s meat for your talons,” Khary promised him, quiet, but shaking with anger. He felt sick. He stayed his ground, his fists clenched tight, trembling, but he forced himself to watch. He always forced himself to watch.

The bitty on the table was as good as dead. Every thread of fate led to it’s end, there was no saving the creature from that. The pain of what followed, yes, they could have spared it that, but not without the cost of leaving others behind. Not without leaving still living behind. Some, they would never have a second chance to free- And some abusers, would escape to do this again-

It didn’t make watching any easier. But this one… This one would suffer. So that the others could be free. So that their abusers would die There was no other way.

The hardest part of the power he’d claimed from Rantrum, was knowing that some fates couldn’t be changed…

…There. His eyelight flashed darkly, his socket narrowing as a low alarm began blaring. The creature was still struggling, but more weakly now. It’s vitals were failing, fast. The woman cursed, and turned away. Ten long strides to the fridge-

“Now,” Khary mutters, standing. There was no mercy left in his eyelight either.

UnDreamt bared his teeth, and launched into the air. There was a moment of disorientation, confusion. People looked up at the sound of powerful wigs snapping at the air. The head scientist spun around, just in time to see his talons for all of an instant-

She never saw anything again. Screaming, falling to the floor, clutching her face.

Two of the other scientists ran towards her, one drawing the tranq gun from his belt. Neither heard the tiny click of the first cage, swung open- but the scrabble of claws on the floor? That they heard.

A raised arm. A shot fired. Screams. Another click. Another. Soot could move very, very quickly when he had incentive. Soon half a dozen of the massive bitty beasts were loose-

Khary had been busy too. He’d learned the commands to enter, and while everyone else was busy, well-

Alarm Systems > Command Override Accepted > Disable Emergency Auto Relay.

Facility Exits > Command Override Accepted > Engage Locks.

Exam Table > Command Override Accepted > Release Restraints.

Enclosure Doors > Command Override Accepted > Release Locks.

System Lockout > Initiated.

Shutdown > Initiated.

…

System Shutting Down.

The lights went out. A captive tumbled from a table, hitting hard, but turned, and limped towards its abuser with the last of its strength. UnDreamt gave way, watching with cold, empty eyelights, but it had little mind for him. Strong jaws closed around a soft throat. Sharp teeth dripped with blood…

He hoped she had enough awareness left to understand what was happening. She struggled, certainly. An elbow hit it’s rib-cage, and it whimpered, but only shifted it’s stance, and clenched its jaws more stubbornly. And beneath the cacophony of screams, of pleas and pain, of shots fired without finding a target, her struggles went still without a sound. Only then did it breathe its slow, shallow last, and crumble, as dust, across its fallen tormentor.

Maybe proof of revenge shouldn’t be something precious enough to scatter dust over. But in this case? It was the creature’s choice. And that made it enough.

Once the last scream was stilled, it was… quiet, somehow. No alarms, no voices. Just the sound of rending flesh, and snapping bones.

Soot’s expression was unchanged, savagery, coldness, indifference. Despite this, Khary could feel the sense of… almost satiety.

It was hard to explain the dusty’s emotions. Too much had been taken from him, and what remained, what had even stirred anew once the repressive negativity of the nightmare magic imposed on him had been removed, weren’t emotions even his nightmare could easily put words to.

He felt no regrets, no joy, no grief, no uncertainty. There was anger, burning in his soul, as he watched their remains torn apart. As far as ‘positive emotions’ went? He’d perfectly enacted the task given to him by his nightmare, The people intended to die, the people he wanted to die, were now dead. That was enough.

UnDreamt on the other hand? Looked sick. He could feel the fury, rage, grief and disgust as it rolled from the shattered bitty in waves. He knew that UnDreamt wanted to snap at him, to say they could have saved the beast type bitty, to say they should have tried-

But lessons, hard earned, had scarred deep. Angry words, reckless actions- and cracks in bone, that healed with blacked gold.

When Khary said there was nothing they could do, UnDreamt believed him now. There was nothing they could do. It was something he hated the nightmare for though, white hot hate… as long as it lasted.

“…Now what?” The words sounded hoarse. Hollow.

Khary was already turning his gaze across the creatures, looking for an answer. They’d been made to kill and die. Large, terrible beasts of war. They were still works in progress. Some would get a few years before their magic began to break down, other a few weeks. Still others though? Would endure…

One looks up, and meets his gaze, and his attention is briefly distracted. Beast type bitty, yes. But these weren’t animals. It was impossible not to see it, in the intensity and intelligence in their gaze. Beasts, but not animals, and what was more, it was impossible not to recognize the horror bitty looking back at him. Beast or otherwise, even lacking the damage to their skulls that was often synonymous with the bitty type, there was little questions what type had been drawn from to make them.

…Bitty weren’t people to those who ran places like this. The things that made them who they are, the qualities innate to their being, existed to be exploited, or to be ‘fixed.’ How much more magically efficient these scientists had made them, ‘fixing’ that inherent ‘flaw…’

Regardless of how the original had gained his injury, the same excess of magic that made horror bitty so ideal for their project, was something that their smaller bodies were used to having an escape point for. The ‘flaw’ they’d removed was the same one that kept horror bitties from building up more magic than they could safely contain, and some would almost certainly die for having it ‘fixed,’ but most had too scattered and uncertain possible futures to know for sure.

…But none of this answered UnDreamt’s question. Now what?

“We give them a chance at life and freedom,” Khary mutters, “And fate drives them a thousand ways from there. But you remember that primeval timeline from a few weeks ago?” UnDreamt frowns, and nods, as Khary continues watching the pack feast on their spoils, letting them eat their fill, “…I think they could survive there well, don’t you?”

Quietly, UnDreamt considers the macabre feast before them, and most of all, the dust laying atop the one corpse the beast bitty refused to touch. The primeval world was… dangerous, to put it lightly. But so were they. The few biggie they’d seen had barely mastered fire, much less cages…

Much less, anything like this.

Khary takes this as acceptance, turning back to the computer. “Good. Since I’m not interested in interrupting a pack of horror bitty while they’re eating though,” He turns, and using his tentacles to help compensate for his small size, making accessing the wide keyboard a bit easier, he types in quick commands, opening several very promising files. “We’ll start moving them after they’re done.”

“Right now?” Hellish icy depths burned in the nightmare bitty’s sole remaining eyelight, as he gazed up at faces that had only grown more familiar with time, “I have some family history to catch up on…”

Khary found himself considering UnDreamt as he sat, half reclined against a beam in the rafters, the area clearly marked as his own through stolen books and assorted soft things. His large hand cradled one of these latter even now, fit almost perfectly to it, an otherwise featureless cover decorated with delicate strands of golden ivy.

Beside him, much too far from the floor for such a creature, rested one of the beasts they’d claimed after their most recent lab raid. One of the most resistant to being coaxed into the Sketching, the necessary pathway to a new home, none of them had been prepared when, on finally entering the non-space, the creature had promptly climbed onto UnDreamt’s couch, much to the bird bitty’s annoyance, and then simply refused to leave.

At first it had been mildly amusing when UnDreamt was displaced from his favored roost, then puzzling when, on arriving at the designated timeline, the creature had simply opened a single socket to watch the others leave, before yawning, stretching, rolling over, and going back to sleep. Khary had, bemused, gone back to fetch a few more, letting it rest, yet on reaching the timeline again, it hadn’t so much as watched it’s fellows leave.

By the last trip, it was clear they now had a fourth. This annoyed UnDreamt to no end, as it often competed with him for his favorite seat- yet often it lay close to him, high in the rafters, and even as he watched, the dream’s hand lifted absently, as of it’s own accord, and sought the creature’s bony skull…

Soot, of course, could be predictably found crouched on a rafter directly opposite both. Khary’s sworn openly watched both dream and beast, as he often did, a murderous look burning coldly within mismatched eyelights. He flipped one of his many, many knives between his fingers, smoothly, easily, never looking away from either.

It would be easy, mistaking the motivation there for hate, easy to assume he waited for a sign of weakness, for an opportunity to kill. But the extent of UnDreamt’s reaction is to look up briefly once in a while, mild annoyance in his expression as he meets the dusty’s gaze, before going back to reading. UnDreamt after all, was an empath too. He understood, even if it annoyed him.

To Soot, UnDreamt was part of his nightmare’s world, his inner circle, so he stood at ready, to defend, or to strike down, either as his nightmare might command- and the beast? No more, no less than the same. He’d even lifted his blade in defense of the dream before, much to UnDreamt’s endless annoyance.

It was loyalty to the demon that kept his there, not a desire to kill. Though he wouldn’t have hesitated, at Khary’s command-

…The fact that both his favored pact rested in plain sight meant that when Khary felt the small summons, the first in some weeks that he’d received from the horror bitty, he knew immediately who was calling on his contract. Brief annoyance flit across his features, but he rose just the same.

“Our would be crime lord beckons,” He mutters, offering no more before leaving the three to their own devices. They could be trusted to that… probably…

Either way, he didn’t have time to linger. In instants, the vision of their makeshift lair was lost to him, along with the brief illusion that there was anything to his world beyond the Sketching, beyond his prison.

The furniture was gone when he landed, UnDreamt’s cushioned chair, his own desk, the needless little light atop it, his cabinets- After all, he was playing a part just then, and Velvet didn’t need to know what lay beyond the curtain.

A now familiar sight swirled into place, smoky and shapeless before finally taking form, as though it were the world without that was so inconsistent and unformed, and not his prison, and him. The little dusty, Rat, was- chewing, on- well, not something, exactly.

Irritation swelled in his chest, but he ignored the sight, and screams, and cracking of bone, focusing on the two before him. Weasel, the horror’s own right hand, even as Soot was his, that oh so familiar look of madness watching him now, different and the same all at once.

Weasel was… he lived for the hunt. He thrived on screams. The only time he’d ever seen the dusty’s sharp edged grin, was when he’d been given a name, and been told to make a nice big mess for everyone to see. He delighted in cruelty, in killing, in a way that Khary couldn’t imagine ever feeling radiate from his own dusty-

…and Rat? …Rat. That one… That one bewildered even him, a fact that had amused the once mage endlessly, in the beginning.

The demon is silent as he faces Velvet, an ice in his aqua eyelight that he reserves for very few.

Once Velvet would have smirked, would have purred, drawn out that smooth, practiced voice, playing the part of confidence, of amused certainty-

There were reasons that Velvet didn’t call on him as often as he had in the beginning though. These days, he bara horror preferred to avoid summoning the demon. That he did so now, and that Khary was certain he saw an underlying agitation… curious.

He was almost tempted to draw Velvet into the Sketching, so he could feel it for himself…

In truth, he was tempted to do many things. But a binding was a binding, as the mageling had warned him. Yet both had agreed it was their best chance at freedom… Or, had, once. These days, his soul bonded was silent…

Khary’s eyelight is cold death, ice and hate, and hellfire that simmers just beneath the surface, burning in brilliant aqua. Drawing his hand across his chest, he bows, a small, mocking motion, that both bitties recognize for what it is. He never takes his eyelight from Velvet, letting him feel the full icy heat of it. “To what,” His deep gravel offers, a silken butter that he’s only taken up of late, and a blatant mockery of Velvet’s own smooth tones, “Do I owe the unexpected return of your attention?”

Unexpected. No, he knew Velvet would always reach for that cheating advantage, sooner or later. The calls might come fewer and further between these days, but he would continue to abide by his contract until the last favor was called, no matter how long Velvet tried to drag out their deal.

After all, time had never been Khary’s enemy.

A humorless flitting smile ghosts across Velvet’s expression. “I’m sure you’ve noticed my little science sans by now.” The drawl is slow, quiet, calculated, watching Khary for response. The demon gives none. “A few encouraging words, some bits of scavenged trash,” A slow shrug, deliberately casual, callous, “And I’ve got what no one else here does.”

Hearing Cade mentioned, that icy eyelight narrows, dangerously. Yes, he did know. Soot had tracked the little medic for him multiple times after he’d first gained the horror bitty’s patronage, but thoughts of tracking had fallen to the wayside when Soot had brought news of the strange Reaper bitty who’d started keeping his company.

Unlike Velvet, Khary had an idea of what Solace was, even if it seemed impossible, and wasn’t eager to cross the Death god. Soot had been instructed to back off, and Khary had waited, knowing that a god and a demon with ambitions in the same little area could only avoid each other for so long. And it seemed time was about to run out.

The bara horror had taken full advantage of his contract in the beginning, and as the mageling had warned him, refusing his ‘favors’ wasn’t an option. His years in imprisonment, his hatred for the people who had taken his mage, his no longer insignificant LV, and his own desperation, had all lent towards hardening his soul- yet Khary had done things for Velvet that he never would have willingly done himself, given the choice to refuse.

While he’d known he would, he hated Velvet no less for it. And he would not put it past the horror crime bitty to tell him now to turn his hand against the little medic. And he knew too well what that would mean…

Velvet frowns at the look in his eyelight, and clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Tsk, no, no. This isn’t about ensuring he stays loyal. Or well, it is,” This, a mutter, and clearly displeased, as he glances towards his door. Weasel, all this time, watching, not mistaking the look in Khary’s eyelight for anything but the murderous intent it was. “See, he don’t ask much. In fact he don’t ask for shit. Just does as he told, and keeps his head down. Doesn’t cause any problems, and solves more than a few…”

“So when he finally does ask for something,” A grunt, soft, and resigned, “Making sure he gets it, means making sure he stays content, and keeping my little ace tucked away, right where he belongs.”

In Velvet’s pocket, no doubt…

Yet, this was interesting, just the same. After all, what did the little medic want so much, that left Velvet willing to yield such a favor to keep his loyalty? What was it a demon could give him?

“And what does the medic ask?” Khary asks, curious, after studying the horror for several long seconds. This wasn’t how he’d expected this summoning to go. but a favor was a favor. And likely this one would be less… unpleasant, than many had been.

Brief silence, again, Velvet’s gaze turning around the nest he shared with his mates, passing indifferently across Rat’s newest chew toy to linger on a rather… unpleasant looking blade he displayed on his wall, resembling nothing so much as a flat, jagged meat-hook.

“It seems his dark little mate managed to injure himself.” Velvet’s eyelights don’t move from the nasty bit of steel as he relays this, his tone smooth, and cold. Does he realize how much he betrays, without taking a single step in it’s direction? It’s far too easy for Khary to read the emotion. The smallest curl of displeasure in the cruel bitty’s expression, the briefest glimpse of something dark and… possessive, in that burning red eyelight…

He wasn’t upset about trading one of the demon’s favors to secure the little science sans’ favor. Khary knew he favored the medic, and had seen more than once how far he’d go for the only other favorite he had. No, this was about turning in one of his favors for his little medic’s favorite in turn. It was about Solace, trusted friend of the one rival he couldn’t afford to rid himself of, as well as one of the few bitties who not only didn’t fear him, but who in fact left a curdling chill deep in his own marrow instead…

“It distresses my little medic, being able to do so little for his dark mate. Something about… Resistances.” Suspicion, displeasure. A sneer, in the way he says the word. “Incompatibilities.”

In anyone else, at least anyone without his own personal demon at beck and call, the way he talked about the Reaper might have been called paranoia. As it was, said demon was hard pressed not to laugh. Indeed when Velvet turned, his eyelight narrows at seeing the look of deep amusement that Khary goes to no pain to hide-

In fact, the demon is grinning. And Khary sees the shiver Velvet tries to suppress, seeing this.

“Heal the Reaper, demon.” Velvet mutters, a growl at the edge of his words. “Secure my little medic’s loyalty, and I’ll deal with the other in my own time.”

Yet, if that was his intention, strange that he hadn’t sent Khary after him. The demon was very good at leaving nothing connected to the mob lord, and yet… Maybe he waited. Maybe, on some level, he knew. Who could look upon Death after all, and not in some small place in their soul, know Him?

Well. Cade, maybe. Or maybe that small place in his soul just knew Death differently, saw something else where so many saw something to fear-

“…My price is a favor,” Khary rumbles, amusement rich in his words, but the words familiar and known, “And the favor, yours to pay. We are agreed?”

Velvet’s eyelight burns almost like hellfire. Almost. For all it’s own aqua shade though. Khary’s genuinely does, and when the two gazes meet, there is no mistake which hellfire is true.

“We are. Agreed.” Velvet clips the words, angry, too aware that his favors are slipping away, that soon his advantage will be gone, and though the demon knows he hopes to fall short of his own side of the deal, afraid too, of what Khary will do once he’s free…

Khary just chuckles, fading slowly from his contract’s view, back into the Sketching. It was an unsettling effect, UnDreamt had assured him… “The alleyway between the old arcade, and the empty printing shop. Half past the third eighth of the day.”

Put more simply, ten thirty in the morning. But what was the fun in making things simple for horror bitty? The Reaper would know, he knew. Perhaps even the little medic would understand…

He’d been curious about that one. Now he had an excuse to learn more. And the excuse, too, to learn where Death would stand in his plans…

By the time he arrives, the science sans and his mate are already there, waiting. Cade leaned against the alley wall, looking like he was barely restraining himself from pacing. Visibly nervous, he glanced about like a frightened bird, movements small and furtive. Solace meanwhile, was standing close by, leaning against a walking stick- something closer to a staff, really- with the sort of familiarity that came of long standing habit. A substitute for his scythe? Maybe…

For a few minutes, Khary watches the pair, careful to stay hidden. Those empty sockets pass across his hiding place just the same, but the Reaper’s expression never changes, keeping the same small smile, and the same unworried air.

“C’mon,” Cade mutters at last, pushing himself away from the alley wall, “let’s get out of here. I’ll arrange someone else to-”

The words die in his throat as Khary finally steps forward, letting the glimpse of movement be seen. He wonders what he looks like to the little science sans? A black shape that doesn’t quite separate from the darkness? A liquid creature, with an aqua gaze that burned like a single unholy light? Or maybe he’ll only see the tentacles, moving and shifting, half seen…

“Uh… I- I-” Cade stammers, taking a single, slow step back, “I think, we should go-”

An indelicate sound of amusement from the demon. The medic walked side by side with Death, even shared his bed, and yet he was to be feared? He might be either flattered or insulted, and genuinely, he’s not sure which, if he hadn’t seen similar reaction in the unusually small bitty a dozen times for a dozen reasons before the addition of Solace’s shadow had made withdrawing seem the better option.

Then, could he blame the bitty? Cade was so slight, so small. That he’d survived so long in such a harsh and dying world was a testament to either pure, impossible luck, or a combination of tenacity, wariness, and quick thinking- which even then, would need no small amount of luck to be enough.

Not to mention, he suspected that he was anything but a reassuring sight, these days…

He steps forward a bit more, just enough to make sure the science sans sees him for what he is- or at least, what he seems to be. “Suit yourself,” He purrs, nothing like reassuring, for their reactions. “No goop off my back, I get paid either way.”

His words stop the science sans in his tracks, as Khary had expected, a look of confusion fixing on his features, and only slowly giving way to understanding.

“Tell me something. Out of curiosity.” He’d spent too much time around Velvet, trying to out menace the other on sheer tone and enunciation alone. It had become a habit, and one that came to the forefront now, if not one he tried in the slightest to rein in. It suggests a smile, if not a pleasant one. “Did my… contact… tell you that you’d be getting to meet with a guardian bitty, and you just assumed he meant some sweet sunny dream-bean? Or did he flat out lie again?”

In Velvet’s defense, little that he had, this was in fact a unique situation, he’d never called on his pact with the demon to do anything like help someone before- lying though, he’d done often. Words were a favored tool of the local mob boss, after all, and deception just another aspect of them.

“I, uh… don’t, actually remember…”

Khary tilted his head, looking at him for maybe a full beat longer. Aware of the increasing warning that seemed to swell within the Reaper though, despite his expression never changing, he turns to Solace instead, addressing him directly. “Are you the client?”

“Cade is the client,” Solace denied, a small amusement in his expression as that swell of warning ebbs again, for now.

Any doubt that he might not be who every instinct told Khary he was? That was gone now. This was Death. Why he favored the little medic was a matter for those who spent their time pondering such things… Khary had other things that needed taking care of.

“But. I’m your patient. If that’s what you’re asking.” The Reaper shifts his weight off the small branch he’s currently using as a staff, letting it fall lightly against his shoulder, as he offers his good hand. “Solace. And who do I have the pleasure-?”

Offered the Reaper’s hand… Khary just stares at it for an extended moment, before noting bluntly, “I don’t come into the light. You want to come here?” That eyelight returned to Solace’s own empty gaze, “And I’ll be glad to shake your hand.”

The Reaper seemed to consider this, even as traces of guilt crossed into Cade’s expression. If he broadcast his emotions any more vividly, Khary would almost be able to taste them…

Seeming to come to his decision, Solace steps forward, and into the shadows.

How easily the god moves past the barrier that holds him, and how easily his magic molds to the shape of the Sketching, adapting in an instant to what had taken Khary so long to understand.

Khary steps back, half on instinct, as the shape of the Reaper suddenly seems to fill his little prison, and Death’s hollow gaze meets the demon’s, as he offers his hand…

And meeting that hollow gaze, Khary suddenly understands. Surprise fills him, and then, after a beat, the demon relaxes, not smiling, but reaching out, and accepting the Reaper’s hand. Mortal, after all. Or as near to it as the god of Death could pretend to be, beneath even the most stringent of bindings.

“Long overdue, Death,” He greets the god, his humor thin, with the weight of the ‘wait’ behind him.

“I’ve stood before you a hundred times now, fate maker,” Death denies, an ease to his tone that offered no concern in whatever significance this might have for the demon, “Don’t mistake the first time you’ve managed to notice me for the first time we’ve met.”

Despite the casual chiding, the Reaper’s expression changes little, that trace of a smile, that ghost of wry amusement, and overall a sense of someone in a good natured mood- Albeit someone who is also far too intimately aware upon which fabric reality is woven, for what purpose, and by whose hands. And who stood to be more jaded by all that lay within eternity, than Death?

Yet, here, he held one small inch of it that offered something to balm that jaded soul, even cast out, and stripped of identity and home…

A fleeting paradise found within a dying, fellish timeline, beginning and ending within the reach and strength of a single fragile soul. Upon such things were the dreams of a god so written…

“Fair enough,” Khary shrugs, then tilting his head as he regarded what he took to be the injured limb. “…This one?”

Solace obligingly lifts the offending wrist, letting the loose black sleeve slip down, and with one movement, tug the bandages free to expose the break.

Well. Breaks. A spiderweb of cracks in his ulna stretched nearly from wrist to elbow, with partial fractures in two different places in his radial as well. Definitely a nasty break, though it could have been far, far worse-

Khary can’t help but feel mildly bemused though, whether from seeing a god struck with such a mortal injury, or from the traces of golden ichor that stained the break and the bone, apparently without tipping off his little mate- because there was no question between them in those instants, either that Cade might know, or that Solace would be anything like pleased if the demon told him.

…And honestly, good enough. Khary placed his hand on Solace’s wrist, carefully urging healing magic into the stubborn break. It was easy to see why Cade hadn’t been able to address the wound himself- incompatible magic indeed- but beneath the demon’s hand, beneath his magic-

Curiously, he hadn’t let Cade through, not really. He’d maintained the anchor, kept the way technically open, but it was by his own stubbornness that the little science sans had pressed past sketch and shadow into the non space, semi false reality of his prison, in time to watch Khary’s magic sinking into damaged bone. First, as to be expected, resistance, but the limit of Khary’s reaction is to raise a brow, and continue…

And slowly, the damaged bones began to knit together.

Solace’s mate is visibly uncomfortable, by where he is, by what he’s seeing- but that didn’t stop him from pressing through to reach the place, as it had others before, and it didn’t make him retreat, watching, waiting-

…And it’s done. His bones finish repairing, and the nightmare lets go. Solace rotates his arm slowly, looks back at Cade, and smiles. And for an instant, Khary can’t help but feel a faint, bittersweet pang as Solace assures him, with an easy smile, “All fixed.”

All fixed… He doesn’t envy the Reaper this love he has. And he doesn’t envy whatever poor damned soul one day costs him it.

Cade smiles back, oblivious relief, turning to Khary, and trying to thank him. The demon hears him of course, though the science sans seems confused by what he likely interprets as a lack of sound. Likely made even stranger as despite that ‘lack of sound,’ he has no trouble understanding Khary response, as he just lifts a brow, and shrugs, saying, “A job’s a job. You let Velvet know you’re happy? And I’m now one favor down.” Adding, somewhat wryly, “Only about twenty to go.”

Twenty to go… and then… well. “I hope you didn’t ask him out of the goodness of your heart,” He adds, a trace of amusement glinting in his eyelight at the idea, “Because you don’t even want to get into debt with that guy. Going rate is seven fv, in exchange for one from him. My debt was about fifty, so I’m gonna be at his beck and call for a while still.”

Cade starts to assure him that no, Velvet owes- and then stops, apparently thinking better of sharing that piece of information. Khary just lifts a brow, makes a small sound that might be interest- or amusement- and then just turns, and walks away, leaving the two, and taking his prison with him.

So. That was the Reaper. Or, had been, once. That there still was a Reaper, that is was in fact still him, were things that seemed certain to Khary, even if he didn’t yet understand how. Maybe it didn’t matter how or why it happened. Then again. Maybe it did.

The demon though, had his own priorities… ---

[bellsofblueficlets]

A Thing Long Past Time

There's a power in names. It’s one of the first things that mages of various classes and specializations learn, and also well known among generalists of magic. But to a mage of binding in particular? It was one of the very first lessons taught.

Gyre's name was one that only his mage had known, and this wasn't by accident. Whenever they had guests- maybe never social guests, but still guests- Rantrum used the visits as a lesson and game, urging him to get through them without revealing his name, or that he was avoiding it.

He of course had always delighted in the ’game,’ beaming with pride afterwards whenever his mage had praised how well he’d done.

Now when he looked back, he saw the situation far more clearly. He never been as clever as he’d thought, and could recognize the memories of carefully worded questions as the awareness they’d been that he was evading the question, and continued attempts to pry an answer from him.

No, the fact that they’d never pressed it further wasn’t his own skill in evading them, but the presence of the mage with the ever watchful gaze, who’d never for one moment left his side.

It was a lesson well taught, though he now reflected coldly the memory, and how many people had seemed so insistent to learn. Far too insistent to simply be indulging a passing curiosity. It wasn’t playful, it wasn’t cute, and it had never been a game. They’d seen him as a ‘weakness’ for his mage, and done their best to take advantage of it.

The ‘polite’ visits, the forced conversation… Even then it had bristled against his magic, though he’d yet to understand why.

He should have spent more time learning what he was back then. Trying to understand it, instead of rejecting his own innate magics in favor of dreams of magedom. On some level, being passed over so many times due to what he was, had made him hate it. But if he’d known what he was, he would have recognized so much more, would have seen the growing irritation behind the veneer of pleasant smiles, noticed the impatience and hostility, and recognized the bitterness always underlying such ‘visits.’

But, would have, could have, should have. In the end it meant nothing. He traced a gossamer thread of fate with his gaze, stretching on into infinity. Or at least a possible infinity, as much as such things ever really existed. One strand of fate, now wound together with another…

Khary’s burned red, in his mind’s eyes. Not with hellfire, no. He’d always mistaken it, that red of their magic, but he these days he saw it for what it was. Determination.

“When did you take the name?” He asks, after having followed it forward, and back, as far as he could. Far enough to know that it didn’t begin with their life as a mage, but with hellfire. It wasn’t surprising, from everything that he could tell, death broke the strands of fate, and Khary was dead.

Yet, they still had strings… So was it really death? Or was it being reborn?

{…You know when.}

Gyre would give the once mage a pointed look if he could, but instead he just huffs, quietly. “You didn’t pick it that day. When did you choose it?”

The once mage was quiet at first, and after several seconds he thought maybe they wouldn’t answer. Then though, they surprised him, saying quietly, {After my brother died. And I’d gnawed every last memory from what was left of his soul. Including his favorite stories.}

{He loved Greek myths. Saw himself in the stories about the gods’ chosen.} A sound of derision, from somewhere in their mind. {He read every story he could find, and still somehow thought that was a good thing.}

{…All the innate magical potential in the world doesn’t keep some people from being fucking idiots.}

A soft sound, less amused than a grunt of acknowledgment. “So he spent his life longing to gain the attention of powers beyond his understanding."

{Surprising, right?} Dull amusement, maybe. Scorn and bitterness for sure. {Fashioned in our father's miserable image. Little wonder he inherited the family 'demon.'}

This is met with quiet by the nightmare bitty, gazing down at the lab workers, moving from machine to machine with tubes of magic, syringes, and various magitech components. Oh, and clipboards. Always clipboards. Reading instruments, recording data…

Oblivious to the demon in their midst, watching them play with life and lives, and weighing their sins.

He wonders if he's the only demon who hunts the cruel for reason like his. Or if there have always been more reasons for demons to hunt, than the ones humans claim.

"…and Kháry?"

{Isn't it obvious?} Here, Kháry actually sounds mildly amused. {It's short for Khárybdis. Or Charybdis, if you want the Romanized version.} And yes, they did manage to convey the small difference between.}

{…to be between Scylla and Charybdis meant something once. Souls cursed, damned, and made monsters. Punished, and ever after, feared for what they became.}

"Then why not Scylla?" He asks quietly, fairly sure he already knows the reason.

At first silence in answered, then a soft sound, low and growling, all humor gone. {Scylla would claim only six, while Charybdis would take every soul, and ship too. So isn't it obvious which I am?}

Gyre continues to watch those around him, not faltering, or even acknowledging the snarl behind the once mage's words. "That's your only reason?" He presses, in that same tone. Quiet, knowing. "Nothing else?"

This time, the silence that answers him remains unbroken. After several minutes pass, and it's clear they don't intend to offer more, Gyre finally stands from his spot, considers the lab one more time, and then turns, as though the once mage had been standing behind him this whole time, and he could simply turn to face them.

…For an instant, he was almost convinced he did.

"Who are you, Kháry?" Gyre presses, quiet, but unrelenting. "Who are you really?"

Again. Silence. Then, a low laugh, even now enough to leave tingles of alarm and fear dancing up what had once been his spine. {Me, little tardrip?}

{I Am ThE dEmOn ThAt CoMeS wHeN yOu CaLl ItS nAmE.}

There's nothing human in their voice, their tone, a madness and cruelty and laughter dripping from their answer…

Gyre ignores the deep seating feeling of 'this is wrong,' no stranger by now to the once mage's game. After a few seconds more their unsettling laughter is replaced by a growl of annoyance.

Before they can follow up their attempt to throw him with another insult, he reminds them quietly, "I thought you didn't want to be the demon anymore."

The insult doesn't come. Instead, they sound tired. {I don't have a choice, tar smear. Neither of us do.}

"I do." He denies, casting one last slow look around the room. "My magic may be remade, and I may not have say over that, but what I am?" He shakes his head, his mouth set into a grim line, "That I still get to choose."

He looses the mooring, letting the scene slip away. Reality spun past, worlds, timelines, all in a blur too fast to see. Almost too fast, at least. He was getting better at moving between places, at understanding where he was, and deciding where he would go.

It wasn't quite effortless, no, but-

It was his magic, it always had been. And that meant more with every day that passed.

"I choose the demon." He continues, as though there'd been no pause between, a deep quiet certainty to the words as he watches eternity rush past his 'window,' "And I choose the nightmare too."

{What are you saying?} Kháry demands, or well, tries. The falter in their words doesn't sound very demanding though.

"What I said before," He says simply, the words quiet, but determined. "I'll be the demon. You don't need to anymore."

Timelines, universes, and various spaces neither one, rush past. Gyre catches glimpses of them here and there, flashes too brief to form more than the barest impression, a timeline compressed into a single instant as they pass, a random snapshot of one single point in it’s existence.

He doesn’t get to choose what they see. But, sometimes that means seeing enough to steer clear. And sometimes, that means steering clear, while making notes to go back-

{…You want my name.} At another point in their shared existence, Khary probably would have sounded incredulous, angry, even mocking. Now though? Just… Weighing. Considering what this means. {Why?}

The nightmare bitty looks down at his hand, tarred, clawed, corrupted. So different from what he’d once been, and for so long now that it’s getting harder to believe he’d ever been anythign else. “Do you want it?” He counters quietly, rather than answer.

Silence. Gyre reaches out, snagging hold of a reality just long enough to shift their trajectory, and swing them in a different direction. His magic, their magic, littered so many worlds now that he had hundreds of handholds, maybe thousands, scattered in more timelines than he’d counted. Stray traces, powerful bindings- They all worked for his needs.

He just needed to avoid the living ones…

So many glimpses of different worlds. Joys, agonies, abuses, hopes- It would have been too much once. Maybe it still was. But this was his reality, bound up in sketching and binding, and a nothingness born of impossible speeds, of being too many places too quickly for any other reality to endure it-

{No.} The once mage admits at last, sound… tired, mostly. {I don’t want it anymore.}

“Then let me have it.” Gyre asked, this time openly. He knew, without fully understanding the details of why, that giving a name, taking it… It was a significant thing.

{…And yours?}

He considers the question, but, already knows the answer. “The only person my name ever meant anything to is gone.” He points out, reaching again to shift the way the sketching carried them. “And the only person I want to hear say it again, never will.

And maybe, maybe, that was the crux of it. Rantrum had moved on. Remade, a new identity, a new life-

Maybe it was time they did the same.

{And you’re going to do this by taking my name?} Khary asks, openly dubious. {That works, how exactly?}

“…I know they know your name.”

The fact that silence answers him only confirms what, in fact, he’d only suspected. But the degree of hold the family of mages had over them? Some was blood, yes. The binding that only a bond deep as souls could equal, but-

Surely Rantrum hadn’t been the first they’d tried to reason with. To bargain with. Not when, between the time their father lifted them in his hand, and the time they met their mageling, they’d managed to cross that barrier between rageful silence, and carefully chosen words. They’d known that Rantrum would know it after all, even before they’d told him.

{You’re too clever for their own good,} Khary sounded exasperated, amused, and… something else. {Satisfied, little smudge,} They explain softly, gazing through his one good eyelight, out into the worlds they spin through. {For the first time in… I don’t remember.}

Gyre remembered, and reflected on it ruefully.

A mental snort answers this, and a tentacle whaps him gently on the back of his skull, seemingly of it’s own volition, Khary muttering, {No one likes a smart ass, tar drip.}

The nightmare bitty bites his tongue on a retort, an amused expression playing across his face. “Okay, yes, but-” He presses.

{But they think you’re still me,} Khary agrees, seeming mildly amused by the idea. {I took the name too deeply when I claimed it, but you-}

“I will always know who I am,” Gyre promises, reaching out again, this time to slow as they begin approaching the timeline he intends to stop at.

He doesn’t point out that Khary also all but admitted just then, that they have no desire to complete the binding between them, and become a single creature, a single mind. They’ll need to address that then, before they’re freed-

{Take my name,} Khary agrees, more quietly now. {It will serve your purpose. And I’m tired of it.}

{…Tell me though, what use does it do you in here?}

The question sets him back, and he pauses, but doesn’t ask the other what they mean. He already knows the answer. It was been months since Rantrum had been given new life, given freedom- Months too, since he’d made any kind of focused effort towards escape.

{Our mageling has his freedom. But since giving him new life, you’ve done little to gain ours.} Despite the choice of wording, the once mage’s tone lacked accusation, as though simply pointing out something he might have missed.

And well, in some ways, he had. He’d focused for months now- Was it months? On ending another timeline’s abuse of his magic, intending to pick them off until none remained. And it was so easy, here in the Sketching, to move from place to place, to stay unseen, to chip away at their power, the efforts to stop them all useless, ineffectual attempts. He was focusing on what was important, he-

“…” He was avoiding trying to escape, wasn’t he?

{Gotten a little too comfortable in your cage, little smudge?} Again, despite the wording, not really what he could call mocking. And also, though he hated to admit it, not wrong.

“How long have we been in here?” He asks, his tone thoughtful, as they arrive at their goal. Docking the Sketching is easy enough by this point, so much so that it’s hard to believe sometimes that it was ever hard at all. Hard to believe that it took him being told to understand that it was his own magic, all this time.

{Long enough that I stopped keeping track,} The other admits, quietly. They watch as the world slowly draws into greater focus around them, but still in that way that mad it seem somehow unreal. Somehow beyond reach, even if it no longer was. {And long enough that I can feel your hesitation, at the thought of trying to leave.}

…It was true. He’d spent the vast majority of his life now in this… ‘prison’ of his own making. The world beyond it was out of reach, and had been for so long, that it had long since become an unfamiliar thing. Maybe-

{…Maybe it’s safer, in here?}

A sigh from the nightmare. “You know me too well now,” He mutters, finding a spot to sit while they wait for UnDreamt’s arrival. They’d arrived too soon, but that was fine. It was so much easier now to hold position-

{You’re a funny one to complain about that…}

Honestly, fair. Gyre- Khary- sighs, and considers. Safety or freedom, certainty or change. The eternal question. Safety in a cage, or the ever changing risks and uncertainties of a vast and ever expanding eternity?

And maybe too, just maybe, a cage of his own making seemed like the safer option, than the ones that lingered in his memories, the ones that Rantrum’s family would seal him away in, given the chance-

But, was really what he wanted? He sighed, and lifted his head, looking upward…

At nothing. The sky, the stars? All beyond his sight. Even the clouds, and-

…And the moon. He was a nightmare denied the sight of the moon.

Maybe there were better reasons, definitely there were better reasons, but in the end, that one was the one that decided it for him. “For the moon, then,” He murmurs, getting to his feet again, as the sound of an angry eagle echoes around them.

UnDreamt arrives at nearly full speeds, and would have swept right through and past, but Gyre- Khary dammit- reaches up and snags him by the ankle, pulling him into the Sketching with them, just as the sound of shouts and barking try to follow.

Unfortunately, this means a rather hard landing as his flight is cut short, but the dream simply pulls up a wall of corruption, cushioning the blow before fading back to nothing. He still looks sour, but then, he always does. He rises, shakes his feathers, and wipes a spray of blood from his cheekbone- not his- before offering the cylinder in his hand to the waiting nightmare.

“This fucking better have been worth it,” He growls, to all appearances irritated at having had to retrieve the little thing. Gy- Khary knew better though. The dark satisfaction that radiated from him, a deep sense of pleased-

UnDreamt was a creature who relished revenge, and understood enough now to know that what had happened to him, to the other dreams, went far beyond the world that had made him, and the damage done there. He knew too that it tied into many ‘batteries’ like this one. That every time he took one ‘back,’ it hurt the ones who had done so much damage…

He didn’t ask much more. Maybe one day he would, but for now? It was enough.

Khary gestures vaguely, and the nothing-space of the Sketching shifts, giving way to something almost like a small living space. The once mage was right, he mused ruefully, looking at the furniture he’d managed to aquire, and carefully tie to their space. A desk, a chair, and a couch, a large couch, at that. UnDreamt grunted, flopping onto it like this own personal bed.

“Are we done with this timeline yet?” He asked, still sounding irritated, as Gyre carefully tucked away the ‘battery’ filled with stolen magic. The dream was unwrapping what looked to be a sucker, his expression one of disgust. “Much longer here, and I’m never getting the smell out of my feathers.”

About to answer, both stop as the shattered dream’s pursuers finally arrive at the designated pickup spot. UnDreamt growls lowly, his feathers bristling, but doesn’t move from his spot as the dogs run straight through where they’d be if they were still part of that reality, their bodies seeming to break into a hundred twisting pieces that slid past the walls of the sketching, to coalesce on the other side as they skid, run back again, and sniff in confusion, barking and searching for their ‘prey.’

This repeats a few more times, before annoyed, Khary breaks the connection, and sends them spiraling on again.

“No,” He denies, picking up the conversation where it had left off, “The roots of corruption wind through a hundred more dens in that place, and maybe a hundred more on top of them.” UnDreamt was right though, the place reeked like spoiled magic. He couldn’t smell what was out there, himself? But it was true, the smell was dragged in on the dream bitty’s feathers.

“If you don’t want to be part of tearing them down,” He says flatly, drawing out his chair, and taking a seat at the desk.“Then there are plenty of other timelines still hoarding my magic.”

UnDreamt pauses, his sockets narrows as he gives Khary a cold, disbelieving look. “And what?” He demands, sounding irritated. “Give the timeline to your rabid little dust?”

Turning exactly long enough to raise an eyebrow at the shattered, Khary clicks his tongue in absent reproach. “He’s not taking anything of yours,” The demon denies, drawing paper from the drawer, and something approximating a pencil. “If you want the hunting ground, keep it. But if you don’t? There’s too much for them to lose here, for us to leave without wringing every last drop from them first.”

He almost objected, Khary could almost hear the words he might have said- but saying ‘us’ rather than ‘me?’ Silenced him. After a few seconds more, he crunched hard on the remains of the sucker, before flicking the stick free, to be torn apart by eternity.

“I’ll keep it,” He mutters, making no effort to mask his annoyance. “At least until I wring the last drop of any power they have left there, from the last of their cold, broken hands. Then we’ll negotiate hunting grounds.”

Not waiting for an answer, he rolls over, turning his back, his wings folded around himself for comfort. Strange bird, sleeping that way… But Khary wasn’t going to be the one to point that out. There was little enough softness in their existence. The guy wanted a soft place to sleep? Let him have it.

Besides, Khary had other things he needed to focus on. Like a list of requirements for finally breaking free. It made sense to focus escape efforts to a single timeline, removing the need to make adjustments for all the potential tiny variables they’d have to contend with otherwise.

So before they started, they needed to decide where. It needed to have the right sort of magic, offering the right circumstances, and in the right kind of condition. The border between realities ran thinnest and most malleable in dying places, but at the same time, dying worlds were fragile things, and often timelines of thin, weak, or fading magics.

His hand goes still, and he stares at the words. Basically, they needed to find a doomed world, ride in its wake until the time was right, and slip free before it broke apart completely. Which in turn would strike the last blow to the fabric of it’s reality. Sending the timeline to it’s knees, and then…

A minute passes. Two. Five. He starts writing again. A bittyverse would be the easiest for Soot and UnDreamt to traverse without drawing suspicion, and it would also provide better chances of finding potential help with things that might come up. They also needed to avoid any where Rantrum’s family might cause them problems.

He continues adding more and more details, further defining the ideal place to gain their freedom, as the Sketching races on, unguided.

---

It came to this, then.

Khary looked across the space of their prison, sweeping away any evidence of the little living space they’d built up within it, tucking it back into a pocket of its already pocket reality. The outlines of the world without were allowed to fall away, and the Sketching itself shrank back to nearly the size it had started as, until all that remained was their prison as it had once been.

Again he found himself in a place where all that existed was the sense of outlines, of movement and nothing, sight without seeing, and words without sound. And he waited, and where no one else would have seen beyond its boundaries, he watched, and where no one else could hear, he listened.

It had taken nearly three months to find the right timeline. To pinpoint the fading strength of a single timeline, so fragile that he could feel it waver as they passed, like a bubble on the very verge of rupture. Weeks more to understand it’s fragility, its limitations, and the flow of it’s magic. It had been bleeding HoPe for far too long, and now, it was barely a flicker from it’s fall into the void.

A timeline of dying light…

…It was perfect. Save for one thing. He was going to need someone from this world to secure the deal. Someone who, despite the dying magic in the timeline, still had enough to draw on to make this work.

He was massive, a bara bitty, if Khary remembered the term right, and as long as no one paid too much attention he could easily have passed for a small monster. But as a monster he’d be small. As a bitty? He was practically a mountain. And he had more than enough magic to make Khary’s plan work.

For now, the horror bitty stood at the entrance to the empty church, wary. Velvet was his name. He was something of a dominant bitty in the area, and as he finally started to approach the altar, it wasn’t hard to see why. His size aside? He was a predator in every regard, a bitty deeply satisfied in his own high LV, and he radiated danger. Confident in his ability to meet any threat as it comes-

As the nightmare Khary had once been, that might have meant something to him. As it is though? The most reaction it stirs is a faint look of bemusement from the demon. A cannibal… Well, why not?

A shrug, and then a tentacle reaches out, and Khary sparks the tiniest flame, letting it fall onto a line of perfumed oil, painstakingly painted into place with great detail by his dusty.

{Let the charade begin,} The once mage mutters, somewhere deep in the back of his mind.

Immediately a single burning eyelight fixes on the flame, the merest flicker of blue that begins to trace it’s way with increasing speed around a series of loops and circles. Velvet remains deadpan, seemingly unperturbed by the sight, simply following it until it’s fully enclosed him.

Only then, a smile, thin humor, though amusement burns lowly in the red of his eyelight. “Determined to play up the demon thing, aren’t you?” There’s an unsettling smoothness to a voice that feels like it should be gravel, permanently hoarse from a thousand snarls and screams.

“All right,” He grins, showing every sharp tooth, and kicks what seems to be an abandoned textbook directly onto the line of fire, before simply striding across it, ignoring the nearness of the flames. “I’ve never put much weight in gods, but maybe I’ll find my faith in a demon. All you have to do,” He shrugs, gesturing around himself, surreptitiously casting an eyelight around the room, trying to find Khary’s hiding spot, “Is convince me.”

His voice shifts, no less velvet, but now with an unmistakable air of threat behind it, and a bit more showing of teeth, “So, do it, demon.” He smiles, watching, waiting. “Make me believe.”

Even as Khary lifts a brow, bemused, a low chuckle begins to build in the back of his mind. {Oh, please.} The once mage seems to smile, oh so widely, {Let me do it~}

One last hurrah as a demon? Or just a troublemaker? Khary decides he can support either or both, and crosses his arms, watching the horror bitty’s attempted show of dominance. “Go for it,” He mutters, curious to see where this goes, “But remember we need him alive, and undamaged.”

A low chuckle promises him that they can work with this. Two of his tentacles are ‘borrowed-’ the ones they usually co opt anyway- And the nightmare offers no protest as the once mage takes greater control as well, claiming his legs for the first time too. Between them, they draw the Sketching in a slow circle around the horror, whose smile is gradually fading as he waits.

Khary doesn’t hurry them though, and pays close attention to the sigils the once mage leaves inscribed across the floor, amusement slowly beginning to spark in his eyelight as he realizes what they’re up to. “Yeah, that should do it, all right.” He smiles, as they arrive back at the point where they started.

{…Do it.} They urge, something in the tone of their words different now.

“Are you the devil on my shoulder?” Khary asks, amused, the question a rhetoric one as he lifts a hand, and with a snap of his fingers, sets off the trap they’d woven. The flames extinguish, and instant darkness falls throughout the church, deep as pitch and twice as black, leaving nothing but the horror’s red eyelight-

And his own aqua one. It was a brief effect, the smallest thinning of the boundaries of his reality, but it was an effort just the same, one that not that long ago would have been impossible.

Instants pass as the two meet eyelights for the first time, surrounded by total dark. On an impulse, Khary pushes himself up onto his tentacles, until both seem to stand at equal height, and then with the smallest gesture of his hand he banishes the spell, with such an abruptness that it’s as though light is swept back through the once hallowed hall, dim and gray that it may be, no sign left of the spark of cyan that had previously swept it away.

Bands of corruption suddenly spring from the meager lines still left strewn about, and lash themself to the horror, making him snarl as he tries to dodge, and fails, caught on too many sides. He is bound, neatly, head to toe-

And… There. The dust darts in, not as hidden as he may have thought, but swift as shadow, madness burning in his eyelights as he draws his blades, rushing to the horror’s side. More bands of corruptions coil and snap, twist and play, easily dodging, tripping, and when cut in two, simply reforming, and attacking again.

Again darkness falls, and the dust bitty is forced to slide to a stop, trying furiously to get his bearings. Again the glimpse of cyan, and he charges, slicing, slashing, at where he thinks his enemy may be, but though the cyan still hangs before him, his blades pass useless through nothing at all.

And then light returns, and all those little rivulets of corrupts run together into a single lines, abandoning their hold on the bitty crime lord, and becoming something almost serpentine as it slides it’s way to where Khary stands. He draws it back into the Sketching, letting himself become visible as it climbs about him, and without falter, without hesitation, Weasel strikes again-

Freezing this time as his blades pass clean through, and the demon’s form seems to twist to something approaching smoke before returning to their place- The same play of reality Khary had seen himself so many times, but that weasel never had.

The dusty backs up, slowly, his eyelights darting around, taking in their surroundings, before falling back on Khary, watching, unmoved, and looking unimpressed.

A groaning sigh, internal, for his benefit alone. {You went easy on them…} The once mage grumbles, their game clearly spoiled.

The nightmare bitty pauses, not expecting the rebuke. ‘I did?’

At first, no answer, then a low chuckle, amused, {You make a shit demon, little tar drip…}

{…Maybe that’s a good thing.}

“…Okay, then.” Velvet mutters, no longer rumbling with his amused half purr, but there is unmistakable interest burning now in his eyelight. “Tell me then, demon,” A smile, all sharpness and predator, yes, but telling just the same. “What brings something like you to my little hunting ground?”

“A broken binding.” Khary answers bluntly. From his tone, a person wouldn’t know how many times he’d practiced this trick, how many times he’d failed, before finally getting it right, but that was the point. Every inch of influence he was able to exert beyond the boundaries of his prison was meager advancement, and hard earned, but it was advancement.

Velvet didn’t need to know how little threat he could actually pose to him directly- Or rather, how little threat he could pose, until he was free.

The horror makes the smallest gesture, something so slight that it’s almost unseen, and Weasel draws his scarf back up, his growl silent behind it, but his eyelights pure fury. Yet still, he falls back as his boss/mate had ordered.

“Interesting,” Velvet rumbles, his expression still one of calculation, “I wouldn’t expect the bindings made by demons to be easily broken.”

“And the bindings made to them?”

A spark of understanding settles in the crimson eyelight of the mini crime boss, and a slow grin crosses sharp teeth. “Oh,” Just about the softest sound Khary would have heard yet from the bara, and very much a purr by the end. “Those. Well, I imagine something can be done about them.”

“After all, demon like deals, right?” Velvet asks, taking a seat as he settles himself in to discuss terms. “So, demon. Let’s talk deals…”

---

[bellsofblueficlets]

Letting Go, And Holding On

To call the place simply tall felt like something of an understatement, but it was certainly true. Saying it reached to the rafters might fit better, but was more poetic than a genuine description of size. Rafters it did have however, which as far as UnDreamt seemed concerned had been something of a selling point.

Soot too… seemed to like it? As well as he seemed to like anything, that was. Given the choice, he showed an obvious preference to stay with Gyre in the sketching, but loyalty was his deepest default. And as strange as it might have seemed to him, it wasn’t in anyone’s best interest if there was no more to his existence beyond his nightmare, and the prison his magic made.

Legally mind, the building belonged to Gyre. Which was remarkable for several reasons, not the least of which was that he didn’t have a legal identity in this timeline, but one thing he’d learned during his imprisonment was that with enough patience, and enough determination, there was very little genuinely beyond his reach.

He needed a base of operations in the ‘real world,’ or a ‘real world’ anyway. Most any would do, but this one had several factors in it’s favors- Like the proliferation of laboratories to steal his magic back from, now that they’d torn all they could from the one that had made Undreamt. In very large part of course, due to him.

In addition, the timeline was stable, which, considering some of the things he had planned, was one of it’s most important attributes. And while the building wasn’t really built for creatures their size, that didn’t mean it couldn’t be repurposed for them.

He supposes, for now, this is home. Or at least it could serve as one to those less suited to exist in the nothingness than he was.

UnDreamt though, was visibly scowling at the moment, his feathers just shy of bristling, and if Gyre had learned anything in his time with the bird bitty, it was to never ignore when UnDreamt was unhappy.

It wasn’t hard to guess what bothered him, considering the irritable way he kept tossing the maybe inch sized capsule of glowing golden magic back and forth between his hands, glaring at it like it had betrayed him. It had taken so long to get back what had been stolen from him, and now-

“Did you know?” He asks, coldly, not looking up. Like Soot, he took could tell when his nightmare was near, even when Gyre didn’t go to the extra effort of allowing himself to be marginally more visible.

“That you wouldn’t be able to reclaim it?” The nightmare asks, expending the additional magic needed to let them have a more direct conversation. “Not at first. Not until it became clearer what you’d become.”

“A Shattered Dream.” The words fall from his tongue in scorn, sneering. “Who the fuck comes up with this shit?”

“To my understanding? Bitty types often correspond with larger counterparts. Some entities that echo timeline to timeline, and others, multiverse to multiverse. Dreams are one of the second.”

Undreamt flicks his gaze up, the white emptiness of his eyelights cold, but he was listening. “And?”

“And our types echo the choices they make,” Gyre answers bluntly, “Me? I exist because somewhere, some multiverse, a nightmare driven to the point of breaking decided to claim the very power he protected, leaving him with great power at the expense in blood and dust, and in some cases, sanity, corrupting his magic forever. And now, here I am.”

“I’m told my life and choice aligns more with his than many of my type. Maybe some day I’ll find out.”

“…and me?”

Gyre shrugs, grimacing. “No clue. But I’m going to assume it had something to do with that same power, and being pushed to a breaking point of his own. Our types seem to echo similar patterns, and with the end result so close to the same, it’s probably safe to assume that both claimed the same forbidden power they were entrusted to guard.”

“…and ‘non shattered’ dreams?”

“Never ‘indulged.’ The same as passive nightmares.” Even said aloud, the quotes were almost visible.

A scoff, muttering, “So, the lucky ones.”

“…Or the ones who didn’t survive long enough.”

This leaves UnDreamt silent again, before turning his attention back to the vial. “So, eight months, give or take. That’s how long you’ve known I couldn’t take back what was mine.”

“…You have taken it back.”

The massive dream leaps to his feet with a snarl, flaring his wings in fury as he bares the sharpness of his fangs. After a few seconds, it drops to a lower growl, if nothing else due to the futility of challenging someone he couldn’t touch unless he allowed it.

“Do not fuck with me, demon,” The harpy eagle mutters, turning his back. “You may have kept the letter of our deal. But don’t think I won’t do the same.”

Gyre watching him stalk away, muttering low curses under his breath. When he’s almost out of earshot, the nightmare asks, “Why did you think the magic you had when you were made to be sweet, trusting, and hopeful, wouldn’t change when those those things were taken away from you?”

UnDreamt stops, dead in his tracks. He starts to turn, sockets narrowed, only to find Gyre now standing in front of him again, despite never seeming to move. “Why do you think you can just go back to being that again?” A pause, brief, before asking more pointedly, “Why would you want to?”

“-And what makes you think that what you already know can be changed, can’t be changed that way again?”

“I have no intention of only keeping the letter of my bargains,” The demon denies, returning back to the place he’d been only a moment before. “I know how that ends. I’ve lived it, and I have no desire to see it play out again.”

He looks around at the clocktower, already stripped of half it’s parts, before lifting a cyan eyelight to the inner face of the enormous clock, high above. “Once we get this place up and running, I’d like to see that clock working again.” Time after all, was on his side-

“Soot,” He turns his attention to the dust bitty, some small distance above UnDreamt, and watching, having slipped in when the other was distracted. “Are you ready?”

UnDreamt’s gaze jerks up, and his sockets narrow. The dusty nods, slipping his blade away- making sure UnDreamt sees. This time at least, he doesn’t attack the dust. That was a mess that Gyre was tired of having to clean up after. For an instant, the two just exchange a look, before the dream bitty huffs, and turns away, forcing his feathers to smooth. “…Just go.”

Gyre smiles faintly, opening the way to let Soot gain entrance into the sketching. “We’ll be back by midnight,” He assures, adding, not quite as an afterthought, “Someone’s midnight anyway…”

And like that, away… ---

It had taken far longer than it should have, with countless trips back and forth, again and again, between den and prey. A hundred midnights, maybe, but that was the last of it.

He’d deliberately left this place untouched until the end, the last bit of stolen magic this world possessed resting within. Enough demonic magic to shape and end another thousand, thousand dreams-

Or ignite an inferno. Shrieking sirens tried to fill his senses, but he ignored them, watching with a baleful eyelight as infernal fire blazed cruelly in the darkness. It was just a smoldering husk now, really, hellfire worked fast, and had already consumed everything- and everyone- within.

Their ancestors had torn this same magic from their ‘familiar,’ then used it to coax fragile new lives into existence, in order to end them, thousands of times. It was cruelty their descendants had carried on, generation after generation…

…But not anymore. Not these ones, anyway.

He hoped Rantrum would understand being a few family members down, but even if he didn’t- Well, it wasn’t Rantrum’s fight anymore. It was his. And maybe, just maybe, he was suited for it in a way his mage had never been.

Somewhere, some multiverse, a nightmare driven to the point of breaking decided to claim the very power he protected, leaving him with great power at the expense of blood and dust, and in some cases, sanity, corrupting his magic forever-

…He could accept that.

Either way, he could finally reassure himself that the last traces of his magic had been reclaimed from this twisted timeline, stained by the stolen lives of so many dreams. And even if he hadn’t reclaimed even one ten thousandth of the magics stolen from them across multiple human generations? Every place once offering either positive aura for ‘personal use,’ or selling charismatic charms and treatments, now suddenly lacked a supplier.

And that, along with the copious amount of EXP that UnDreamt had torn from a hundred different purveyors of bitty deaths, would have to be enough.

Now, with the last of his business in this timeline done, he could finally leave it behind…

As for what was left of the fire? A gesture of his hand, almost soft, and the licking flames roared ever higher, until something was drawn from them, and back into him. The fires didn’t fall any lower from it, but it wasn’t hellfire anymore-

And that meant it was no longer his problem. He left the fire to burn, and he left the timeline behind.

He was done here. He had more important things to do… ---

It was black, smooth, and unadorned. A heavy cylinder of unidentified metal, maybe five inches long, maybe a little over two in diameter- Not small, for a bitty, no, but not too heavy for him. Not by far.

The thing had the look and feel of a battery, which wasn’t far from the truth. Maybe the most incongruous thing about it was it being cool to the touch- But then, if it wasn’t so heavily insulated, could they have used it at all?

{…How long has it been,} Khary mutters in his head, turning the thing back and forth, slowly, in the tentacle they currently claim, {Since they stole this from me?}

“This, and a hundred more,” Gyre asks, paying only small attention to what they were up to, “Too long.” He holds up his hand, not turning from the careful adjustments he’d made in the greater design, and Khary sets the cylinder of stolen magic in his hand, for him to then slot neatly into place with a small sound of satisfaction. “But we have a few back now, don’t we?”

The… contraption… was based only loosely on the original designs of Rantrum’s ancestor. But a lifetime’s worth of knowledge behind it’s workings had been meticulously scraped from the mage’s soul, along with a hundred generation’s more, and this, this broke down that design to it’s most basic components, it’s most essential parts, while stripping away every safeguard relied on in order to ‘safely’ orchestrate the stolen magics.

He didn’t need them, this magic was his to command. All the meticulous little tinkerings that allowed such structured control wasn’t wanted, or needed. But all the underlying little workings, the manipulations of pooling magics, the understandings of deeper workings…

It was devilishly simple, underneath it all. Each type of bitty was formed by either distinct magics, or combinations thereof, while the magic that shaped wild spawned bitties was ever existent, and ever present. Not only in the timelines that allowed their formation, no, it was everywhere.

Many timelines though, were a morass of the magic, either too gummed together, or intrinsically wound into the rest, to be anything more than enmeshed with the whole. In some, it even seemed like a sort of sticky residue underlying reality, since it was formed of stuff that permeated not only across timelines, but, if what he was made to understand was true, multiverses as well. Allowing for the manifestation of bitty types whose source magics didn’t even exist within their own.

That… being it’s own intimidating concept. Of a sort of magic circulation underpinning reality itself-

Of course, none of this was anything but theory in the end, based on the things he knew, and trying to make sense of things he didn’t. Whether existence of a greater magic circulation was true or not though, the end results were the same. An underlying magic that stretched, timeline to timeline…

Even then, it wasn’t a perfect theory, as the gumming, the enmeshing, wasn’t universal. In some places, it pooled and flowed, and yet still, these worlds didn’t always create bitty. They seemed to lack some underlying spark, some catalyst-

But, in some places, something innate to the nature of ‘bittyverses,’ existed, some trait intrinsic to their nature that made it possible for that magic to self filter, pool, collect, mingle, and finally, manifest.

And that was where his magic had come in. A power source strong enough to create an artificial gravity well of magic, to draw in vast quantities at once that could be filtered, sifted, and force-sparked to life, reducing what was an underlying natural process into something horribly close to the kind of mass production akin to an assembly line of beginnings- and ends.

This did have the side effect of leaving an influence on their magic, born of his, but surely they’d never expected that to prove an actual consequence-

He knew otherwise.

Gyre’s eyelight passed across the simplified mechanisms that he and Soot had fashioned together over the past several weeks, laid out in an exposed grid of delicately wrought connections and softly glowing sigils, wound throughout with his own magic and corruption.

He sets the final battery into a waiting sleeve, and twists it, locking into place with a small ‘click,’ as his dusty and dream both watch, wary, but curious.

And in UnDreamt’s case, scornful as well. “You’re telling me that that’s what made me?” He mutters, anger simmering with empty white eyelights.

“Not exactly.” Gyre denies, admiring the… rather crude, design. “Their design allowed specific bitty types to be spawned, within specific perimeters. This is a simplified version. No settings or filters.”

“…Whatever spawns, does.”

The shattered dream’s sockets narrow at this, though he says nothing. He rarely does. But he takes note of things. In this case, Gyre suspects it was the ‘within specific perimeters’ that caught his attention, but he doesn’t ask for clarification, and Gyre doesn’t offer it.

{…This is it, then.} Khary’s voice sounds… strange. Different than it used to. Hollow somehow. No more pretenses. Too much anger for too long had left them exhausted, and the once mage isn’t hiding that exhaustion anymore. {In theory, it should work…}

{…But we both know that the roads traveled in magic between theory and success, are lined with the dead, and the damned.}

“And we’ll need to test it, over and over even, until we know what it’s capable of.,” Gyre mutters, taking a step to the side, and considering the eldritch runes. “But I decided a long time ago what price I was willing to pay for our mage, and I’ll pay it again in dust and blood, if I need.”

It wasn’t a bluff. He would find the souls he needed, if that was the only way to do this, and if anyone knew that, it was the one who had given over so much of their magic now. But, there was another way to do this, too. And they both knew it.

A long, silent moment, and then Gyre felt something deep inside them, yielding. A mere moment later, the small sphere rested in his hand, cloudy, black and hollow. A husk, gnawed empty across thousands of years.

He recognized it immediately, and a deep fury rolled through him. His mouth curled into an expression of disgust, baring the very edge of his teeth.

Khary’s father. The fucker who started all this.

“…This works.” He mutters.

With the smallest whim, the soul moves from his hand, and leaves the sketching behind, taking its place among the once stolen magic, and the hellish runes.

He would test their machine, then. How fitting.

Gyre didn’t spare a thought for what he’d do if it succeeded. He didn’t expect it to, not yet, this was just to calibrate the thing. A sacrificial soul, so to speak, laid upon the altar. Besides, at this point, there really wasn’t enough left of him to spark life to-

A deep red light began winding through the connecting lines of magic, seeking the sigils, and lighting them with a deep, familiar light. Hellfire? Determination? The once nightmare bitty wasn’t sure he could recognize the difference anymore, not with the magic of both burning so deeply within.

At this point it didn’t really matter, did it? Simply the ends to a means…

With every second, with every sigil, with every reclaimed ‘battery,’ the red deepened as it went, until with a sudden, final flash, new lines zipped across the empty spaces, sparking wildly. The magic focused and built at it’s center, brighter and brighter…

It seemed the bitter old mage had one last scream in him after all, and the sound of pain tore at the air with enough force to leave it wavering and shimmering, like summer heat over hot asphalt. An agonized shriek, unholy shriek, it continued to build as more and more magic was pouring into it-

Gyre remembered hope, despair, and the agony of the flames, and made no attempt to draw it away, spare it pain, or salvage any part. He simply watched, studying the effects of the building magic, the way it flowed and formed, letting it scream and writhe, and finally burn down to nothing. The last spark of a cruel mage, and a heartless father, finally snuffed out.

And even in their silence, he knew Khary watched too.

“…It needs a few adjustments,” Gyre muses, as the contraption begins to dim again, all magic winding back to its ‘proper’ place.

UnDreamt had backed away during the testing until he was now pressed against a far wall, eyelights blown wide in panic, and every feather bristling, while Soot, who had remained crouched a scarce few inches from the carefully contained heat of it the entire time, remained as deadpan as ever, gazing at the lingering scorchmarks indifferently.

Still, the dusty looks back at him, signing, “Again?”

“Give it a moment to finish cooling,” He agrees coolly, “Then, yes. Again.” And again, and again, and again. As many times as it took, he didn’t care. “But first, I need a few things adjusted-”

The shattered dream continues to stare for several seconds, a terrified, dangerous bird, but his hackles slowly begin to lower as both continue to ‘ignore’ him. Finally his feathers start to lower again, and with a low growl, he seems to shake off the last of his panic.

Only then does Gyre spare him as much as a glance, as a coil lifts the scuffed fountain pen used to etch the connecting lines. “I need a better pen, and a selection of nibs for a wider range of control. Ask an ink bitty about it if you need to, but don’t let them follow you.”

UnDreamt pauses and looks at him for the span of a few seconds, before nodding, and moving to the edge of the tower, disappearing though one of the many holes now lining its outer walls.

…Somewhere above, the tower clock begins to chime. ---

First the father. Then the brother. They didn’t remember which one, didn’t remember name or face, but as his soul burned, Gyre liked to imagine it was the one who’d thrown their book onto the street, scattering pages as he laughed.

Next was his son, then that son’s daughter, then her own heir. One by one, first in order of time, then simply in order of how much Khary hated them. The weaponsmith he took note of, as well as the one who’d mastered the summoning system he was using now-

While he was tempted to simply watch this one burn, he did his level best to successfully complete the summoning just the same- He didn’t exactly grieve however, when this one, burned.

After the first few, Khary didn’t hesitate to hand them over anymore. Over and over again, they handed away the souls they’d clutched so desperately, so hatefully, for so many lifetimes. A dozen minute adjustments, then a hundred. Silently, they watched, rarely saying anything at all.

The first hundred souls were husks, nothing more, shells that fell to screams and fire, and Gyre watched impassively. Soot knew who they were, UnDreamt only knew they were those who’d made the mistake of crossing a demon, and knew too what he was trying to do. One goal, one single goal, and a hundred souls more, he’d willingly watch burn…

…If it were anyone else, he’d falter, he’d stop, he’d tear himself apart with guilt-

But he’d seen now, what so many of them had done with this magic. And knew most of all, what those most hollowed out had done, as Khary relaying in quiet, meticulous detail.

At one point, he wondered briefly whether the once mage were lying, as he held a small blue marble in his hand, wondering briefly about the life it had once held. This one was more intact that many of the others had been-

He hadn’t expected any of those to survive, they were merely pebbles to toss ahead as they walked blindly, to listen, and see if anything lay ahead, or nothing at all, by the sound of their fall. But this one… This one was different. He could see this one being whole enough to work.

…But, what would he do, if it did? If it in fact summoned a new bitty around a preexisting soul? If he did it right, the magic making up their new life would repair the damage done, and the soul would live again. Did he want that? Was he willing to let someone who’d caused so much pain have a second chance?

{Will you kill a brand new bitty, the moment they’re spawned?} Khary counters, quietly, {With no way to understand what they’ve done to deserve dying?}

“They were your abusers.” Gyre points out coldly.

{Then listen to me,} Khary urges, that same… humanity, that he heard in their voice of late, {Before you become a worse demon than I am.}

“…Enough.” Gyre mutters, half tossing the soul of shimmering blue to catch in the carefully rewoven web of magic. It was so much more intricate now, but still it was raw magic, exposed and shimmering with power. “Let’s see if it works. Then we’ll decide.”

Again, the magic rushes to life. Again it sparks through the air, arcing wildly, with the smell of metal, blood, and lightning. Again he feels its shape and form, again his will guides it, again he weaves the rote and rhyme of the sigils, once in their etchings, another in his intent, the last in sheer strength of will. And here, here is where the screams begin-

Except. They don’t. It takes a moment of waiting for something that doesn’t come to realize… It’s working. And that small instant is enough to shatter his focus, and he feels his control begin to waver-

And then he hears it, a cry of pain, different form the others, desperate and new and afraid, and something in his seizes, and he reaches out with both tentacles, grasping onto the ropes of exposed raw magics, and pulls it back into control, with every once of his will, every ounce of determination that rises to his command.

The scream fades off into a sob, and shuddering, he continues to guide the repair, and within moments, the damage is mended. He stares, disbelieving and trying desperately not to tremble at the perfect little soul, shimmering, sweet and blue… and, innocent.

…Reborn. A single shudder traces down a spine he no longer possesses. He could smell the burning of his own corruption. It seemed that he and Khary didn’t fully overlap just yet, and the raw magic coursing through him burns where he clutches it, burns like he remembers it burning that first time, in the once-mage’s distant memory. It’s agony, and he feels sick, and every instinct screams at him to let go-

Except the one, louder than all the rest, that tells him to hold on, no matter what, to hold on.

It was strange, watching a new bitty spawn in existence, and as he held his breath, he watched the flecks of magic each swirl from the ether, each dimming as it finds its place to a single speck of dust, making up the greater whole of new life.

He’s heaving for breath, shaking, barely able to hold on… But he does. And slowly, slowly…

…A cry, new and small. Not pain this time. Slowly, the circle begins to return to neutral, each spark of magic returning to it’s place-

Save the tiny infant, lying there bare to the world, clutched fists and delicate bones, sobbing the unfairness and confusion of new life after so long of being nothing.

Gyre slowly slumps to his knees, shuddering as his body tries to return to something like its normal, and the burning slowly begins to ease, even as the smell continues to hang in the air. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why the baby is crying too…

“Is- Is it- Is-?” He chokes, and falls silent, unable to say the words. Did it remember the pain?

{No. It never knew the pain.} Khary knows his question, without even being spoken, and he sags with relief that they know the answer too. {It’s new,} Quiet. Softly awed. {Brand new, from the time it sparked. It will know nothing before it’s first breath.}

{…Gyre. It’s untouched by our contract.}

The words are so simple, but they sink in like the weight of countless moments leading to this point, the weight of countless screams, and sundered souls.

They’d… done it. He thought he’d be shouting, be sobbing, be… anything, but just staring, quietly stunned as the new bitty cried, it’s tiny fists trembling from the sheer force of its wail. They’d done it.

{It worked,} The once mage prompts after a moment, {So this is the ‘then’ that we decide. Will you kill a brand new bitty, the moment they’re spawned? With no way to understand what they’ve done to deserve dying?}

Gyre falls silent, as no one moves to comfort, moves to sooth. Finally swallowing, he braces himself, pushing himself slowly to his feet, and staggers closer, still unsteady. For a moment he almost loses the tether, but growls under his breath, steadies himself, and continues forward.

When he reaches the end of the sketching, he pushes, and it… moves. Forward. Just a few inches, but it does, not loosing its tether, not needing to be steered on it’s wild course, and resecured, just… moving. Such a scant, small motion… but it moves.

…Slowly, gently, a tentacle curls around the tiny form, and Gyre lifts it, with utmost care. A baby bitty…

He’d never… He’d never actually seen one before. Never held one.

“No,” He whispers, his eyelight taking in every tiny detail in amazement, every perfect joint and bone. “That crime was someone else’s weight to bear. Not hers.” He takes her tiny hand in his, and she opens her sockets, and she looks up, her sobs trailing to a small whimper as she’s held.

“A baby blue,” Gyre mumbles softly, amazed. Her eyelights are such a sweet, perfect blue. A soul of integrity, tempered by patience. “She’s a baby blue.”

{…She?} Khary sounds, briefly, amused, but that quickly fades, and they don’t press it further. {Alright. What will you name her then?}

Gyre pauses briefly, confused. “What?”

{You made her,} Khary points out, very clearly watching him, even if it’s from somewhere behind his own eyelight, {This is where you name her, right? And take her under your tentacle, and raise her as your own, sharing her time between our little prison, and the tower out there-}

{And hope our magic doesn’t wake something that might still somehow be dormant inside her,} They continue, their words more pointed now, {And hope the ones who killed Rantrum, never come looking for us here- and use her, to hurt you.”

…Oh. His soul sinks, as he looks at the tiny thing tucked safely in his tentacles. Except… That was the one place she wasn’t safe, wasn’t it? For several seconds, he just continues to stare, until she sniffles again, and her sockets start welling back up with tears-

“Soot,” Gyre’s voice cracks, as he turns to his dusty. “Find somewhere safe for her. Someone that will take care of her, and… be good.”

Be good? Really? Was that the best he could do?

His dusty asks no questions, simply turning and leaving, and he knows the other won’t fail.

She had threads of fate, newly woven. She had a life ahead of her…

…They all would.

Gyre suddenly feels the need to sit, and does, still cradling the child close. He feels UnDreamt’s eyelights on him, and hears the light sound of talons as they step against old wood, until at last, the dream bitty stands there before him, towering over him. Watching, and saying nothing.

So slowly, the dangerous bird of prey crouches down, and extends a hand, his claw stopping just short of her tender cheek. After a moment, he turns his hand, to brush a light knuckle against soft bone.

“She was one of them?” He asks quietly, his tone hard to read.

“Was,” Gyre agrees, putting soft emphasis on the past tense in the word. “Now she’s one of us.”

At first, it didn’t seem like the shattered dream would accept this, but after a few seconds, he just makes a small sound of acceptance, and stands again. “There will be more?” He presses, watching his nightmare, still intently.

“There will.” He knew that now. “And they’ll need places to go.” Gyre lifts his gaze to meet his dream’s. “Will you help me find them?” This wasn’t an order, it wasn’t a commend of contract, but after a moment, UnDreamt nods, and steps away. Nothing more is said.

Maybe, nothing more needs to be… ---

There were almost thirty marks now, etched into weathered stone. He was keeping track, out of curiosity, more than anything.

Thirty two successes, out of the many, many souls he’d attempted to revive. At first the ‘procedure’ was largely hit and miss, but each time, he’d learned how to adjust his manipulations in the tiniest ways, and each time, success came sooner, and more sure.

Of the last fifty attempts, any soul that had been left more than a hollowed out husk had been successfully revived, even a few he’d been surprised by. Khary hadn’t, it seemed, hated every ‘master’ equally. He supposed that made sense.

He’d only faltered once more on being handed a soul, this more recent than most of those that had been gnawed so empty. It was meticulously hollowed, a cold rage, rather than a hot fury, and deliberately left with enough sense of self to be aware of it’s own suffering.

{The archmage,} Khary had explained, in a quiet deadpan, {Rantrum’s father.}

By that point, he knew it was enough to restore. He could give the bastard a second chance, despite all the tears he’d left on the cheeks of a young, lonely mageling…

…Or, he could burn him. It was still a choice.

He knew what Rantrum’s would ask him to do though, if he were here… so he did.

A boss bitty… A little fell papyrus. How… fitting. One more on the list, beside the others. Fell bitties had been unsurprisingly common, but there’d been a couple other baby blues as well, and even a few classic sansys. Most were sansys, but there were a few papyri as well, and even a muffet, and swap alphys.

Once, it had been a dust babybones curled up on the stone, and Soot had picked it up, and stared for a very long time, at both him and his little spectral papyrus. His own papyrus had stared too, strangely still for once.

In the end, UnDreamt had taken the babybones, and Soot hadn’t protested, though he’d been more introspective over the next few days. And if he asked leave to linger longer on his next few missions, Gyre gave it willingly.

After that, Soot seemed satisfied, but Gyre noticed that something in his lines of fate had changed. Every possible weaving of his life’s thread now, as far ahead as Gyre could see, wove into place beside his nightmare’s.

It was… comforting. And more than worth the mercy.

Again, as over two hundred times before now, the summoning circle was carefully prepared. Every line, every sigil, every battery, all checked for continued integrity, as well as the integrity of the timeline itself, to make sure that so much use of his magic hadn’t compromised it.

It was routine, a mental checklist of sorts, and he did it by rote, making certain everything was precise and in place. He needed to get this right, because the more times he got it right now, the better the chance he had of getting it right when it really mattered.

Finally satisfied, he straightens, looks over it all, and says softly, aloud, “We’re getting close, aren’t we?” Just a few more times, and-

“-One more.”

{…No.}

Caught off guard, Gyre almost turns, as though expecting to be able to, and see the other behind him. A frown crosses his face, unsure what’s prompting the demon to refuse, but not happy about it. “But we did it,” He points out, confusion creasing his brow. “We can do it. We don’t even need them all, I just want to make sure-”

{We’ve already used them all.} They sound strange. Quiet. {There’s none left, little smudge. Just him.}

Stunned into silence, Gyre just stares at the waiting circle, the words echoing over and over in his mind. But he was sure- He’d thought-

“How… How many?” He asks, still reeling with this. “How many did we use?”

{…Two hundred} Khary answers, their voice dull and even, {And seventy-five. He makes seventy-six.}

Gyre lets this sink in, and takes a moment too, to understand what it really means. Those had been their trophies, their payment, each soul they’d carried with them marking an entire lifetime’s worth of enslavement. Their only recompense after the pain of that lifetime was done, and knowing they’d be allowed to answer for that suffering, the only solace they were given.

And they’d given him every one.

{…Our last chance,} Khary warns, allowing the last small soul to slip into his hand, beautiful bands of integrity and perseverance gleaming in the faint, demonic light cast from the glowing sigils. {Make the most of it.}

Last chance…

The soul slipped from his fingers, drifting to it’s place as though by will of it’s own. No goodbyes, no requests for luck. He was numb. He was terrified. He had to get this right.

Soot lifted his head, and sitting up from his spot in the rafters, and turning to watch. UnDreamt turned from his view of the world beyond the tower, that empty gaze fixing on the deep red glow. They’d done this hundreds of times now.

He’d done this hundreds of time. It was routine. It was practiced.

It would work.

“…” It had. To work.

It started as it always had. A deep red light that began winding through connecting lines of magic, seeking the sigils, and igniting them with a vibrant, terrifying light. He can’t shake. He can’t let tears cloud his eyelight. He has to focus. With every second the red deepens as it goes, until with a sudden, final flash, new lines zip across the empty spaces, sparking wildly-

No, no, no, stop, I changed my mind, please stop-! The words ring inside his skull until they deafen him, until it takes every drop of will he has not to try to yank it back-

Then something reaches out, and he feels another hand steady his. {Let me,} A whisper, quiet, strong, determined. Gyre hesitates, looks at the soul in the middle of volatile mess of hellfire magic, and slowly, nods, allowing the once mage to help him. A burning warmth grows inside him, and his trembling steadies, breath escaping him in a rush.

He’s done this a hundred times now. Two hundred and seventy five, even. He knew every arc of magic, he knew every twist and spark, it was his to shape, his to command-

The magic focuses, and builds at it’s center, brighter and brighter…

And there they were. Flecks of magic. Motes, no more. Beautiful and perfect, they swirl from the ether, each softly dimming as it finds its place, a single speck of dust, together making up a greater whole of new life.

Slowly, the circle begins to return to neutral, each spark of magic returning to it’s place.

A small figure lies, still and silent.

The hand steadying his fades to nothing. An arm he’d felt wrapped around him, supporting him, moments before, falls away, and is gone.

Their absence, though he’d never felt them there before, aches…

Then the figure stirs. The smallest movement. Gyre knows this part, and on instinct he steps closer, closer, stubbornly reshaping the sketching as he goes. This time though, he bends to one knee, and reaches for the tiny babybones, turning them-

Vivid lavender eyelights look up at him, gentle, confused, and unsure, and something deep inside him seems to just… fall away…

A… nightmare. A little passive nightmare, with a soul he recognizes with every part of him, as much as it’s changed. As much as it can never be him again… It’s him. It’s still him.

So gently, he scoops the child into his arms, aqua tears falling from his good socket. He doesn’t try to stop them, but the infant’s brow wrinkles in worry, and he squirms, trying vainly to reach out for the other nightmare.

UnDreamt walks closer, slowly, wary. Something in his stance different from the last few times he’d done this.

“…This is him?”

A nod, silent, before simply wrapping both arms around the bab, holding him close. His mage. Everything would be all right now, it would all be-

{…Gyre?} The once-mage’s voice interrupts, quietly, firmly, {He’s unmarked by our contract. But look at him. He knows you.}

{…If we keep him. You’ll damn him again.}

A sob, broken and so, so quiet, shakes the corrupted nightmare. The babybones in his arms whines, confused, reaching out a tiny hand to rest against the larger nightmare’s cheek as Gyre continues sobbing, unashamed.

{…Gyre-}

“I- I know,” A whisper, deeply broken, “I know, I know-”

The soul bond between them was gone, but Khary was right, Rantrum recognized him, and it that started to repair-

A small shudder traces through him as he closes his socket, leaning close to the new little nightmare, whispering, “I love you. I will always love you. But who you are, is how I mourn who you were. And giving you the life you gave up having, is how I let you go.”

A demon’s kiss against a tiny brow, and he lifts his head, meeting UnDreamt’s watching eyelight. “He wanted a family,” Gyre says, quietly. “A father. A brother. Someone to love him…”

“I know someone.” UnDreamt mutters, lifting the babybones from his arms. And Gyre? Gyre lets him. What else can he do? He lets go of the little nightmare, and he lets go of the dream he;d once had that they could ever be together again.

He watches UnDreamt fly away, carrying what had once been his whole world, in his arms… ---

Night had fallen hours before, casting the forest below into darkness. All good little day birds should be tucked away at this hour, leaving the world for the owls and other night birds to claim- But then, he wasn’t a good little day bird, was he?

The cool night air meant flying cost him more, more effort, more magic, but he knew this couldn’t wait for morning.

Morning… Mourning. That’s what the demon had called the little nightmare.

…His way to mourn.

UnDreamt spared at glance at the tiny babybones in his arms, currently shivering from the bite of the wind, even pressed close to his chest. Dreams and nightmares, nightmares and dreams…

What was it like, to be a dream that had a nightmare? He couldn’t imagine it, and honestly, eh wasn’t really interested enough to try.

He knew someone who did know though, and even in the darkness, even through the leaves, UnDreamt managed to pick out his huddled form hiding in the treetops. A dream like him, tucked against a branch, his wings limp and head bowed. The picture of defeat, of surrender-

Perfect.

He drops from the sky, flaring his wings wide at the last second to break his fall, and drops to a branch beside the much smaller dream. The other bitty doesn’t react, or even seem to notice that he’s there, but slowly, reluctantly, he turns his head, one dull eyelight fixing on the much, much larger harpy eagle beside him. He says nothing though, just watching, head still bowed, wings still limp-

Then his gaze falls on the babybones, tiny as thought, in the larger dream’s arms, and confusion slowly registers in his expression. He lifts his head a little, suddenly wary, and not sure why.

“Uh… What…?” He starts, only for the question to be interrupted as UnDreamt grabs his arm, lifts it, and shoves the infant into his grasp. He just blinks, confused, not even yelping at the sudden rough handling. Instinctively his grip firms, and he looks down to see what he’s holding-

Lavender eyelights look up at him, brimming now with tears as the babybones in his arms shivers, now scared and cold as well as confused.

“…What.” He looks up in blank confusion. “What is this?”

“Your nightmare hasn’t even been dust a week,” UnDreamt answers coldly, “I didn’t think you’d already managed to forgot one looks like.”

Despite the cruelty of his words, he looks even more annoyed when the other wilts at his words, his wings falling to his sides, trembling. “But- But why bring-?”

“…Why do you think?”

Silence falls, and as the obvious answer settles in the other dream’s mind, he stares in dismay at the babybones in his arms, now stirring and whimpering at the turmoil brewing in the soul of the one holding him. Only hours old, and already been so many big feelings from every side-

The wild dream is shaking now. From his point of view, the harpy eagle is a thing of pure terror, a massive dream that towered over him, radiating negativity and violent intent, a creature of blank eyelights, each of the eagle’s talons longer than his own arms, and far more hooked and cruel.

Before meeting UnDreamt, the thought that such a creature could exist had never occurred to him. He was everything that dreams shouldn’t be, everything they stood against-!

He starts to ask where the little nightmare’s dream is, but looking at the shattered, the words die on his togue, as he’s suddenly certain he doesn’t want to know the answer.

“I don’t want-” He starts, only to be interrupted by the solid crack of the other’s talons snapping heavy bark without effort as he steps closer again, making him stumble back again.

This time though, he stops short, breathing hard, and flaring his own wings in answer as he growls, angry himself now, “I said, I don’t want him!”

At this, the babybones in his arms finally begins to wail, crying out his distress and fear as all the negativity finally becomes too much.

The smaller dream falters, wings starting to fall back to his sides, torn between anger, grief, and the need to comfort the tiny creature in his arms. The one that looked up at him with those same eyelights his brother had once had.

Any trace of anger gone, he’s left staring helplessly into the familiar lavender. “How- How am I even supposed to raise a ground-bound nightmare?”

“Try not to kill this one,” UnDreamt suggests coldly, “And I think you’ll be fine.”

Even from the shattered dream it’s a cruel blow, and the smaller dream’s eyelights go out as he stumbles backwards, shaking, and hugging the wailing babybones that much more tightly. The memory claws at his soul, still fresh and raw, forcing him to relive what had happened only a few night’s before-

There had been nothing of his brother left in the other bitty’s sole remaining eyelight, any lingering trace of the eager and hopeful nightmare he’d once been swallowed up in a rage of bitterness, resentment, and hate, once soft lavender giving way to furious aqua. It hadn’t mattered anymore what he’d said to him, how he’d pleaded or what was promised.

Every apology, every vow, given far too late to ever go back to what they’d been before-

A sob, as the smaller dream sinks to the branch, still clutching the child close. “I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! It’s not fair! You can’t-”

“You can’t just replace him!!!!” The raw force of the cry tears at his throat, the night forest stirring at the sheer force of it, with winged things rising from the trees in alarm, as shaking, he still clutches the little nightmare.

Silence stretches again, broken only by the sound of the infant, still sobbing, as golden tears brim in the smaller dream’s sockets. There’s no way around this, and he knows it. He has no choice but to take the infant, unless he wants to abandon the little nightmare to the shattered dream- or worse, to the forest floor.

His body language reading defeat, the wild dream finally asks, sounding hollow, “What’s his name?”

The harpy remembers his nightmare, kneeling on the ground, pain and joy both radiating from his, as he kisses the infant’s brow. “Mourning,” Is the quiet answer, his voice gruff, but lacking the aggression it had only moments before, amending, after a moment’s thought, “Mourn.”

“Wha-?” The wild dream looks up, confused, to find the shattered already lifting his wings, gone before he can finish asking the question. He stares, disbelief registering his eyelights, at this, on top of everything else.

A nightmare? Named Morning?

A soft, shaky breath, nuzzling the crying child softly. “What am I suppposed to call myself, if you’re named after the Morning?” He asks, bemused by the question. “Evening?”

Maybe that worked. They were supposed to be two sides of the same coins, dreams and nightmares. He’d let himself forget that once, and it had cost him everything. Maybe this would keep him from forgetting again.

“Morne,” He decides at last, pressing kisses to his brow, and holding him gently, “It’s okay, Morne. I’m- I’m Eventide. Um…”

“…Entide. I’m Entide. I’m your brother.” Golden tears spill down his cheeks, as he says it again. “I’m, I’m your brother. I’m going to take care of you now. I’m going to keep you safe. I’m going to- I’m going to protect you- Make sure, no one ever hurts-”

Another sob, soft and broken, as he holds his new brother close, folding his wings gently around him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll do better this time, I promise. I-”

“…I won’t let anyone hurt you. Ever again.”

---

[bellsofblueficlets]

The Demon They Were All Along

He was dreaming again. This time though, there was no point where he didn't know it, and no point where he didn't know that he was living someone else's memories. There was also no illusion of control, always well aware that he sat in the passenger seat, as someone's life played out before him.

Yet for some reason, he wasn't afraid. Confused, yes. But afraid? No. He wondered why he was there, he wondered what was happening, and remembered Rantrum, saying he wouldn't be visiting his dreams again. That had been such a long time ago, but there was no doubt this was a dream. There was no doubt too, that this was a memory.

Despite all of this being true? It still felt like his own memory. And if still felt like he was the one reliving it.

…It started in that same library, again. There was a moment of disorientation, where he expected to be small, and semi liquid, and trapped.

Instead, he was tall enough to push the chair across the room. He was tall enough to push it against the bookshelf, and climb on top of the seat to read a book.

He was aware too, of feeling furtive, unsure. Casting uncertain glances at the door, like he might get caught any moment, being somewhere he shouldn't.

Why did that feel familiar?

…Oh. Rantrum. Of course. This feeling was the same as the look on the face of the child version of him. If I get caught, I'm going to get in trouble, side by side with, I don't want to get in trouble. Not again.

He relived the memory strangely, broken. One instant looking for a book, the next slipping back out the library door, and next, stepping outside, still in stealth mode.

There was sunlight. It wasn't like seeing sunlight from the sketching. It was so bright. Impossibly bright. Warm, no, hot on his skin.

…Skin? Yes. Skin. That was… it should have felt so much more alien. It didn't.

He had a feeling as they walked together that this was a memory of sunlight, not the real thing. Well, obviously not the real thing, but- This was the memory of sunlight, conjured by someone who hadn't seen the real thing in so long that only the most vague of ideas remained.

Bright, so bright that sometimes it was blinding. And hot, falling against his skin.

There was no city, in the outside they slipped out into. No, here were rolling hills, and a cobblestone road, aged and broken. A big tree, heavy with ripe apples. One came away under his hand, despite not having been close enough only moments before. His teeth broke the skin, juice flooding into his mouth. He remembered that feeling.

He didn't remember the taste of the apple, though. His mind tried to conjure it, but he still remembered that sound, that feeling, as his teeth broke through the crisp skin. That wasn't his memory as a bitty, the apple skin hadn't been so crisp, so easily pierced. It was the demon's memory.

By the edge of the field, he found a bed of wildflowers, and crouched down, hiding, before taking out the book, and starting to read.

The words had no meaning, running together, garbled and useless. It felt like that hadn't been the case at the time though. He felt his heartbeat quicken. He felt excitement. He felt a spark he couldn't define, and hope. Then the memory faded.

When the next memory started, it was less abstract. Mostly. The sunlight was still impossible. There were a few details unclear. But it was closer to before, and he felt more firmly settled in the memory. It felt like, it he tried, if he was willing, he could slip into it completely. That the memory would start being his.

Somewhere, an eternity away, a nightmare bitty accepted this. The dream started to fit a little better. He They found themself in an especially old memory, one of their father's house, startlingly empty. There'd been more furniture back when they was younger, there had been at least a few members left of the house staff too, though any attempts to remember what they looked like fell through.

Everything was aged, broken down from disuse, and dusty from neglect. IThey didn't pause to dwell on this though, taking the stairs two at a time, at breakneck speed. They needed to hurry, hurry! It would be late for-!

They'd been rounding a third hallway when they stopped so abruptly that the strap holding their books fell hard against their back, and they winced at the sharp sound, certain they'd been heard by those same voices that stopped them in their tracks. And in fact, the voices did suddenly fall silent, as the child they'd once been bit their lip, and hoped they'd resume. Hoped no one would come see what had made the sound.

Instead, someone taller than them poked their head through the doorway. The memories of physical appearance were imperfect again, like before, but this time it felt deliberate. Less like not being able to remember, and more like wanting to forget.

There was sandy blond hair, and a school uniform of sort sort. There were the eyes of sharp blue that so many in it's family had, and a smirk, and amusement coloring its tone.

Something in their chest trembled and tightened. They turned their eyes away from their brother, and he snorted, turning his head to say back to the room he had come from, "It's just the demon, running behind again." This was echoed by a sharp familiar laughter that made something inside them feel like it was curling up.

Their older brother turned back, and taunted, "Up late, demon? You're never going to catch up that way." Before they knew what was happening, their big brother had stepped forward, grabbing the strap of books with a wide grin. "Here, let me help you!"

"N-no! I- I need those!" The voice that came from their throat was tremulous, and not as deep as Gyre knew their voice to be now. They grabbed for the books, only to have them yanked away a second time, and dangled out of reach.

"I'm just trying to help you!" Their brother goads again, and the laughter follows as he turns, walking away with long, sharp strides that leave it scrambling to keep up.

"Please, just give them back! I'm already late!"

"I'm helping," Their brother maintains stubbornly, still smiling wide in amusement as he pulled the door open, using his free hand to keep his younger sibling back long enough to throw the books, strap and all, as far as he could.

They yell again, "No!" as the old books hit the cobblestone, and pretty much explode from the impact. The covers rupture, the pages go flying-

Desperate to scoop them up as quickly as they can, the child tries to run past him, only to find themself grabbed by their arm, hard, not letting them run outside. "Now look what happened," Their brother grinned, his tone mocking as he refused to let go. "Guess you shouldn't have gotten up late again, huh? Boy, dad's gonna be mad-"

They feel a curl of absolute fear at his words, redoubling their effort to reach the pages, now fluttering down the road. They're pushing, pulling, fighting- He's not letting go. They're not strong enough, they can't-

"What's wrong? Can't get away? Shame you can't just use your magic and fight me. Oh, but the little demon doesn't know how to use magic yet, does she? Maybe if you-""

The words are cut short by a sound of anger, and pain, as they spin in desperation, and sink their nails hard into the arm holding them back. He doesn't let go, throwing them to the ground instead, and they hit, hard. His face is dark with fury as they scramble away, and run to start scooping up what papers they can.

…Then he laughs again, looking at his arm, before going back inside, "Hey, look what the little demon-" The door closed behind him with a heavy click, cutting off whatever else he'd been going to say.

Demon, demon, demon- Tears roll down the child's cheeks, as they clutch what papers they'd managed to save to their chest, the rest already gone.

Sniffling, they turned to look towards their school, just out of sight. If they went now, they'd show up covered in tears, and their teachers would be waiting for them, ready to scold them for being late, only to find them with an armful of loose paper from destroyed books. They'd be angry, and accuse them of being careless, and tell them how disappointed their father would-

…Their father.

Khary doesn't go to school that day, turning away instead, and walking on trembling legs into the field in the opposite direction. Their legs feel like rubber as they walk, thinking to themselves that maybe they'll just keep going. Maybe they'll run away. Maybe-

This memory fades in turn, and there's a moment of disorientation as the next begins, and they find themself face to face with an older child, maybe early teens, with strawberry brown hair and cheeks red from the cold. Dark eyes look back at them, and in this light it's impossible to deny the red there, tinting their deep brown.

…Demon.

They close their eyes, and it's only as they turn away from the mirror that it fully registers that they'd been looking at their own reflection.

So… that's what it had looked like. As a child, at least.

Human. Just… human.

…Just a kid.

A deep breath, as they try to brace themself against what they know is coming. The results of the last few month's efforts were about to be posted, and they… they knew they hadn't done well. But seeing it in writing…

They only half notice their surroundings as they step back into the hall. They're still certain every eye turns to them, still certain that other students are watching them, and whispering behind their hands. They feel sick, and hollow. Empty.

Everyone is gathered at the far end of the auditorium, whispering excitedly as they found their scores among those displayed, along with the assigned classes they'll be transferred to, some to strengthen areas that needed improvement, others to further hone already adept skills further-

They'd been convinced everyone would be staring at them, but no one even looked their way. Unwilling to approach with so many people crowded around the list, they waited… and waited… and waited.

Eventually, most of the students wandered off, reach ready to head off to their newly assigned classes. A few gave them a curious, or pitying glance as they passed. One, at least one, whispered something to a friend, of which they heard only one word.

Demon.

They gave no sign they noticed, just taking another deep breath, and walking up to the list at last. They started at the top, and read down from there. They didn't expect their name to be at the top, but they didn't know for sure just how far down their score would be- and maybe they hoped, just a little. Maybe-

The further down the list they read without finding their name though, the more their heart sank. The passed the halfway mark… Okay, that was fine. Not everyone could be in the top half of their grade. They kept going, reading further and further, and still not finding their name.

Please, please. Don't let them have the lowest score. Stars take them, just don't make them to go back home, the worst mage in their year. They'd never hear the end of it.

There were only a few names left, and their eyes were brimming with tears, their breaths gone shaky. They didn't look, not yet. Just… let them not be the…

Having reached the last name on the list, they stare, confused. It wasn't theirs. What? Their gaze flicks back up, and they scan the list again. Again. They can't breathe. What did this mean? What did-

Footsteps sound quietly behind them, and then there their headmaster stands. They look quickly around, but everyone else has left.

The headmaster has no features. Not masculine, not feminine… In truth they barely have a face. "I- I think there's been a mistake," Kháry whispers, their voice trembling. "My- my name. I can't- I can't-"

Their answer is offered in a scratched, utterly inhuman voice, to the point of almost mechanical. Another deliberately scratched out memory. "I'm afraid there's no mistake-" Whatever name the headmaster offers is scratched out too, before continuing, "I'm sorry. But after reviewing-"

Most of the exact words are lost, to memory, to pain. But here and there, broken strings of words force themselves through. "Please don't think- Not everyone- There are plenty of people- We've decided…"

"…just think you would be better suited at a different school. With a less… magic based curriculum."

At the end, they fall silent, watching Kháry. "I'm sorry," They offer, quietly. "I know with a family history of magic like yours, this can be hard to hear. But, sometimes magical ability just-"

Though the headmaster said more, they heard nothing but a low drone now, a buzz that filled their ears. They'd thought they knew the worst possibility they might have had to look forward to, but… they'd been wrong. This was worse.

Kháry closed their eyes, and wished the whole thing would just… go away. They'd be somewhere else. They-

And then because it was a dream, they were. But where they were, was far worse. This was their father's den. He liked to keep it brightly lit, they remembered that. It was the only place, too, where the furniture was still new, still polished. Usually by them.

Looking across his desk felt like looking across the deck of a ship. It was that big. And in the bright, richly furnished room, across that carefully polished desk-

Sat nothing. They knew it was their father, but just… There was nothing there but a pair of blue eyes, watching them. They could have been glacial ice for all the warmth or mercy they saw there. "My only-" Like the other, his voice was… distorted. Twisted into something wrong. Something that shouldn't exist. "Have you any idea-"

"…never been anything but a disappointment."

"…even you would fail me this badly."

They want to look away, but if they do he'll accuse them of ignoring him, and be angry. And they don't dare cry, since he'd just look at them with even more disgust.

"…out of my sight."

The world spins again. The dream changes. Their knees are hugged to their chest, as they sob beside the worn granite stone. They had no memory of their mother, they'd been too young when she'd died. Sometimes they wonder what life would have been like with her around. Would she have comforted them? Or just been disgusted too?

All that mattered was that no one would find them here. No one ever visited the family cemetary anymore. And certainly no one looked after it.

Here laid their family. Some of the most powerful mages of their world. Master spellcasters, skilled enchanters, and adept prodigies proficient in every type of magic a person could name. And here… them.

What was wrong with them? Why were they like this? They just… They just didn't want to be a failure anymore…

A crack of distant thunder. A storm was brewing. They didn't rise from their place beside the grave.

…Just, let them stay there. A little longer. Just a little longer.

…Again, the scene changed. Kháry was binding their hair up in a loose ponytail. They'd grown it out over the past few years, mostly just through putting off getting their haircut. Yes, it cost them a few scathing looks, but what difference did it make?

They knew what they were.

They were the failed mage.

The demon.

They didn't care anymore.

It had been years since they'd last taken the stairs two at a time, these days walking with a more controlled, proper gait. They straightened their jacket, glancing towards the parlor doors, behind which they could still hear their brothers whispering.

Some things never changed. They didn't spare it more than a glance these days. They had places to be, and it was a few miles walk into the city. The earlier they started, the better.

Life had changed, after being 'let go' by the mage school. Rather than find another, and give a non magic based curriculim a chance, they'd decided to apprentice with a woodworker in town instead. And as they quickly learned, they were good at it. They had a sharp eye, and very quickly developed a skill with a blade, and before they knew it they were meticulously detailing the kind of elaborate furnishings that men like their father could no longer afford.

The combination of the strength resulting from hard labor, and their skillful hands, had drawn attention to them as they grew older. And taller. People called them lanky now. People called them skilled, and strong. Some even called them handsome.

Once in the city, they caught a few young women watching them from the corner of their eye, and sometimes young men too. They didn't mind as much anymore, being stared at. These days when people called them demon, it was in tease, in flirt. That 'handsome lad' with the 'dark smile,' 'intense gaze', and 'smoldering eyes.'

They embraced it. If it gave them something soft to hold? If it gave them a few moment's respite from their solitude? Then let them be the demon. They'd learned not to get attached.

But whether bold or blushing, lovely or handsome, soft or strong, or any combination of the above, it was the idea of 'the demon' that left them flustered, not who they were. And when dawn came…

Well. Who they were wasn't exactly something anyone wanted to bring home to meet the family.

Right now though, they had work. And they looked forward to it.

At least they did, until they stepped into the woodworker's shop, and spotted their father. He was talking to the woodworker they'd apprenticed with, looking over some of their own work.

Fear curled in their stomach like a living thing. What was he doing here? They'd barely laid eyes in him since they'd been cut from school, no longer worth his time, and truthfully they'd been better for it.

They just needed a little more time. Another year of apprenticeship, and then the woodworker would hire him on at full wage. Then they could move into the city, and leave their father, their brothers, that place, all behind, and never have to feel trapped behind those walls again.

Kháry swallowed, hard, and debated backing away- But no, too late. Their father turned, even as the woodworker repeated, leaving them alone, and his gaze settled on them. "You did this?" He asks, gesturing towards the cabinet. Kháry can only nod. He grunts, and looks back over it.

"…I suppose even magicless disappointments can be useful for something."

The words cut, deep. Kháry wasn't even magicless, not really, they just-

They just. Weren't very strong. Or very good at using it. And nothing they'd ever done, nothing they'd ever tried, and no amount of study or practice, had changed that. Nothing could change that.

"Still," Their father glanced back at them, briefly, appraising. "I'd still rather have a mage for a-" Again his words crackled and broke. A what? It didn't matter, he'd turned away again.

"Perhaps I'll come back for this," Their father lied, taking off his gloves, one at a time. "In the meantime, however-"

"I want to speak with you. Tonight, after you've returned from-" A glance around at the little shop, scorn in cold, familiar blue eyes, and a curl of his lip that they knew was there, even if they couldn't see it, "-this."

Again. Again. They swallow their words down, looking at the floor. Even now, he made them feel so powerless. So… helpless. He made them still feel like they were still that child, still standing in front of his desk, as he looked across it in contempt at his failure of an offspring. Disgust, bitterness, and a cruel finality.

He'd never stopped feeding them. Never made them leave. But they knew that from that day on, they'd been as good as dead to him.

"…It's past time you offer more than disappointment to your family."

Disappointment. Disappointment. Disappoint-

And like that, they were standing before his desk again, being judged by that merciless gaze. The desk was smaller than they remembered. Funny.

Their dad still looked just as looming as they remember though. Gyre wonders if this is another trick of memory. If he would forever be the same terrifying size that he'd been when they were small.

His hands were folded, as he watched them. "So, you're a boy now?" He muttered, considering this.

"Not exact-" Kháry starts to explain, only for their father to dismiss it with a wave of his hand.

"Fine. Son, daughter, daughter, son- I don't care." That cold look, again. "Still a failed mage. Still a disappointment to your family. So you…" He rolls his wrist, or seems to, another dismissive gesture, "Make furniture." His tone dripped with scorn, contempt. "How wonderfully skilled. How nice that you've found a way to make yourself useful, doing mundane little tasks."

"…Maybe you can pick up garbage off the street, next."

Kháry doesn't admit to their father that they'd done that too, though maybe he knew. They'd been desperate for their own set of tools, for a leather apron, for-

Well, sometimes while they were in the city, just something to eat. It had been made clear to them long since that they weren't to take the food their father paid for on their 'little jaunts' to the city.

Yes, they were a woodworker. Yes, they made furniture. Yes, they'd even cleaned garbage off the street…

They'd never felt ashamed of it though, until right now.

"You come from such a powerful bloodline. On your mother's side alone you have biomancers, binding mages, summoners and evokers, enchanters and conjurers. On mine-" A huff, annoyed. "Some of the greatest powers our world has ever known. Our family has shaped the choices of kings, helped to win wars, and bring down empires-"

"And you," The words drip with contempt, "Carve wood." There's an ice in his gaze, one that had been there as far back as Kháry could remember. "You were supposed to be a mage," He reminds them, as if they'd somehow managed to forget, "You were supposed to carry this family's legacy."

A pause, then quietly, bitterly, "Do you have any idea how much you've disappointed me, by managing neither of these?"

It had taken years for Kháry to feel something like confidence. To feel like anything more than a failure. To realize they could be good at something, and feel pride in it.

It had seconds for their father to strip all of that back down to nothing.

Disappointment. Failure. Failure. Failure…

It's hard to breathe. Their legs are barely holding them up. They're shaking, and tears that they refuse to let fall burn hotly in their eyes. His words echo, and echo, and echo, until they're deafening-

He was right, they realized. They'd been stupid, thinking they were anything but a failure. Stupid, to think they'd accomplished anything to be proud of.

Somewhere in the most distant parts of the dream, Gyre wonders why this memory is so clear, where others had been scratched out? He had a feeling it wasn't because of something good that was coming.

"No matter what you try convincing yourself you are, you know the truth. You are a failed mage. An embarrassment. One I've spent years searching for a way to amend." He reaches out, laying his hand on a small dark chest that Kháry hadn't noticed before. "And now, I've finally found it."

…What? Kháry stares, confused. Their gaze flicks to the chest, then back to their father. …What?

"There are forces in eternity, powerful enough to grant power to even the least magically inclined of creatures," He says, running his hand slowly across the worn wood. "Things not easily obtained, and even then only at heavy, heavy price. But after all these years? I have acquired what I've been searching for."

"Enough magic, that it may yet prove able to compensate for even the lacking your own provides." There was a weight here, a significance, a… not softness, exactly. But something almost like a reverence. Then, the only thing their father had ever truly respected was power…

…Compensate?

Wait. They… they could be a mage? A real mage?

Gyre wants to close his eyes against the fluttering of hope in their chest. Wants to tell them to turn, leave, walk away now. Anything, but put their faith in the man who'd failed them so, so badly.

But, this is the past. A memory. He can only let it play out.

The memory fades. The dream gives way, another taking it's place.

Kháry swallows hard, looking around the stone chamber. There are sigils carved into the walls, into the floor, all wound together in a single long loop. There are words, written in what might be cuneiform. The air smells metallic, sickly sweet, and filled with the scent of sharp wine and spices, as well as something smoky, but acrid-

The stone is… stained. Dark. There are jars lining the walls. The chest… they don't see it.

…They're definitely having second thoughts.

"Remain still," their father instructs coldly, making them flinch back into position, still as anything. "-good."

…It felt wrong here.

By this point, the smell is starting to make them sick, but they still can't place why. It's starting to make their head spin though-

Their father seems to finish what he's doing, and sparks a flame between his fingers. In the dimly lit crypt, it's flickering should have cast a hellish contrast over his features, but such features were long since scratched from memory, leaving only darkness waiting beyond the fire's glow, and the coldness of his gaze.

They watch, as he drops the flame, and it falls. For an instant, time seems to stand still, and then the fire rises again, unfolding upwards. Like a flower, it blooms, brilliant and bright, and as though taking root it spreads rapidly across the stone, following that sigular line.

Each sigil smolders briefly as it passes, before bursting into light. Kháry follows the line of fire with their eyes, suddenly aware of how hard their heart is pounding inside them. Fear takes over, and even their father's icy command to stay still isn't enough to stay them as they ready to race past the flames, past him-

Something hits them, or they hit it, and they stand there, hands braced against something they can't see, can't pass. The slow understanding of what stands between them and escape dawns on them, and despite, fear filled eyes flicked to their father, who stands there still, watching, no mercy to be found in the hardness of his gaze.

The heat is still building, and all they can do is still there helplessly as the fire continues to spread, a useless plea for help unfallen from their lips. There's no use. There's none.

But why? Why?! Was he that ashamed? Did he-?

Before the thought can finish, something… changes. A pressure, building from behind. They turn, and finally spot the little trunk, previously hidden in shadow, flames now curling over it, and leaving the wood blackened and charred-

They're suddenly so, so aware of the terrifying degree of power that had been so barely held in check by some binding or another, and aware too as with the wood, that binding gave way.

The power it had once barely held in check now burst free with an eruption of brilliantly burning heat, like nothing they'd ever known, like nothing they could have ever imagined existing. Just existing that close to it was wrongness, was fear, was pain-

Khary tried to step away again, but their back found the barrier again, and their legs gave way beneath them-

The first jar shatters, with an explosion of sparks and pottery shards, and they flinch, turning instinctively to see what had happened. Horror fills them at the glimpse of soulstuff, the shape of a human soul briefly only outlined, delicate and beautiful, before the fire claims it… and swells…

There are so many jars…

One by one, the fire claims them. With each soul, the terrible heat grows. It hurts- It hasn't even touched them yet, and it hurts so much-

Their tears don't have the chance to finish falling before the terrible fire evaporates them. Their skin is starting to grow blackened from the heat. The pain is unbearable, but somehow, even now, the agony of betrayal is even worse.

"Why!?" The scream finally breaks their silence, but he just continues to watch, impassively. "Why! Tell me why?!"

"I told you," Is the soft spoken, utterly merciless answer, "It's past time you offer more than disappointment to your family. That red soul of yours was just the sacrifice I needed. A reasonable price to pay, to no longer be a disappointment."

They finally understand. Far, far too late, they finally understand. They see their father for the 'monster' he is, and realize they were never going to be enough. They want to laugh, they want to cry, they want to scream and curse- but the heat is making it hard to think.

Images flicker through their mind, thoughts of the woodworker, their tools, their work… the feeling of success, of pride… small smiles, warm blushes, and shy glances… softness, and strength, in the night… being wanted, maybe not loved, but wanted. It had been enough. They had been enough-

The last of the jars now shattered and consumed, the hungry flames turn to the only thing left, the strongest soul there, and rushes towards them like a living thing. Kháry lifts their head, meeting it face on.

They were enough…

The feeling of the fire, as it consumes them, is something they would never forget. Not in a thousand years. Even in their memory, Gyre screams at the echoes of that agony. They feel their heart pounding in their chest, even now…

They were enough-

It starts to slow, to fail. They're being consumed. Soon, there won't be anything left of them. Nothing left-

I am enough-!

Nothing left-

I REFUSE!

Something snaps inside them, and comes back together. Something is consumed, and something consumes. Blackness eclipses everything. Dark, darker, yet darker-

Their eyes open again. Or… something like eyes. They try to move, and something stringy, black and sticky, glops forward. Their mind turns from the horror of this, insisting it doesn't matter, it doesn't. All that matters-

The betrayer. Their father.

Where?! A snarl, turning to find him. The bastard! The fucking bastard! He'll pay! He'll pay! Hate burns hotter than the hellfire that had devoured them, and they spin, slurch, gloop- There! They lurch forward, intending to strike-!

Their body, what it is now, splats against the barrier. Something in the back of their mind laughs, driven past the edge of sanity. Well! That was a new experience! Again, again, they slam against it-!

The mage on the other side simply touches a sigil, and begins to shrink the prison containing them. Briefly they panic, and adjust, size as easily as anything else. They're miniscule now. Bitty sized.

He's… holding them in the palm of his hand…

"You weren't supposed to be sentient," The mage mutters under his breath. He seems more curious than distressed. "Just a power source. Interesting."

"Well then. It seems my family line has a new familiar." Kháry's soul sinking, as these words sink in. He looks back, into the hellish, burned out pit that Kháry had been so recently consigned to by him. "A fair trade, isn't it?" He asks quietly, of no one at all, "A demon, for a demon-"

…a demon… I am… a demon…

…then, I will. I'll be a demon. And I'll make him pay. I'll make all of them pay-

There's a sense of falling. A darkness. A quiet. An understanding that time has passed. Years. The demon rests in it's little prison, on their father's desk. For years he's stolen from them. For years they've been his slave. And for years they've bided their time. They understand now what he didn't. They knew the price their power comes with.

Somewhere, a few rooms away, they can feel him dying. The bastard that did this. That took everything. And soon, soon, he'd understand too-

Like the pain of dying, and being reborn, they'd never forget how it felt, claiming their first soul. Closing around it, holding it close. They greet it with a whisper, that curls through it like ink in water. "Hello, father-"

The demon feels his fear as he realizes where he is, and realizes who they are. As he experiences what it's like to be the truly helpless one for the first time. They finally, finally, feel his fear.

From now on, he'll feel nothing else. Only helplessness, fear, and pain. He owes them an eternity worth-

Again… The fade. It's quiet. The sense of time passing is… different, this time. So much longer. Then…

…Wait.

No…

No, no, no, no, no!

Kháry slams itself against the side of it's prison, again, again, reaching, trying to reach, failing. No, no, no, no! {You promised!} It cries, hating itself for the pitiful words, the break in it's voice, the desperate plea. {Don't do this, you promised!}

"I- I'm sorry," It's mageling's hands are shaking as he slowly, meticulously draws out the seal across the obsidian mirror. "It's… not forever. I know you don't believe me, but-"

{I believed you!} A roar, a wail… a sob.

Rantrum flinches, hard, almost messing up the pattern, but he takes a deep breath, steels himself, and continues. "I- I know. If I let you out. You'll do anything to keep from being caged ag-"

{Yes!} The demon's voice breaks again. {You know what they've done with my magic, what they've done to me! As long as they can cage me they will, as long as they can make me their slave, they will! I'll do whatever it takes, I don't care!}

The mageling's shoulders slump slowly, his hand stilling for only a moment. "And so many people will die." He agrees quietly, the words tired. "Not just my family, but whole worlds. Maybe more." Is his voice breaking? Are those tears on his face?

It doesn't matter, does it? He doesn't stop.

{…You… promised.} The binding was one that the demon knew, one that Kháry had taught him. {Look, you don't… you don't have to let me out,} It was getting desperate, he was almost finished, {Just, please…}

Don't lock me away like that again, not alone- I don't want to be alone-

"It… won't be forever." Rantrum denies, again. He has to stop now, his hand shaking. Hope leaps in Kháry's twisted soul, but its mageling simply flexes his fingers, picks the tool back up again, and continues. "I'll find a way to set you free, for good. I don't know how, but-"

"I'll make sure that you never go back to them. That you're never their slave again…"

Dread sinks, deep. He's… just going to lock them away, isn't he? Forever?

Just… Seal away the demon… That's-

That's what his kind does.

The dull, numbed realization quickly gives way to panic though, as he completes the binding. "There has to be someone who can help you better than I can-"

{NO, NO, NO-!}

"-I'll find-"

{NO, NO, NO, NONONO!}

"-and send you- be free- I pro-"

{NONONONO!!!!!!!}

"I'm so-"

He says something else, but the demon falls into a puddle, its cries devolving into wordless sobs as the binding seals. Light is cut away, sound is cut away, and it's alone. It's smaller prison falls to pieces, giving it… what? One a few times larger? What does it matter?

It's alone again. Betrayed again. Denied mercy, as it begged… again…

Rantrum's last few words echo through it's mind as it lays there, shaking in silent sobs. Empty, hollow, and meaningless.

"Maybe next time, after all this is over, we can try being friends again-"

It knows though, when it will see him again.

When it always sees them again.

And dream, once more, gives way.

The demon has felt nothing from it's betrayer in so long. It can't sense him as well as it had the others, maybe because he'd never drawn on its magic, not once. It had fully anticipated the further betrayal, expected it, waited for it, but it never came.

He'd never come back though, either.

Still, a debt stood, waiting to be paid. It wouldn't be put off forever. It never was. And for the mage, it came with smoke, with fire, panic, and pain. The demon breathed it in, from what felt like an eternity away. It bristled, slowly, and seemed to breathe, slowly shuffling the broken husks that remained of its own 'masters,' each in turn, and made a place for his, among its broken collection.

Oh, and for all the distance he'd out between them, for all the walls he'd built to seal them in, how neatly his soul found its place in their grasp, just the same. A fury like claws and fire began to curl tightly around the delicate thing, and it greeted him with teeth, fury, and hate-

Pain shuddered through the little thing in it's grasp, as its anger dug deeper. It could feel as Rantrum's soul recognized it, and snarled, sinking it's teeths deeper still. It would hollow him out, burn him to nothing, then gnaw every last memory from him hollow husk, leaving him nothing but screaming fear and pain-

"Maybe next time, after all this is over, we can try being friends again-"

The words rise in its memory, unbidden, and it shudders, faltering briefly. He was- He was it's betrayer- He had hurt it, just like the others…

"…you're not all mean like… like…" He never actually says like who though, just sniffling, and wiping his nose on his sleeve. "I don't like… I don't like it hurting you."

It falters…

"…Bringing it up. Them, up." He swallows, tapping the end of the pen on the table nervously. "…Her. Up. I didn't… I didn't know. That that's what she did to you."

Just… just like…

"…I think that made it worse. Having that hope," His breath hitches, and he breaths deeply, trying to keep from falling apart again, "Of having a brother-"

…The others-

"But brothers… brothers aren't supposed to be like this…"

Slowly, the demon drew it's teeth away, and sheathed it's claws. It held the little soul, cracked and damaged, and curled around it, so gently, but at even this it shuddered at the pain.

{…Sleep.} A whisper, a broken voice, shaking, {Just sleep.} It urged the soul to slumber, and slowly, felt it settle into rest. It had to be so, so gentle, as damaged as it was, but it trembled, holding it's mageling as close as it dared.

{It's over… it's all over… just, sleep…}

The smallest glimpses of his life flit through their memory, a life they'd never gotten to see, but it doesn't matter, it holds him as he drifts deeply into the only small respite it can offer from what it had done.

Soon, the silence of being alone again is broken only by the soft sobbing of a demon, holding him as close as it dared. It can't fix this. It can't heal him.

{…I'm sorry, my mageling… I'm so, so sorry…}

There was something… uniquely disorienting about waking from a dream of someone else's memories. A moment when it was easy to forget where one ended, and the other began, and who he might be in the end when he opened his socket.

For a creature called a nightmare, he was as susceptible to them as anyone, wasn't he? He sighs, sitting up slowly, and rubs the back of his neck before looking around.

Ah. He's alone. Right, UnDreamt and Soot had been-

…Well, no. He's not alone.

It had hurt his mage. He knew that, far more intimately than he waited to. But he knew too that the pain it felt from having done that, was worse than anything he could inflict. And they needed to talk.

The nightmare raps lightly on his good temple, like he's knocking on a door. "I know you're in there. And I know you're the one that showed me all that."

{…and?}

Gyre considers his answer, finally shrugging small. "I don't know." He wasn't just saying it either, he really didn't. "Why show me? What was it you wanted me to see?"

{You've asked what I was before. Whether I was always a demon. Now you know.}

{…I was. I've always been a demon.}

One of the problems of the sketching was that there wasn't much to look at when he was trying to bide his time.

"…and?"

{I'm. Tired. Of being a demon.} Quietly. Sounding… so human, for the first time in all these years, trapped here. {I don't think I want to be a demon anymore, Gyre.}

Had it- had they- ever called him by his name before? He honestly can't remember. Still, he turns this over, and turns over the memories he'd dreamed, top.

"Okay," He offers at last, quietly, "Then I'll be the demon now."

At first there's no response, and after several minutes pass, it doesn't seem like one is coming. It's a ridiculous offer after all, right? Even if somehow, it doesn't feel ridiculous at all. Then though, finally-

{…Here.} The nightmare bitty feels something shifting inside him, maybe shifting inside his own soul, but he just closes his eyes and shudders, not objecting, and when he opens them again-

It's. Rantrum's soul. In his hand. Not a normal human soul, no, this looked more like a large marble, gleaming and colorful, with beautiful spiraled hues painted throughout it of integrity and perseverance- and cracks. And teeth marks.

His hand starts trembling, and he grips it by the wrist with his other, holding it, and breathing deeply and evenly until it steadies again.

{…I loved him too.}

"Yeah," Gyre admits, his own soul hurting just the same to see his mage hurt like this. "I know." Gently, both hands close around the soul, and a soft glow of green is visible through closed fingers as he gently coaxes healing magic around the little orb, unable to do anything more than hope it's accepted.

When his hands open again… It's, not whole. Not like it was before. But the cracks are smaller, and less sharp. The teeth marks don't dig as deeply.

{It's more than I could do,} Kháry admits, somewhat grudgingly, {But neither of us have the right magic needed to heal the dead.}

"We could find someone who does," The nightmare counters, somewhat absently, as he gently turns the little thing in his hand.

{A necromancer? You might be better off trusting a demon.}

A small snort, though he doesn't press that line of thought further, instead asking, "Why does it look like this, anyway?"

For all of an instant, Kháry hesitates to answer, before admitting, {The magic used to make me… what I am… was stolen. But it remains a demon's magic. Hell fire. Therefore those place you would call heaven won't touch the souls who in life accepted the boons of it, but those places you would call hell refuse to recognize it.}

{Death is unable to claim either, only the one who gave the boon. So the soul takes a shape better suited to serve it.}

"…A marble?"

Kháry's answer is a low chuckle. {I like to crack them between my teeth,} They remind him, {And it's a good shape for rolling between my claws. Can you blame me?}

"Not really, no." Gyre sighs, opening his hand… and waiting.

Nothing happens.

{…} A soft, internal sound. {So, did you want to just call me a liar outright, or-?}

"I just had to see," He denies, folding his legs to sit back on the nothingness again. "I don't know what to do. He doesn't deserve this. He derseved-"

A family who loved him. Maybe a brother. A mate. The chance to fall in love, or have kids, or grandkids. A life that he didn't gave to sacrifice to right wrongs he'd never done, only to end at a demon's teeth.

Kháry, surprisingly or unsurprisingly, doesn't argue this. {Yeah, well,} A mutter, {Neither of us have the right magic to make new life, either.}

Maybe it's the words they choose, but Gyre pauses at hearing them, then looks at the soul again before tugging free the tarry feather still tucked against his goop.

"Actually," He muses, considering it thoughtfully, "I think we do."

---

[bellsofblueficlets]

Alone. But Not Alone

Breathe…

Gyre didn't open his socket as the fist grazed his cheek, continuing with the spin in order to drop to one knee, both tentacles lifting so fast he could hear the cracks they sent reverberating through their small prison.

Using the crouch to push off, he launched at his opponent, he wrapping a tentacle around his waist. With a solid yank, he not only knocked the other off balance, as he laded, bodily lifted the other bitty, throwing him across their prison.

He didn't need his eyelight to see Soot put a hand down to slow him, didn't need to see his blade strike sparks off of stone, but in the part of him not currently focused on exhausting his dust bitty's more violent tendencies, he made note that most blades would need to be repaired after that, and found himself vaguely amused.

Again, again, and again, they'd spun in this same deadly dance, different each time. Soot knew his movements now, knew how he fought, knew his limits, and still the nightmare bested him. The dust had never pulled his punches with his nightmare, but these days he was the one continuously pushed to his limit.

Obviously it helped that Gyre could see Soot's every action before he took it- or at least see dozens of threads that wrote of potential choices, and in that brief instant before he struck, pick out the one he'd need to be ready for.

The problem was, he could still only see them when he focused. It was a vulnerability that Soot knew, and over and over had found ways to use against him. This, in turn, gave Gyre a double opportunity, both to hone his ability as a fighter, and to learn the kinds of tactics that worked against him, in order to be ready for them.

Some tricks were harder to be ready for than others though, and as he moved to dodge Soot's answering strike, the unique sight their prison offered him made him suddenly aware of a flash of movement suddenly moving directly at his face, no warning given by the threads he watched with such focus.

While he managed not to outright flinch, but his concentration was broken, just for an instant. To his credit, it was all his dusty needed, and the searing slice of pain followed almost instantly as corruption parted to the gleaming metal in his hand. The second strike was just as quick to follow, and though Gyre managed to block this with a tentacle, that only meant it took damage instead, and here, Soot's weapon bit even deeper, almost slicing clean through.

A brief grimace is the only tell that Gyre felt anything at all, in the next instant recovering his footing, the parted goop simply falling back into place like the liquid it was, and leaving no sign of wound.

That wasn't the first time the papyrus had broken his concentration, and it wouldn't be the last. That was fine, it was the kind of thing he was trying to be more ready for, and this was the only way to do it. Practice made perfect after all.

Soot's 'brother' grinned a wide, mad skeleton grin, visibly enjoying the game. The pair had realized some time since that Gyre couldn't predict the papyrus' movements, despite having been the one to piece him together from stolen magics, and others half buried. Was that why? Or did fate turn a blind eye to him for another reason? Even Gyre didn't know after all, how real the phantom actually was.

The sparring between the two- three? -continues this way for some time, before Gyre decides its gone on long enough. The dusty burning off aggression is one thing, but exhausting himself before he goes back out there? That's another.

As always, given his signal, Soot immediately stops, never mind that it's mid strike. His Papyrus looks irritated, and gives the dust bitty a scathing look.

Telltale black tear tracks mark across otherwise bare bone betrays where Gyre had gotten the magic needed to help shape him, though he still has the usual spectral papyrus eyelights, and well, there was no telling why they always had that red scarf.

It didn't matter. Soot was satisfied, and despite the influence his paps tried to exert over him, everything about him these days suggested he was more stable, not less. It seemed like his brother's forced absence had actually left his mental state much the worse for wear- which Gyre filed away, mentally.

There were others like his dusty out there after all.

Gyre carefully unwound the sigil that had bound their prison sphere briefly in place, something that even a year ago would had been impossible for him.

…then, a lot had been impossible for him, back then.

As they started moving through space again, he took time to tend his dusty's wounds, untroubled by the glare of his papyrus. He didn't strictly need to anymore, but at this point it felt significant. Not just routine… something more. These days of course, it was easier than it had once been.

A great deal was easier than it had once been. The sphere spun easily on, guided to it's goal, and when for an instant it hit the disruption of a collapsing timeline that threatened to knock it off course, he was able to correct it within onstants, even with his attention divided.

"You'll have two hours," He instructs the dusty, giving his magic a quick once over while he tended the other's wounds. "Return sooner, and I won't be able to open the way. Return more than ten minutes later, and you'll need to wait two more hours until I can make another pass through."

"You know your mission. Bring me back charcoal, chalk, and thread-" Seeing a point where a connection he'd made some time before had started to weaken, he pauses long enough to secure it before moving on. Another good reason for this little 'ritual.' "Burlap, and those long pine needles. You remember where to find them." It wasn't a question. They'd been here before, if never beyond the boundaries of this place. Been able to see, if not touch.

Soot nods, barely a movement, and waits for his 'release,' not budging before he's given his order. His Papyrus looks annoyed, and gives their nightmare a glare, which Gyre acknowledges with a small glance, but little more. "I'll also need you to secure some canvas," He continues, "And either some bread, or some crackers."

"If you can secure even a few of these things, I'll consider our test run a success." He starts to say more, stops, and frowns. "More than anything, however," Since he knows he needs to clarify this, "Return to me, alive."

"Nothing else you could bring back to me is as important as bringing yourself," He reminds, seriously, "You're my only link to the worlds beyond this place. If you die, any chance I still have of getting out will be gone. Understand?" It wasn't why, no, or at least not all of why. It may not even be fully true. By this point though, he knows his dusty well enough to realize that it's the answer he needs in order to see self preservation as anything but secondary to fulfilling his orders.

Soot pauses, long enough for the full weight of this to settle, then nods again. Gyre can feel the shift in his mood, and in the lines of his fate at well. Now, most possibilities ensure he'll return. Right now, that's the best he can hope for.

His expression betrays none of the fear he feels, but it's all he can do not to tremble. This will be the first time Soot has left their prison for more than a few minutes, just long enough to practice allowing his release, and his return. In truth he'd 'practiced' more times than necessary, afraid of losing his constant companion of the last fourteen years. The only company he'd had, beyond the voice in his own head.

Keeping him here though, when he had the means to see him return to existence beyond their sphere? No. He couldn't. And he wasn't magically going to be mire ready tomorrow, or the day after, or the day-

-as though the passage of days meant anything here. At this point though, he'd already given Soot every advantage he could. Now it was time to bite down his fear, and let him go.

He felt as they reached their destination, and it was short work to anchor them. He took his time though, making absolutely certain everything was right- He didn't trust his voice not to break if he tried to say anything, so simply nodded when he was done, and gestured for Soot to go. To… leave…

…the dusty obeyed without hesitation, stepping towards the barrier that had taken Gyre so long to understand… and then through, leaving him alone.

Gyre watched until he couldn't see the dusty any more, swallowed hard, and slowly folded his legs beneath him. All the strength he had, all the magic he'd learned, and it seemed to mean so little when his legs felt too weak to hold him up. He was shaking.

{…} He felt the demon start to say something, and stop, remaining silent instead. These days, reaching a point in his magic where he was learning more on his own than with the demon's help…

Well. It had started remaining silent for longer and longer, and Gyre said little to it either. He might not hate the creature anymore, but he couldn't pretend there was any love lost between him and his 'teacher.'

It was hard to say what that would mean, when the day came that they finally did step free. After all, their prison was the only reason that the demon hadn't already claimed it's debt-

Supposedly, at least. With what he'd learned from Rantrum, the last time they'd spoken? He wasn't so sure anymore.

Minutes pass, there on his knees, in silence.

Finally, with a steadying breath the nightmare bitty pushes himself to his feet. "It's time to go," He mutters aloud, to no one. There is no anchoring sigil this time to unwind. Just the letting go.

He has to trust that Soot will find his way back to him. And trust that he'll manage to be there when he does.

In the meantime…

As his control had grown, he'd managed to lay out a 'map' of sorts, a handful of achoring points in the near endless timelines where his magic could find mooring. Some, like the one he'd just left, had been dangerously fragile things at first, but visit by visit, thread by thread, and spell by spell, he'd reinforced them, until they were strong enough to risk Soot stepping free exactly long enough to lay deeper ones.

Others though, seemed to have almost been waiting to be found. Places where the demon's stolen magic had long since been dug in, deeply, like the ones where he'd now seen far too many bitty now be brought into existence, and confused, new, and afraid, immediately be taken back out of it, forcing himself to watch, to study, and note, learn how it was done, and anything else he could.

One he avoided though. For weeks after finding that place, Soot had been… not okay. While Gyre had made a point of not going back, he'd made a point of not forgetting the way, either. He would be going back there one day, personally.

Today though, he had somewhere else to be.

He slowed their approach as the place grew nearer, not only to avoid overshooting, but just in case during one of these visits, someone there realized they weren't alone. He had no reason to believe it was possible, but… just in case.

This lab was one that he knew far too well now, and for good reason. It was the one he returned to the most often, watching with a cold eyelight, and burning fury in his soul. He'd never once looked away, and there wasn't a single death forgotten.

Each time he'd visited too, he'd seen the potential for disaster written in the threads of fate, and tried to understand them, doing his best to pinpoint the moment things would begin falling apart.

All his efforts had fallen short however, until he'd realized that he was overlooking one of his mage's most important lessons. Fate wasn't passive. It existed to be shaped. And every part of this horrific process, every device, every binding, down to the most minute magic pathway and output reading, was dependant on stolen magic.

His magic.

The bitties were going to be summoned. He couldn't stop that. But there were so many safeguards, and redundancies to those safeguards that the lab was dependant on, settings that had to stay just so in order to keep the situation within their control. Filters, designed to keep out undesired magics, so that the bitty types summoned would be exactly what the lab staff wanted, and exactly the way they wanted them.

Biggies in general tended to underestimate his kind, and these ones were used to handling bitties created under precise, controlled conditions. So for months Gyre had been dismantling what little he was able to influence. It was an agonizingly slow task, but little by little, he'd seen each newly created bitty spawned under less and less of those precisely controlled conditions.

At that point? It had only been a matter of time, before they wound up spawning in a bitty they weren't ready to handle. And from the looks of the lab, as he drew it carefully into focus, it has finally happened. The lab was in chaos, but distinctive traces of monster dust now sifted into that of bitties that had left a fine coating over everything, and human blood now covering several surfaces. From the sheer amount, and the large radius of spatter? Someone had hit an artery.

That likely explained the heavy shape that had been dragged off to one side, and left, while other lab workers yelled and sobbed, demanding to know who had been reckless, careless, stupid, or wailing about injuries. One had lost an eye. Several bore what would likely become deep scars, as they healed. If they healed.

…And there was the syringe, already filled. The bitty must have only attacked once the threat was clear. It had recovered more quickly than many, then. And still had enough magic left, after being nearly drained, to have left a notable impact.

Anger burned in Gyre's eyelight, as well as frustration. If he'd only been here when it happened- Then, what? Could he had dragged the other bitty in here? No. He couldn't even do that much. Would he have risked Soot to get him out? He could have done that at any point, for any of them, if he thought it worth the risk.

This one though, had done damage. Had gained EXP before getting take-

Gyre paused as he noticed something lying on the floor near the body, large, arched, and strangely delicate. At this angle, at this distance, it was hard to make out. He needed to get closer if he was-

Kháry chuckled coldly, interrupting his thoughts, and Gyre could feel the demon's delight rolling through it. It was not a pleasant feeling. The nightmare bitty did his best to smooth his hackles though, and focus on shifting their prison close enough to make out the shape. A… feather?

…A very, very big feather. It must have been almost twenty inches long, dark gray on one side, with a lighter gray barring on the other. Was that from the bitty? If so, the deep wounds dug into various lab worker's started to make sense. A bird bitty with a feather that size- how big would it have been? How big would its talons have been?

Kháry is practically purring with delight as it plays out the scene of utter chaos, carnage, and terror in it's mind, apparently knowing the answer. {A harpy eagle? Amazing.} That chuckle again, {Imagine suddenly being face to face with a three foot tall bitty, with a six foot wide wingspan, and five inch long knives for feet, and picking it up to try and kill it.}

{That must have been beautiful~}

Three foot… Gyre continues staring at the feather, finally reaching out with one tentacle, slowly, trying to curl it around the thing…

He might as well be trying to pick up fog, or smoke, the way its reality seems to part to his touch. With enough effort, enough practice, and a strong enough anchor-

But he doesn't dare any of these.

{Harpy eagles have talons as long as grizzly bear claws,} Kháry adds, making its own effort to pick up the thing, and muttering silent curses when it too failed.

Gyre looked at the corpse, then at the wide arcs of sprayed blood,and finally at those still wrapping their still bleeding wounds. Someone was sobbing, someone was swearing. He just… watched them.

They acted like people. Just everyday people, scared and hurt. As if they didn't summon dozens of bitties every day to murder. Horrified one of their own was dead at one of those bitties talons, and others badly wounded. A couple muttered curses directed at the bitty, with dark expressions, and said what they'd like to do to it.

…For… defending itself…

{…Are you starting to get it?} The gleefulness was gone from Kháry's tone, now simply cold. {Everyday people is what they are. This, is what people are. It's what they do.}

The nightmare bitty didn't answer, just taking it their surroundings again. The bitty hadn't been killed after all, not with workers still muttering about wanting to go find it, and hurt it. It was alive…

He reached out again, slowly. Focused tightly, digging his magic in as deeply as he dared, he tried to take hold on the feather again, and again, failed.

In the distance, he could hear the low, slowly building wail of a siren. He wondered with a odd sense of detachment what the laws were in this timeline, regarding bitties. Chances were, even without the demon, Rantrum's family still had enough influence to make it not matter.

He reached out again, stubbornly. Maybe he still couldn't touch this world? But this place of stolen magic, was also built on stolen magic. And that stolen magic? He'd been influencing it for months now. It answered to him, and he could feel traces of it in the feather…

When he manages to curl his tentacle around it just enough to tug it towards him, into his little pocket reality, he's swept by an almost dizzying rush of elation. A wide grin breaks across his face as it becomes more solid, transferring it to his hand, starting to run his fingers across it. Of course this leaves the delicate feather bits quickly sticky and matted with corruption, so he stops, looking at it with a blank expression.

He'd definitely need to do something about that.

{…You're plotting something interesting,} Kháry purrs, pleased by whatever it thought he had in mind. It might even be right.

Before he could reply, he felt it, from a distance. An unmistakable tug on his magic, almost minute, almost unnoticed. Like a horse giving a small twitch of it's hide at a landing fly.

Immediately a scowl crosses the nightmare's face, and Gyre instantly looses his anchor on the timeline, spinning their prison away with a very specific destination in mind. In the back of his mind, he knows Kháry watches, waiting to see what he'll do.

The attack is followed by another, and another. Gyre grimaces, unable to follow any pattern amid the flurry of attacks, but he knows something is happening. It felt like an augmented bone attack, and-

-and that massive swell of drawn magic was definitely a gaster blaster attack. He curses, a series of obscenities that would have made his mage look at him in abject surprise, once upon a time.

The demon chuckles, less at this than the cause behind it. {That dust wasted no time putting his new patronage to use, did he? Now, remind me, what was it you said to him about drawing on your magic? Emergencies only?}

"I told him," Gyre growls, utter ice in his tone "Above all else? Return to me, alive."

Whether this actually catches the demon off guard or not, the nightmare bitty doesn't really care. It leaves the creature silent, letting him focus as he carefully 'docks' their sketchy little fragment of imprisoned reality, and that's enough.

One last tug of magic, still oh so small against what burns eternally inside him. Insignificant. Almost dismissable. Then no more.

How close was he to pickup time? It took little enough effort now to figure it out, but- Ten minutes?

Fuck. Ten minutes.

Gyre slumps to the ground, groaning. Dammit. At the first sign if trouble, he'd bolted back here on impulse, despite knowing that even if Soot did need help, he'd be unable to do anything. And now if the dusty didn't return early, he-

It's here that the presence of ash and dust, of corruption, and his own magic, makes itself known in soft perfume, drifting nearby. The nightmare yanked his head back up, pushing quickly to his feet, to find his sworn only a barrier of reality away.

Black ran thickly down both of the human bitty's cheeks, with every other exposed glimpse of skin plastered in a mixture of blood, dust and ash. That familiar madness shone in his eyes, his expression, as ever, offering nothing, but he was out of breath, as though he'd run straight here after the fight.

Gradually, it occurs to him that just like he'd been able to sense Soot drawing on his magic, it seemed that the dust bitty had been able to sense when he'd returned early, and run to meet him. And for a moment, he can only stare, stunned.

His dusty had come back. He'd run to meet him. He…

The demon snorts, and there's almost a sense of it rolling its eyes. {…Just let him in, idiot.} It mutters, {You can have your profound little moment of emotional realization when Mr Murder Happy Stab Stab Man there isn't just standing around covered in blood and waiting for someone to notice.}

Gyre blinks, shaking his head, and wraps a tentacle around his dusty, drawing him in. His sworn now back at his side, he's already breathing a little more easily. Maybe in time he'd get used to the other venturing beyond his reach, but right now? It was good to have him home.

It's only as the dusty tries to hand him the misshapen, blood stained bundle that he realizes that the other bitty was carrying something at all. No doubt the spoils of his brief adventure.

Dutifully Gyre unfolds it. Canvas, needle and thread? Jeans counted as canvas, after all. Even if they did look like the piece of material had been ripped right off the pant leg of someone still wearing it. Charcoal? Three pieces even. No chalk, ah well. None of the other things either, except-

The nightmare bitty slowly rests his claws against the crinkled wrapper of some very broken soda crackers, in about fifty pieces, yes, but safe in their wrapper from the blood and dust.

A heavy swallow, everything else that day suddenly forgotten at the humble offering of a packet of broken crackers suddenly there in his hands. He'd told the other to bring back something like this, yes, but hadn't stopped to think about how he'd feel in this moment, with food in his reach for the first time in so many years.

His hand wants to tremble, but just turns to loose the anchor, clutching his feather in one tentacle, and keeping the rest of the bundle tucked close with the other. He hasnt figured out how to keep things from being torn from their prison yet ince it starts movjng again, and he doesnt want to lose either prize.

He can feel the dusty's eyelights on him as he sits down, and gestures for the other to join him. The cellophane tears so easily. Had he once had trouble with things like this? It was hard to remember.

Gyre couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Or what it was. Ideas of sweet, salty, sour… They'd faded with time, half grasped memories that he'd long since stopped being able to trust as real. Food…

The nightmare bitty carefully works free a small piece, unable to keep his corruption from staining it. It's fine though. It's just magic, and he needs magic in order to make magic food. It had been a long time since he'd done this, but-

His corruption seems to settle into the crumb, but rather than becoming soggy, it just takes on a small gray hue, and looks… a bit crisper? Lighter? He doesn't know. It isn't like it sparkles or anything, but it's different now, changed and infused with his magic.

Turning the little thing over briefly between his fingers, Gyre finally offers it to his dusty. "Eat," He says, simply, if a bit softly. "Your body needs this more than mine."

There's the smallest hesitation, the tiniest flicker of doubt in his dusty's eyes, but he accepts the crumb of food just the same, eating it slowly. Gyre has no idea what it tastes like, probably nothing great with his own corruption essentially baked in.

Still, the reaction from Soot, silent as it was, offered volumes. A slight relaxing of his shoulders. A softly exhaled breath. A brief, small lidding of his eyes, lasting only an instant, blink and it was gone.

His death had been staved off through frequent use of Gyre's magic to sustain him, yes, but his body's need for food had remained unmet. He'd essentially been in a state of constant starvation for over a decade.

Soot ate the next piece of cracker he was handed, and the next. All in all, roughly half of one cracker was further broken into pieces, and given to him by his nightmare.

Finally though, Gyre moved to fold the packet closed, intending to save the rest for another day, and for one fleeting instant caught the briefest flicker of emotion crossing his dusty's expression, anger, accompanied by a swell of negativity rising within him.

Lifting his head in surprise, Gyre found Soot's hand closing over his, and at first he thought the dusty intended to take what was left and continue eating, was even ready to object, when he saw what the dusty was signing to him with his other hand.

"Now, you. Eat."

A not sound from the demon, bemused. {I think he's serious.} Adding to this goad, drily, {Better obey your attack dog there, little tar drip.}

It's not clear to him if the demon actually expects him to rise to the taunt. It hardly matters. Looking in Soot's eyes, expression once more betraying not even a flicker of emotion, the brief flash of it moments before remains burned in Gyre's memory.

Gyre opens the package again, and Soot let's go, still watching warily, like he expected him to do anything but actually accede to the other bitty's demands.

Such little things. A crinkle of plastic. A whiff of… salt? He goes through the steps, despite not really needing to, to satisfy his dusty. Once again, a tinge of gray was lent by his corruption-

"…" That. First bite. He closes his good socket, drawing in a shuddering breath. Salty. Yes. Dry. Plain. By all accounts, unexceptional. A bit like he faintly remembered flour tasting. It shouldn't be affecting him like this. He didn't need the magic. He'd stopped feeling hunger long before…

Somehow, he'd expected his corruption to leave a bitter taste. It doesn't. He finishes the second half of the cracker silently, before folding it again, and handing it back to his dusty, warning only, "Don't drop it," before returning his attention to the other prizes Soot had brought back.

Glancing briefly at the other bitty's extremely damaged, and at this point barely existent clothes, and wondered how hard sewing would be. He wondered why he hadn't just told Soot to steal clothes instead.

Pointedly, he did anything but dwell on how hard it had been to swallow each bite of their meager food supply, through the tight lump in his throat. How he'd struggled against tears welling up in his good socket. He didn't understand it. It was such a small thing. Unexceptional. He didn't even need it.

He would have, once. But he wasn't that person anymore.

That part of him had been lost a long time ago.

Still clasped in his tentacle, in this place with no outside light, or need for it, the feather rested in his grasp dully, caked in various places by his corrupted touch.

Neither of us, He reflects silently, both of himself, and of the former owner of the stolen feather, Are that person, anymore. Are we?

It had never really been in question, but in those moments he knew for certain. He needed to find this missing dream.

Too late. Again. Gyre sighs, looking over the telltale signs of another failed pursuit of the bird bitty, complete with what remained of their pursuer, a quickly dwindling pile of fine dust. At least he knew the winged dream was still alive. And still had a lot of fight in him too, from the looks of it.

Being a 'bitty proven to be a danger' had drawn attention. Being one of his size had drawn a bounty. At first he'd just done his best to escape, to survive. But when they'd kept coming-

Any creature hunted hard enough eventually had to make the choice whether to start fighting back. After a while? He made his choice. Now, every failed hunter just added to his LV. And the fervor of fear mongering grew with each new kill.

He was strong, and he was skilled, but in the end it wouldn't save him. He couldn't fight the whole world, and right now, the whole world was looking for him.

Gyre's movements however, weren't restricted to this world…

By this point, the unnamed bitty had a body count of thirteen- or rather, thirteen that he knew of. Gyre turned dismissively from the drifting dust. At least this one would be harder to pin to him than some of the others. No witnesses, no camera… no bodies.

Unlike the last few times he'd found the dream bitty's kills, this time the dust had only just started blowing away. While that meant in theory that the trail was fresh, there was only so much that helped when neither he nor Soot had wings.

Still.

"Find him." He mutters, not needing to look up to know that his dusty has already obeyed, setting to the chase once again.

While the demon frequently called Soot a dog straining at his chain, more recently it followed this with 'offhand' comments about hounds running themselves into the ground, rather than surrendering the chase. Gyre wasn't particularily amused, but he took the warning to heart.

For weeks now, the dusty had only stopped when his nightmare insisted on healing, food, or sleep, so he made certain to do just that. After all, Soot now had a target. Things like his own physical limitations or needs were the last things on his mind.

Gyre looses the temporary anchor, and shifts the path of the prison space to a trajectory keeping him inside the same timeline. Using the 'contract' between him and Soot to measure his position in the multiverse in relation to the other bitty, he was quickly forming a metal map of certain areas, helping him gaining greater understanding of where he was, and how he moved. All of this in turn, helping him understand his prison more and more.

{I wonder,} Kháry muses, not for the first time during their attempt to follow Soot on his chase, {If you'd still be hunting so hard for this bitty if he was a different type?"}

The insinuation there wasn't hard to track, but the most Gyre did was narrow his good socket, refusing to let his concentration be so easily broken. "He's being hunted by more than us," Gyre points out, drawing himself to another familiar point to settle his prison briefly. "Was shaped and summoned by magic stolen from us-" He pauses, correcting that to, "from you-"

"And I have a feeling," He twists the feather still held tightly, lest it be torn away, "That he's angry enough to help us take down the bastards who made him, to be broken."

"…you know what they say," The faintest trace of a smile can be seen flitting across the nightmare bitty's face, more than a little dark, "The enemy of my enemy might just be willing to help me hunt every last one of them to ground."

{If that's the newest version of the idiom,} Kháry smirked, somewhere in his mind, {I approve.}

The nightmare bitty gives a small snort of amusement, as he starts to reflect that the demon agreeing with him would have troubled him just a few short years ago- only for him to stop short as he feels a sudden dip into his magic. His smile vanishes, and he turns instinctively, looking for something beyond sight.

A bone attack. Followed by a corruption based bone attack. A wide swath of fire, a dozen blasters-

This was the part where he felt the most powerless to do anything…

{…You are a demon, little tar drip,} Kháry corrects, an unexpected encouragement in a purr like velvet, {And the first rule of being a demon is that sometimes you have to bide your time and scheme, but you are never powerless.}

His first instinct is to say something cold, something cutting, but it falls silent as he realizes that the demon is right. After all, that power was why it had been enslaved…

Another bone attack, another half dozen blasters-

{…let's hope he kills any witnesses.} Kháry mutters, almost sounding impressed. {Otherwise it's not just going to be a dream bitty they're hunting.}

About to grumble something under his breath about the demon not corrupting his dust bitty, the thought is interrupted as the draw on their magic suddenly stops. He tenses, waiting…

Soot signals. He's done. Pick him up.

…Pick him up.

He's certain he should feel shaky, nervous. Instead, a relief settles over him. He unmoors the sketchy space once again, and guides their prison towards his sworn. Soot had definitely been injured, the nightmare could feel the dusty drawing on his magic to keep himself from dusting, but made no attempt to heal himself.

{Do you really think this will turn out as well as you hope?} Kháry asks him, and for once the question doesn't seem loaded with contempt or snideness, mockery or scorn. Instead, it seems genuine.

"I think he hurt them. Badly. And I think he wants to hurt them more," He settles the prison into position, smiling coldly. "So do I. Maybe that's enough."

{…Kingdoms have risen and fallen on less,} Kháry agrees, then falls silent as they get their first genuine look at the enormous bird bitty.

This 'dream' was unmistakably this, yet there was no trace of that rich golden glow in his magic, nor that wonderful sunny warmth in his eyelights. No, these were empty, and white, like all the color had been leeched out of him, and every drop of brilliant positivity wicked away.

His gaze was flat and cold, and could have rivaled Soot's own. He'd been made as a dream, a bitty meant to embody positive emotions, happiness, hope and love. But he'd never once gotten the chance to experience that.

No, he was a bitty with nothing left to lose, who had felt bones break beneath his hand and dust spill over his wings- in the right light, or absence of it, as it were, Gyre could have sworn he saw the pattern of it across the underside of his wings.

Settling the prison into place though, and 'opening' it to the dream bitty weren't one and the same. He saw Soot turn to him, aware as ever of his patron's presence, alternate reality or no. They stood all but next to each other, well within the boundary of the prison, but by itself that wasn't enough.

Soot though, had been made with his magic. And he'd been able to grasp the dream bitty's feather too for a reason. He just needed to 'invite them in.'

A harpy eagle was not a small bird of prey, and this bitty wasn't small either, looming over himself and Soot both, and this while on his knees-

All the more impressive then, how tightly he was bound, his wrists twisted behind his back, his taloned legs looped around again and again, and even his wings bound, half open, against his back.

Impressive too, in it's own way, when Gyre simply reaches out with one tentacle each, and at no more than a touch, draws both back into his prison.

Practice made perfect…

Briefly surprised, it too, the dream little time to recover, and even less to decide that this was actually much worse than it had been only instants before, and by relation, he was much, much more pissed.

Indeed, the look he gave both of them was no less than murder, and there was no question in Gyre's mind that the moment the other managed to break his way free, and there was no question that he would, he would kill both of them in a soulbeat. Still, something seemed to settle in those eyelights as he watched them, his attention shifting from Soot as his primary focus, to Gyre.

Whether this was because he recognized what he was, or because he recognized that Soot was only following his orders, it didn't really matter. He was focused on the nightmare bitty now. That would make this easier.

Despite this, Gyre paid little mind to him, taking time first to gently wind healing through Soot's… admittedly quite horrific wounds. The dream's talons had dug through muscle and flesh, spilling blood and magic like it was nothing… The dust's left arm had come very close to dusting, but under Gyre's careful hand, soon not even a scar remained of the many deep gouges and gashes that had been left dug deeply, clear to his bones.

Soot watched this, simply taking in the repair. As always, his gaze was flat, cold, and all but dead, his expression unreadable…

Compare this to the dream, whose features, despite the flat coldness of his own gaze, were twisted in barely contained fury… And contained only as long as his bindings remained intact. Which, if Gyre was any judge, wouldn't be much longer. By now his grasp of this nonplace was enough that he didn't even have to turn, to see his wrists twisting behind him, claws digging oh so painstakingly slowly against the cords that bound him.

"Now for you," Gyre says calmly, turning to the dream just as the cords finally give way. He shows no sign of alarm, able to read the strange currents of this place easily. They warn him where the dream will strike, and he steps aside, how the dream will turn, and lunge, and he ducks under the attack with some small margin to spare.

This continues for several would be blows, until the dream's attacks become more animalistic, finally leaving them braced on hands and talons, every feather bristling furiously. He looks like a sphinx of black and light grays, feather and bone…

He seems to have forgotten Soot, though Gyre doesn't believe it for a minute. The dust hangs back, watching, studying his movements with a cold, sharp eye, but for now, doesn't interfere.

…Good. The dream blames him, then. That works.

Another lunge, and what would almost certainly be a snarl in the world without. Gyre recognizes it, and recognizes too as the lack of actual sound from it finally gives the dream pause, and he slows, looking somewhat confused. Surreptitiously, he casts a glance around, perhaps the first time he's looking away from his would be prey, and takes in the utter lack of… anything, but the two of them.

…And he falters. And Gyre waits. Seconds tick by.

He looks back at Gyre, finally, his expression still angry, but wary now. Rather than attack again, he shifts his body, pulling his legs to where he can sever the bindings there as well, and then finally, those on his wings. Through all of it, he's silent… Not that he has much choice in this.

When the dream stands again, he towers several inches above the corrupted nightmare, a raptor of raw power with vastly sweeping wings of silver and black, exuding the dangerous air of a predator. He gives Gyre a look that says he would absolutely love to tear him in half, but has decided it's in his best interest to find out what's going on, first.

Through all of this, Soot has just watched, not even bathing to wipe away the lingering traces of what had been spilt from his arm.

"Why am I here?" The words were there, recognizable. Gyre could understand them, if not exactly hear them, but he'd gotten used to that.

"I needed someone capable to carry out an important and difficult task for me- In exchange for something equally important and difficult that I could offer in return."

A silent snarl curled the other's expression. "This," He gestures around himself, shooting a brief death glare at Soot, "Isn't how you ask for favors. And you," The curl deepened, with the threat behind it very clear, "Have nothing I want."

Gyre doesn't disagree, still eyeing the miniscule, but unmistakable trace of guardian magic. When he finally finds what he's looking for, he gives a small, curt nod, reaches out, and quickly enough that the other can't stop him, tugs a lingering trace of magic free, and holds it in his hand, a fleck of something little larger than a grain of sand, gleaming like a tarnished golden pearl. "They didn't get it all."

The dream, who'd simply continued to stand there until now, with a steadily increasing look of irritation, freezes up at this- Then snarls, so powerfully that even the fabric of nothingness shuddered at the force of it, attacking again.

Soot wisely stays out of the way- Or well, it would be more accurate to say that he doesn't act on orders not given, but still, he stays out of the way.

While the dream had been furious before, now, now Gyre had unlocked something truly feral in him, a primal, bloodthirtsy rage truly worthy of berserkers past. Nothing existed but his target, his prey, the one he wanted to hurt, the one he needed to break-

Gyre was now very hard pressed to keep ahead of him, dodging each blow as it came, and only managed to do so by thoroughly cheating, reading the winds of the nothing, and the ever faint ripples across the threads of fate, so soft that it was more a passing shadow than a breath.

A pounce, a twist, lithe as a cat, a strike, a lunge, a leap…

Still he held the 'pearl,' still he stayed ahead of the dream, and still the other bitty's anger only grew, blinding him more and more to what was going on around him.

{You're getting better at this,} Kháry mutters, grudgingly, though whether impressed or angry about this it was hard to tell. {He doesn't even realize you're feeding his anger.}

…It was true, this was exactly what Gyre was doing, nudging just so with his aura, a push here, a touch there, sending the dream bitty into an ever building, frothing rage.

That, and outlining a circle of binding around him, that was. He could have destroyed it easily if he'd recognized what the nightmare was doing, but he was too angry to pay mind.

A smudge of corruption? So what? A mark upon the lack of ground that they stood on? Nothing. Beneath notice.

One last line, one last glyph-

The field of magic flew up around him, as a darkness that erupts from inside the other bitty winds him up tight in a meshwork of his own negative emotions. He falls forward from his own momentum, slamming into the nothing with a force that Gyre once would have questioned.

His subsequent snarls, his struggles to free himself, and break apart the nightmare in front of him, only strengthen the net around him, winding about him like a breathing, growing thing, and binding him more and more tightly.

Once down, Gyre pays no further mind to the snapping, snarling, utterly animalistic bitty left lying on his side, turning his attention back where it belongs, on the small pearl held delicately between his fingers.

"You're the only one that they left with even a drop…" He muses quietly, a unspoken rage behind the words. "I suppose that's why you're still alive. I do wonder how you managed it, but-" He turns, taking in the sight of the dream, whose bones had taken on a familiar, almost powdery sort of appearance, like someone had flicked finely sifted powder at the furious bitty. "You won't last long, without it."

Gyre sighs, palming the bead briefly, before walking back to the dream bitty's side. Squatting down before him, he pressed the minute fleck of magic to the dream's skull, leaving that look of confusion on his face again, though this time he didn't stop struggling or snarling.

"As long as you have even this much, you can endure," Gyre informs him, the words soft and serious, "And as long as you endure, with care and time, your magic can regenerate some of what was taken."

Still he remains before the other, meeting those utterly colorless eyelights. No, they weren't just colorless, they were devoid of even the possibility of the stuff, like any flame that tried to light there would be snuffed out before it's first spark could ever hope to catch.

"But it will take time," He continues, his tone still even, still matter of fact, despite meeting those empty, empty eyelights, "Several years in fact, under ideal circumstance. And you're unlikely to chance into those. And it's unlikely to ever be whole."

"No," Gyre straightens, gaze turning to his own claws, "If you want to restore it while the ones who took it are still breathing, you'll need to take back more than this." The words are a slow, absent murmuring, almost more like he was simply voicing some insignificant thought aloud, rather than proposing a bargain.

"…I'll lend my magic to this end. As well as my… companion," The word felt strange somehow, and wrong on his tongue, "Provided he acquiesces."

Soot, gathering that Gyre means him, signs without hesitation, "Just tell me to kill," His features, as ever, utterly impassive, "And give me the means. I'll kill until the streets run with dust and blood."

The nightmare nods, accepting this, and as the dream stares at the dust silently a moment longer, Gyre offers simply, "Be quick, be skilled- Kill who you need." Those words… They once would have been so alien to him. "And I will lend what's required." What would Rantrum think of him now, a niggling little voice in the back of his mind asks him… for once his own.

…He pushes it away.

"I have things I need done by you," Gyre explains to the Dream, as even, as soft spoken, as ever, "And assistance I can offer you. Whether it's getting back what was stolen, or dust and blood, I genuinely don't care."

He had the other bitty's attention now, and he knew it. Satisfied, he begins 'scratching' out a bargain, there on the floor of… nothing.

"Say the word," Still quietly, writing the words so they could be seen, and taking care to make certain they were clearly said, "Strike a deal," A few last lines, "And sign your name."

Gyre stands again, and with a twitch of his fingers, the netting… returns, to its place inside the dream.

He touches his chest, lightly, beginning to understand what had bound him. Climbing carefully to his knees, he reads the words, then looks at the dust bitty, and then the nightmare, and with a dulled claw, he digs into the nothing, a single word.

UnDreamed.

The name left something curdling in Gyre's belly, but just like that, the magic sparked, and the bargain was struck.

Not rising yet, UnDreamed looks at him, knelt before the nightmare 'demon,' hate and fury lying unmasked in the dream's expression. "Tell me who to kill," He echoes the dust, in seething vow, "And give me the means…"

"…I'll kill until the streets run with dust and blood."

---

[bellsofblueficlets]

As Yet, And Still, Unspoken

…It didn't usually work this way.

Time rolled forward, without measure, without pause, one dream merging into another. Gyre wonders dimly, distantly, how exhausted he has to be to just keep dreaming so long past the point when he'd usually wake.

There's a sense of years rolling past him, of time marching on, immutable, inescapable, unavoidable...

In the shift and shuffle of timeless dream, a point is chosen again, and the memory continues. The door swings opens, and the mage, young, but now grown into his beard, looks stricken as the door clicks shut behind him. He almost collapses into the chair, eyes fixed on nothing. He's pale, and as he lift his hand to his mouth, there's a tremble in his fingers.

"He- he did it." That wasn't disbelief coloring his tone, no, it was realization. The mageling- no, mageling no more- rubbed his hand over his face, took a shaky breath, and looked off into the middle distance, an expression of pain etched into his features. "My father's dying. He actually did it."

…Suffice it to say, Kháry wasn't as surprised, and not only because he'd felt the archmage's life begin to flicker and wane, deep in the night. No, this was often how it passed from one 'master' to another- It was rare that those it served had lived to die of old age, or even genuine sickness.

In the arch mage's case, it was a fitting end. His uncle had died of poison, just as he was, as well as two of his cousins. A 'sickness,' sweeping their family. As it happened, its previous master's youngest- a young woman with a quiet demeanor, as the man's memories had revealed- was away with her mother and auntie. Maybe they had survived, but likely not.

It didn't much care, but it would find out soon, as it picked apart the cold and bitter bastard's soul. Normally these moments were filled with a cruel, gleeful anticipation, but right now-

Right now, there was a mage who was breathing harder, his eyes growing wet as silent sobs began to shake his frame. He wasn't the slight little waif, or the spindly teen, he'd once been, his shoulders growing wider, his frame a bit more sturdy- but he looked more fragile now than the demon had ever seen.

He sobs until he folds against the desk, burying his face in his hands, with no one to comfort him as the demon just watches, confused, and says nothing. This, for the father who'd clearly never wanted him? Why? Why did-?

Why did it hurt, seeing him in so much pain?

The demon folds in on itself, and waits, silent, as wave after wave of sobs wrack it's mage's body. If nothing else, it's grown very good at waiting. So it waits, and says nothing, as he continues to cry…

Something deep inside it is trying to struggle to the surface, but no, not yet, it isn't time-

Finally, sobs become whimpers, and then even whimpers fade, and he just sits there, his body slumped, head hung, and tears streaking his face. In all the time the demon had known him, he'd never looked so alone.

The words, when they come, are still broken, but not one is lost on the demon. "When you're small," Rantrum starts quietly, "And your whole world changes, your mother suddenly gone, and living with a father you don't know, who doesn't hide that he doesn't want you? You look for something to be okay… Anything."

"When our father told him I was his brother, he looked mostly confused," The mage gazes miserably at nothing, "But I wanted that. To have a brother. I'd always wanted one," What little strength he had seeming to leave him as his body slowly slumped against the desk again, "And there he was. And I thought that could be my one thing that was okay."

"I think, he tried to be my brother. At first." He chokes back another sob. "And I think that made it worse. Having that hope," His breath hitches, and he breaths deeply, trying to keep from falling apart again, "Of having a brother-"

"But brothers… brothers aren't supposed to be like this…"

No, Kháry supposed bitterly, they probably weren't. But family wasn't supposed to be like this either.

Rantrum turns his head, finally regarding the demon. "Did… you ever have a brother?"

Kháry wasn't ready for the conversation to switch to it, and it took a few seconds to realize what he was asking. {…No.} The demon lied, a strange hollowness to the words, {I didn't.}

It had, of course. It had multiple siblings. And it still had one, or what was left of him. A hollow, empty husk…

"I wanted him to be mine." Rantrum murmurs, turning his eyes back away, dully. "And I don't think that ever went away. Even after everything he did. After everything I found. Even when-" He stops here, not finishing.

Even when he'd asked Kháry for help in binding him? The mage had been a fool if he'd thought there was any turning back from that…

Who knew, maybe he'd hoped his brother wouldn't commit the blood betrayal at all. Hoped that something in the man would change, that he'd reach him, and they could still be brothers, and he would never have to know. Maybe he even hoped one day to remove it, discreetly.

It was far too late for that now. Year after year, even as Kháry had continued its tutelage, it had taught him to wind the trap, so infinestially lightly, so gossamer thin, that it wouldn't be noticed, until all that had remained was the trigger, a betrayal of blood. And Kháry had known that it was only a matter of time.

So here it was. It's victory. Everything it had spent years preparing for, finally come to fruition. Soon, it would be free.

And yet, something deep inside the demon… wavered. Not guilt, or regret, no, but… something. At the sight of the once mageling, wrung out and crumpled before it, it's own apprentice, it felt… something.

Grief. It felt grief, for his pain.

That hadn't been part of its plan.

The demon has fallen silent again. Very… very silent, actually. Silent enough that when the nightmare bitty sharing its dream lifted part of its liquid body, it offered no objection, no resistance. And when he placed the tendril of self against the barrier… Neither did it.

Gyre moved forward, slowly, haltingly, trying to control a body that had never been his, his only goal to reach his mage. It didn't matter that this was a memory, it didn't matter that the real Rantrum was gone, his mage was hurt, and alone, and…

And no matter what had happened in real life, in the past? He would be damned if this time, nobody came.

Slopping, glumping, oozing and slithing, he pulled himself on, sometimes literally, reaching out with sticky stringlets of self and dragging itself forward, until he reached his mage. Reaching out, dripping, melting more as moments passed, it wound a viscose loop around his hand.

"You aren't alone," Gyre burbles, a grotesque sound that any other time he'd wince at, hearing from his own voice. "You're not."

Rantrum's other hand closely gently around the offered tendril. "I know, my Gyre," The mage whispers, not looking up, "Thank you." Gyre waits for him to change, to resolve into a more familiar figure, but it doesn't happen. Instead, the image of that young man that Kháry had once known remains.

"And I'm so, so sorry, my little apprentice. I know you're not ready. But I can't keep doing this."

"I can't keep reliving this…"

Gyre had been about to comfort more, to assure him it was okay, when these last words stop him in his tracks. It feels like his soul stops inside him.

It… can't be…

Rantrum sniffles, finally wiping free some of the tears streaking his face, and then without asking, something he'd never done, he gently scoops the nightmare bitty into cupped hands, like a noxious little puddle of black, watching him with confusion… and all the love he'd felt so long for his mage. For his biggie.

His mage does his best to smile in greeting. It's weak, it's tired, and the pain of the relived memory is still reflected in eyes rimmed red from crying, but it's his smile just the same. One Gyre had missed, soul deep…

…Soul… Deep…

The nightmare bitty slowly pulls himself into a more familiar shape, and lifts his hand, placing it over his chest. Soul deep. How… How had it taken him so long, to realize this might really be him?

As he looks up at his biggie, he tries to speak, tries to say so much, but the words catch in his throat, and nothing comes out.

Maybe nothing needs to. He reaches up, half one form, half another- It doesn't matter anymore, what form he takes. He touches Rantrum's face, so softly, and draws himself up to nuzzle, leaving sticky black, but certain in that moment that that doesn't matter either.

He… should be angry… shouldn't he? Instead he's trembling, face to face with every emotion he'd felt since lifting his head, dizzy and in pain, his skull broken, to find his mage dead. Grief, shame, pain, longing, fear…

Confusion… hurt…

But anger? No.

"I missed you." Is that his voice? Is it the demon's? He doesn't know anymore. He can't hear it anymore. "I miss you so much…"

Rantrum blinks, looking… confused. He pets softly just the same, as Gyre nuzzles him again. "You know what I did…"

"…Yes." There was no denying it. Rantrum had set him up to inherit the demon. To one day, be no more than another soul for it to claim. Unlike the demon though, he believed his mage about fate and binding. So he hadn't just intended for him to inherit. He'd planned for all of it. He'd known.

The quiet shame in his biggie's eyes does nothing to deny it, either. Gently, he continues petting, looking for the words. "It couldn't be freed, not as it was." He admits at last, still sounding tired, "I knew what it would do. But I couldn't let my family keep enslaving it."

"If I had children, it would likely pass to one of them," The mage muses, far too late for such actions, "I could try my best to raise them well. To teach them to be responsible. To help them understand responsibility, and kindness. But within a few generations, with the kind of power that Kháry's chain can grant, gone unchecked? And we'd right back where we were."

"…It's a shame," The words, utterly soft, as he gazes off at nothing. "I think I might have enjoyed being a father. Maybe even… a grandfather, one day." Days, now long past, mind…

Yet the weight in his voice tells Gyre as almost as much as his words. His whole life had been devoted to trying to repair the damage his family had done. To making sure it didn't happen again. Every choice he made was shaped in some way by this.

Maybe that was even why he'd never mentioned a partner, never mentioned love. To ensure no children. Or maybe he just so devoted to working off a sin that wasn't even his, that he'd never had the time.

Rantrum's gaze turns to the little prison, now empty, and nudges it with his forefinger. Such a weak, empty little thing now. It was almost hard to believe it had ever been a threat. But of course, this was a dream…

"To ever really be free," His mage tipped over the little shell, effortlessly, "To break the chains of fate that bound it… It needed a different one. A different fate. And what I read in my own, over and over again, was that this was something it would never be in my power to offer."

"But I saw too that someone would exist who might be able to. So I picked up that thread, and I followed it. Straight to you." His hand returns to Gyre, resuming its gentle ministrations, "But even once you were in my care, it remained such a thin thread of possibility, a fragile chance, that if allowed to play itself out a thousand times, it might never even once lead to fruition."

"So I elected to… nudge it," He admits, not quite rueful, but not without some guilt, still. "Not just here and there, but in every way, at every turn. I read the possibilities. I altered the outcomes that I could. I led you by the hand, to an end result I couldn't see. Trusting that by the time you needed to, you'd walk the rest of the way on your own."

"So yes, I gave you to it." There was no apology, this time. Only shame. "Damned you, in every way I know the word. I did it knowingly, and I did it willingly. And you have every right to feel betrayed. Every right to hate me. Every right to-"

"That's enough," Gyre nuzzles Rantrum's cheek from his perch, "You're still my mage, Rantrum. Still my biggie. I'll never hate you."

Silence at first… followed by a long, soft exhale, as though he'd been holding his breath for a very long time. "You are a wonderful creature," He whispers, closing his eyes again, "Still demonstrating, even now, why it needed to be you."

"…Thank you. My little apprentice. That is… a weight, off my soul."

Was it though, really? Relief, Gyre heard, yes… But guilt too, that if anything, only seemed to weigh even heavier. Still, nuzzles, and soft pats from his bitty. He didn't have much time left with his biggie. He wouldn't spend it unhappy.

Oh, right. The demon had taught him- Could he-?

No. Even now, he could sense nothing from Rantrum, much less ease the ache of his soul. As though the man had bound even his own-

Wait. Was that possible? Had he-?

"The bond between us was enough then?" The question interrupts his thoughts, scattering them. It was weighted, to say the least. Was that soul deep bond that the two of them had forged, born of trust and of love, strong enough to deliver him to a demon's hand?

"Yeah," The nightmare bitty deliberately ignores his use of the past tense. "It's… in my care." How much exactly did he know? Had he seen anything past his own end?

A slow nod from the mage. From his mage. "The bond between you is stronger than I expected," He admits, "It surprised me to find you caught in the dreams of its past. It surprised me to be there. I don't know how I was, and even less how I'm here with you now. I didn't really think I'd be anything at this point."

Again, Gyre bites his tongue on exactly why. "But you've been guiding the dreams too." He muses, reflecting on all this means.

"Yes. You deserved to know the truth. About me. About it." A soft soft, bemused maybe. "I expected each dream to be my last chance to see you. I was all but certain it would grind me to a shell for everything I've done. Leading you through it's dreams, it's memories, seemed like it would be the final betrayal."

"But you still did it." He mutters, shaking his head. Of course he had…

A chuckle, soft, familiar, warm… tired. "Does that still surprise you?"

"…Not really."

It didn't. Not by this point anyway. And he suspected that even with everything he knew now, he'd barely touched the tip of the iceberg of just how many times his mage had faced something he'd been certain with every fiber of his being that he'd regret doing, and then done it anyway.

Oblivious, all the while, how much that described him too.

Gyre leans against Rantrum, looking around. This place was so familiar now. It felt like he'd spent years here. A library…

"Did you know?" He asks quietly, after several seconds pass. "About the library, I mean-"

The way that Rantrum had talked about his own library in the beginning, calling it a vanity and a folly… Had he known he'd die there? Like that? Every time he'd stood in that room, every time his apprentice had begged him to visit, and he'd acquiesced, had it been knowing he would die there one day? Knowing how?

A soft sound from the mage, rueful, regretful. "That the monument I'd crafted to my own foolish vanity would collapse once the magic holding it together was sufficiently disrupted? That an explosion of sufficient force would it's shelves and walls fold like a house of cards?"

"That I'd die there?"

"Yeah," Gyre mumbles, nuzzling him again, "That."

"…Of course I knew," A shrug, small, controlled, and well aware of the bitty perched on his shoulder. "I mean, I also knew it was a foolishness when I built it. But to learn it would one day be my tomb?" He sighs. "Well. That does give the weight of such pointless grandeur a different perspective."

Gyre swallowed, casting his good eyelight down. He knew the answer to his next question, on some level. He still needed to ask it. "Why not destroy it?" He can barely recognize his own voice. When was the last time he'd heard it sound so small, so weak? Is this what he'd always sounded like, before? "Or just, stay away?"

His mage grimaces, in a way he's certain of, despite not being able to see it, "I would have fallen anyway," He mutters dismissively, templing his fingers in a way his bitty knew well by this point. "Do you think they wouldn't have come, for the lack of a library?" He was being evasive, at best.

Gyre huffs softly. "Rantrum," He scolded his mage, not ungently, "Don't lie to me. Not now." The bitty he'd once been might have let that slide, once. But things changed. He'd changed. And this was his very last chance to know the truth.

So as much as the sweet little passive nightmare bitty he'd once been wants to curl up with his biggie, hold him tight, and cry, until he can't hold him anymore? He isn't letting this go.

A pause, maybe surprise, from his mage, but he makes no attempt to deny that it's true. There's a few weighted seconds as Rantrum tries to find the right way to explain why his death had been inevitable, then slowly his shoulders sag, betraying that Gyre is right.

"Because it was the death I was most certain of." He admits at last, with the silent weight behind these words of an entire lifetime spent shouldering the responsibility of his family's sins- and his own, as well. He was tired. Deeply tired. "If I altered it, there were too many other things that might change as well, in ways I wasn't able to see. How it would happen, or when…"

"Or… what else it might-" His hand starts to seek his bitty, then pauses, falling away, before Gyre can stop it. The bitty, one tentacle partly outstretched to meet it, let's this fall as well, and doesn't interrupt

"What else it might cost. Or what would happen after, once I was-" The mage hesitates only briefly, "Once I was no longer in a position to alter fate."

"Once you died." Gyre corrects quietly. He won't pretend it was anything less, and he won't let Rantrum either. Downplaying it was a betrayal of memory of everything that happened that day.

Again, Rantrum doesn't deny it. He doesn't say anything else, either.

For a while, neither does his bitty. He knew that he wasn't the eager young nightmare bitty that Rantrum had known. Sometimes it was hard to believe he ever had been. And his mage? Maybe he'd never really known him at all. And maybe they would never really know who the other had been, or what he'd become…

In those moments though? That didn't feel important. The nightmare bitty nuzzles him, and after the smallest hesitation, his mage lifts his hand, and pets the nightmare bitty softly.

"If your old mentor was in a cell the whole time," Because that was enough lingering on his best friend's death, thank you, "Where did that wall labyrinth of yours come from?" It wasn't important, no. That was the point. There wasn't going to be some big healing, some big understanding, some big closure… And that was okay.

There's a soft sound of amusement from Rantrum, maybe even the trace of a smile. "I'm allowed to have some secrets, aren't I?" His tone softens, "Gyre? I know you have no reason to believe in me anymore. But… I think you do. So, if I can say something?"

Gyre nods, willing to let him say what he needed, "Go ahead."

Rather than taking that permission, and saying what he needed? Rantrum stood from the desk, and pushed back his chair, careful not to jostle his bitty.

In every dream, heavy curtains had draped the large window opposite the desk, all but blotting out any promise that a world beyond this small room still existed- or maybe that it ever had. It had always posed an impossible barrier, occassionally offering the faintest rays of light, but never more than this. It may as well have been solid stone, steel-

It takes only a few strides to reach them, and less effort still for the mage to reach out, and draw them open, finally revealing what had laid beyond this whole time.

Somehow, Gyre had expected a courtyard, or a garden. Maybe a few pretty trees and a winding road that led off in the distance. Some view befitting a lord's estate. What he hadn't expected was a poorly lit glimpse of another nearby building, it's dirty brick wall all but eclipsing any other view. Beyond this, there were a few abandoned crates, and what might have been moonlight, or just the glow of incandescent bulbs, filtering through the bars of a wrought iron fire escape.

Either way, they were in a city, and one that despite the silence of the library, should have been filled with sound. It was… unsettling, knowing that so much lay out there, so close. Unnoticed, unheard.

"It's easy to get the wrong idea about things," He asks softly, "Isn't it?"

"…Our cages, maybe most of all."

Again, that uneasiness, gazing outward. Somewhere deep inside, Gyre can feel the demon stare, feel it's disbelief, it's confusion. He knew somehow that the last time Kháry had looked past that curtain, that hadn't been the view to greet it.

It had been in this room for a very long time, he'd known that, but this was the first time he felt it understand just how long that really meant. Hundreds of masters… Hundreds of human lifetimes…

"Some of the things that you're seeing as problems my apprentice, are really just tools, waiting for you to realize it." The mage steps away from the window again, letting part if the curtain fall back, though it no longer shut away the truth of what was really out there, not anymore. "Time is on your side. Maybe you already know that. Your prison? Something you can't escape, no. Not yet. But those who still want your claim won't be able to reach you, not until you're ready."

"You need to understand what you made, Gyre," Rantrum gently lifts the bitty from his shoulder, setting him back on the desk before retaking his chair. "You didn't just form a binding made to restrain your magic, you formed it of that same magic, claimed and bound."

The words are offered… almost like they're supposed to be an encouragement, but a cold chill washes through the nightmare bitty, hearing them.

"It reacts to the strength of your magic," Rantrum says again, more slowly this time, as if Gyre might not have understood the first time, "Because it is your magic, remade to the purpose of containing you. Because your own magic is the one thing you cannot escape from…"

"But, it remains yours, and that makes it an extension of you, my apprentice. It makes it still yours to command, once you understand how."

The nightmare bitty tries to listen, to latch onto words that sound like they're meant to be hope, but also words that told him again that his mage really had deliberately set him on this path, to the demon, to his prison… had done everything in his power to see it done even, even-

Even… dying.

Rantrum… had given everything for this. His life, his death, his happiness…

His apprentice…

Except… everything Gyre had done, had been his choice, hadn't it? Even if the path to the crossroads was one he'd been led straight to, blind and trusting, accepting the demon's bargain, resorting to the dangerous binding, the dust on his hands…

He was the one who'd done that.

On some level, still the words register, and he turns them over in some part of his mind not currently preoccupied with having come face to face, again, with the fact that Rantrum had meant for this to happen. All of it.

The small space had been first shaped by his magic, yes, but he'd assumed that was where it ended, a binding that just reacted like a fingertrap, tightening more the greater the struggle, and the stronger the magic. It was true that it only seemed to respond to him, and well, he was the only one who seemed to be able to extend his senses into it as far as he did, and he supposed he was one of only two things that weren't dashed apart by the sheer force of it's speed, Soot being the oth-

That stopped his thoughts in their tracks, as it suddenly occurred to him to wonder why Soot hadn't been torn apart too. He'd been pulled into it when Gyre and Kháry had originally fallen into the binding yes, but-

But it was never written to include the dust bitty in the spell. Only himself, and Kháry.

A light touch brushes his skull, and though it feels like he should flinch, instead he lifts his gaze, meeting those familiar blue eyes. "Instead of trying to break free of it, strengthen the connection. You shaped it once. You can shape it again. Once you're strong enough to stand on your own against what's waiting beyond that barrier, you'll be strong enough to cross it too."

"…You'll still need help," The mage admits, with a faint twitch of his lips, "And it will always remain a part of you, but neither of these are bad things. And unless I'm greatly mistaken, you already possess what you'll need most to gain your freedom."

The mage retakes his seat, slowly, as if with no small effort. Before Gyre's eyelight, the years reclaim him again, and a familiar face sits across from him, regarding the bitty with a look hard to describe as anything but regret. "If you take nothing else from me today, take this, please. Don't try to bear this burden alone. Don't keep it in secret, and in silence."

"If there is one thing I could do differently, only one thing," His frame sinks more heavily into the old chair, "It would be putting my faith in you while I was still alive. Taking you into my confidence, rather than trying to reorchastrate fate. You deserved that…"

The mage trails off, in a small sigh, his eyes closing. "Maybe… we both did…" His fingertips brush so softly against Gyre's skull. "I am… so sorry, my friend."

"For that… and for this…"

The nightmare bitty had been leaning into his touch, but at this he tenses, drawing away. An aqua eyelight narrows watching his mage, but Rantrum makes no effort to reach after, his expression one of waiting, as though he expects Gyre to lean back in again.

Minutes pass. But, finally, that's exactly what the demon bound nightmare bitty. He has a good idea what Rantrum intends, and well-

Regardless of what led him here, he is here. The choice is his now. So he makes it, closes his good socket, and leans forward, resting his brow against his biggie's hand.

Finally, he starts to see the same lines of fate that Rantrum always tried to explain to him, he begins to understand. He grasps to one, shining thread, stretching out before him, trying to hold it tight, but-

But, he's holding onto the end of it. A thread already unspooled, unwound, and now spent. He might be able to see fate now, might be able to affect it, but there was no way for him to hold onto a thread of fate that was already severed.

Darkness begins to eclipse the dream, and he can feel it ending. He… can't let go yet. He's not ready to let go.

But… he will. Maybe not today, but he will.

He feels as the dream finally draws closer to an end. He watches as Rantrum closes his eyes again, resting his head in the desk. The weight of his lonely burden finally passed on. As he finally settles to his rest, Rantrum admits softly, "I hope one day, I can deserve your forgiveness…"

"…Thank you, Gyre. For everything."

The nightmare bitty watches, silent, until the darkness is all that remains, and he stands alone again. Only then taking a ragged breath, and letting aqua tears spill from his good eyelight, unchecked. He doesn't say the words aloud, but they resound, unspoken.

Goodbye, Rantrum…

---

[bellsofblueficlets]

The Pieces Missing

He'd been wrong, thinking time was part of their damnation. No, time? It was going to be his strongest tool. So this time, when he set aside his worries about how much time had passed, it wasn't to hide, it was because he was settled in for the long haul, and he knew it.

A century? Two? Ten? It didn't matter. He was going to do this right, and that meant doing it thoroughly, and that- Well. He was going to be a while.

Soot was looking better these days though, and in more ways than one. Yes, he still looked utterly unhinged, but that was expected. He knew now that Soot actually had a great deal more control than many dusty bitties, despite the sheer depths of his own murdery tendencies being carefully and deliberately selected for.

Apparently, this had something to do with loyalties, and 'finding his nightmare,' according to the demon. Gyre accepted this, seeing no reason not to, but he did tend to be wary how much of the demon's claims to believe.

Still. Soot was decidedly doing better, at least so far as his magical stability went. He'd even begun feeling traces of positive emotion, since it turned out that the capacity to feel an entire spectrum of emotions was a difficult thing to scrape away entirely. Likely why they'd added the nightmare's essence to his make-up…

He'd likely never feel as many positive emotions, or as much, as other bitties. But he could now feel some of what had been taken away from him, some part of what he'd been robbed of, restored-

Now, it was time for the next part.

It took great care to manipulate another's magic, and this hadn't been part of his training, but the demon had held the hundreds of lives worth of souls, of memories, it had consumed… Including much of what had been done to bitties like Soot. It was… tremendous insight. Exceedingly helpful. Might very well leave him with nightmares for the rest of his life, mind…

…Even if this worked, he knew that it wouldn't be enough to save the dusty. But it would be a start. And that, he could work with.

I need more material, he thought, sitting back to look at his 'finished' work.

{Then send your dog after it,} came the annoyed answer. It wasn't the first time after all, he'd inquired after the only other thing in this reality that could conceivably be worked with, or the first time the demon had refused. {Or do you really think that while you're elbow deep inside your minion's magic is the best time to attempt recycling the crumbling soul bits of dead mages?}

Okay. It had a point. Gyre mutters, "Guess this will have to do then." His eyelight turns more directly to Soot, who is tense, and waiting. "He'll mostly just exist at this point. Limited response. To help him 'wake' up more, we need more to work with. Since we can't leave, that'll be where you come in."

"For now… Are you ready?" Soot nods. "And you're sure this is what you want?" Gyre presses, one more time. "If you change your mind, I may not able to… uh, help, for a long time. So consider this a permanent choice." Soot meets his eyelight, the intensity of that stare as always unsettling, and nods again.

Okay. Here went… everything. The repairs and shifts had been mapped out dozens of times, and he'd played them out in his head dozens more, to the point where every step was memorized-

It should have been harder, going from theory to practice. Instead he found the points with ease, winding, plucking, tightening, and adjusting.

Through touch, he knew the now familiar song of sharpness, ice, and dark, an instrument that had been strung with razor wire by rough hands, bound too tight and out of tune, every plucked note one that tore and stung no one as much as the one into which they were strung.

It took great care, coaxing the tightest strings to loosen, repairing those that had been left deeply frayed- restringing where he could those that had been taken. His 'hands' passed gently over the place where the long dead nightmare's essence had festered within him, and soothed the wounds he still found there-

Anyone but a nightmare would have risked buckling beneath the roiling rage, the anger and darkness that permeated everything this close to his dusty's soul, but Gyre? He acknowledged it with respect, and continued, undeterred.

The demon watched… maybe more surprising, it murmured silent observations here and there, pointing out where Soot's abuser's had been clumsy or careless, sometimes falling short in their efforts, sometimes overreaching. And he listened, and he committed it to memory.

This wouldn't be the last time he did this after all. He needed to find the others. All of them. He needed to do everything he could to right the wrongs that had been done with his magic, fix what could still be fixed-

Finally, with as much repaired and reinforced as he was able to manage, it was time to address the real reason he was 'here.' Just finding the residual traces that had been left behind was something that took a lot of attention to detail, and a lot of patience.

Actually doing something with it though? That required a very, very delicate hand, and even more patience than finding it had. But part of what made a dust bitty a dust bitty, was his papyrus. And that? Well, it turned out that like the capacity to feel positive emotions, that was much harder to remove completely, than to remove in part, and then ensure that what was left never woke up…

---

Something is wrong. Kháry shifts uneasily in it's prison, droplets of blacker than black sliding stickily over each other without a sound. For days now the mageling had been bubbling over with excitement about meeting another mage of binding during his trip to the city, a rare treat for the apprentice who usually had to be so careful not to let on what he knew.

A mage of fate, its mageling had described him, going on at length about threads and paths, and something about a weird metal maze that had been hung on a wall and filled with water. Kháry had never heard of a mage of fate mind, dismissing the idea as some soothsayer or another, selling trinkets, or promising glimpses of secret knowledge- all for a fee, of course.

It hadn't managed to deter his enthusiasm though, and he kept coming back with new books and sketches, trying to tell it everything he was learning from his new 'friend-'

And then today, Rantrum had came in with his shoulders slumped, head down, and a vacant look. If Kháry had to put a word to sudden the change in his student, it would describe him as devastated. Like the whole world had suddenly turned to ash in his hands… or maybe just his whole world.

Pencil and paper, the scritch of one against the other. He didn't usually use pencils. He wasn't chewing this one either, too focused on the paper. Nothing the demon had offered had managed to dissuade or distract him, he'd just gesture absently, and ask for "one more minute. I just want to finish this."

The sense of dread in it's non existent stomach was impossible to ignore. It tried to lift high enough to see what was being written, but only succeeded in hitting the top of its prison, left to gather about inside it in frustration.

The scratching stops suddenly, and an inexplicable look of anger suddenly crosses the mageling's face. He tears the page free, balling it up violently in his hand before tearing it in half, again, again, before simply summoning a handful of flame, burning it to ashes to scatter across the desk.

It surprised the demon into silence, and for the first time since it had thrown its fate in with the mageling some years before, it felt a fear of him. That dark expression, those flashing eyes. How had it never noticed that Rantrum had his father's eyes?

My… father's eyes…

Rantrum closed his eyes, and leaned forward, resting his face in his hands. Ash smudges his face. Silence stretches. Finally he lifts his head, and still without a word, he reaches for his pad of paper again. Again the scratching of pencil to page, this time the movements more rough, angry. His knuckles showed white with how tightly he gripped the pencil.

Fear… Fear… What happened, what was going on? Leave, just leave… its mind whines, the demon's body curling in on itself like an injured worm, Go away, you're just going to hurt me like the rest. I thought you'd be different. I thought you'd be different-

The mageling didn't leave. He wrote, and wrote, and his expression twisted in frustration, anger-

Again he tore the page free, shredding with fury, and finally burning. This time though, when he was done, he shoved the notebook away and dropped his face into his hand again. He was shaking…

Silence. Kháry didn't dare to break it.

"…One thousand. One hundred. And twelve." Rantrum whispers at last, the words… not angry, no. Quiet, and broken. Hearing this, Kháry starts to relax.

"One thousand, one hundred and twelve," The mageling echoes again, just as broken as before, "Credits of sale." Still he doesn't lift his head. "That's what a man's life is worth, when he isn't born into wealth. When he doesn't have anyone who will notice if he disappears."

A sigh, and slowly, Rantrum pushes himself to his feet, walking over to the bookshelf. "I lied, you know." Quietly. The words unashamed, just… tired. "That mage I kept mentioning. I didn't meet him in the city."

He plucks a book from the shelf, absently, and begins shuffling through its pages. "I met him in the dungeons. It was my father's idea of a life lesson. Drag me down there, make me scrub out the 'newly' empty cells." A twitch of his lips, a humorless smile. "Instead of a lesson of what I'd become if I disappointed him… I met a friend."

"…all my friends seem to be in cages."

Kháry had been about to say something about needing better friends, but those words struck it silent. The mageling… Rantrum. He was referring to it, wasn't he? To the demon. Calling it a friend.

The demon had a very bad feeling he knew what had happened to its mageling's other 'friend.' It couldn't even be relieved the distraction was gone, not with its apprentice this upset.

Rantrum sighs, closing the book. "Slavery is illegal in this timeline," The words were weighted… devastated. "But not in others we trade with. I went to find what happened to him." Again, that twitch of humorless smile. "I'm good at finding things I'm not supposed to, after all."

The tome is tossed carelessly, slamming into the surface of the desk it's prison was set on, hard enough to make it jump, sliding to a stop just beyond it's wall. "And find… I did. I found, the price of a man's life. Of twenty people's lives. Fifty. A hundred!" The words were as close to a snarl as Kháry ever could have imagined hearing from him, and it would be staring at him with wide eyes at this point if it genuinely had them.

It waits for more, more explosion, more anger, but… instead, it watches as the mage begins to deflate, the fight seeming to slowly leave him while Kháry watched. His frame sagged against the bookshelf, and he just stood there, running his hand over his face again. Several minutes pass before he finally drags himself back to the desk, and drops into the chair, the picture of a young man whose faith in the world had simply broken.

"I should've have stopped looking," He whispered, a deep tiredness in bleary blue eyes. Had he slept at all since the last time Khary had seen him? "I'm not sure what I hoped to find. A… reason. A justification…"

"An excuse." His arms fold against the desk, and he lowers his head, resting his chin against them. "I was looking for anything… Anything." His eyes close. "And I found everything."

He really had been sheltered. No… Not sheltered. Cast aside. If its mageling knew even a quarter of what his family had done. Hells, if he ever found out about the bitty…

"And now, I know." The words are offered dully, Rantrum not even rising from his position " I can't do anything. He's just… gone."

{I guess he didn't read that fate…} Kháry mutters.

Rantrum tensed, lifting his head, and stared at the demon with shock and pain in his eyes. It had known as soon as it said the words that it'd messed up, but didn't realize just how much until it saw that, and was set back by how much that pain genuinely hurt it to see.

{I-} What was it going to say?

"Don't." Rantrum whispered, turning his gaze away. "Just. Don't."

…It doesn't. It can't take it back.

A few minutes more pass before the mageling reaches for his pad of paper and pencil, and begins writing again, He mutters under his breath, "Averages. Years. Volume numbers." There's something different in his eyes as he explains this, closed off, distant, in a way he'd never been before. "I keep… running them through. Keep…" He stops abruptly, tearing the page free again-

And then just stops, halfway through starting to rip it again. After a moment, he spread it back out instead, slowly, smoothing it against the wood of the desk. "Numbers don't lie," He mutters, quiet defeat in his words. "People do."

{…Yeah. They do.}

"…" The mage takes a slow breath, before turning to look at his 'friend.' "Including you?" He asks, softly. The demon tenses in it's cell, and knows too well that his sharp eyes don't miss it.

Rather than press it though, his eyes turn back to the paper, and everything written there. "My brother isn't a good man, is he?" He asks next, still just as softly. The question surprised the demon, to the point of leaving it dumbfounded. He had to know… didn't he?

"…Don't. Actually answer that." Rantrum clarifies.

Right. No. If he hadn't known it before, he knew it now. Long fingers drum against the worn wood, and tired eyes drift around the room, looking for something, anything, to fix on. Landing again, inevitably, on the demon's prison.

"What would he do with your power?" Something in the way he asks says that this time, yes, he is asking.

There's a question…

{The same as every 'master' I've had before,} Comes the answer, tight and bitter… and truthful. {Exactly what he already is, just on a bigger scale.}

With a grunt, it settles down into a shapeless heap. {Those making horrific weapons make more, and make them worse. Those who take apart people apart in a desire to master life and death claim ever greater numbers for their experiments, and push their suffering to degrees they never could before.}

{Someone whose existence thrives on cruelty, either by way of fixation, or for monetary gain, don't become more benevolent when life gives them a chance to have what they already do, at the price of less suffering. They want more.}

The demon watches him, knowing the answer before it even asks the question. {So you tell me, mageljng. What woukd he do, if he got my power?}

Silence in answer, Rantrum just sitting there with his head bowed. Something had already been taken out of him, but with those last words, it was like watching it die. An exuberance. Whatever fading traces of faith he had left in his family. Anything that still somehow remained of a lingering innocence that by all rights never should have been able to survive this long… was just, gone.

Finally, just, "And will he get your power?" His head leans against his habd again, but this time his eyes are open, and fixed on the paper before him. "I'm aware we've made a bargain. And I know your magic will default to me. But," And here, his gaze flicks up again. "There's a reason you keep pushing battle studies at me, isn't there?"

{…Yes.} There was no point hiding it. Not anymore.

Rantrum nods, slowly. Expecting this. Accepting it. "Then… tell me. Do you really think I can I beat him?"

As much as Kháry wants to say 'yes-'

{No.} It shuffles unhappily, its words grim. {That's the one place he outpaces you. Do you know why?}

At the question, a short humorless sound from the mageling, giving the demon pause. "Intent," The word falls from his tongue with a lilt of disgust, scorn. Intent in this case meaning more specifically, intent to hurt. To injure. To kill. Rantrum didn't have it. His brother, though-?

{…Yeah. That.} Rantrum. The never wanting to hurt anyone little mageling with a warm smile, and not a drop of LV-

Well. Not such a warm smile anymore.

A softer sound, not quite an echo of that humorless almost laugh from before. "So. He'll kill me. He'll take you. He'll-"

Rantrum falls silent again, folding his hands in front of him. Kháry knew that look by now. He was thinking. He was good at finding solutions to impossible problems, but Kháry knew that he would never be willing to go far enough to find one here. His brother would show no mercy. It was up to the demon to find some way to truvk the mageling into-

"You told me once," The words interrupt its internal reflection, heavy, resigned. "That almost every binding can be broken." He pauses for a moment here, less to let the words sink in, and more hesitation to actually say what comes next. "That… means there's some that can't be, right?"

A pause follows this, followed by a flick of his eyes to Kháry's prison. And a mumbled, "Right. Obviously there are." Another moment, another hesitation, then quietly, "I need one. To bind a mage's magic. One that no one will be able to break. A new one. One that no one will recognize, or realize is there, before it's too late."

The demon stares in something like disbelief. With a slow shuffle into itself though, it pushes off the reverie. It had access to a vast wealth of old knowledge, yes, including forgotten spell works, but only forgotten in the memory of man and mage, while all of it still stood written in thousands of precautions that had been left etched in metal, sealed in jewels, carved in stone, and even bound into blood.

{What… exactly… are you asking me?} The demon asks, carefully, watching him. It didn't want to guess at this and be wrong.

Rantrum runs his hand against his chin, against the first silken traces of a beard, not yet long enough to draw much notice. He too, is visibly choosing his words. "You have been my family's personal demon for more generations than I can count," He says at last. Another time, and Kháry might have taken offense at being called that, but right now it had the sense that when he said this, it wasn't as some idea of the demkn being prize or propety.

"You've seen every caution, every ward, every charm," Rantrum continues, all but confirming his suspicions, "You know every spell we've used, every dirty trick played, every charm cast…"

"If there's anyone who has enough knowledge of our weaknesses, and has learned enough in our history to make the most use of it," His voice was weak, his posture defeated… but his eyes determined, as they returned to fix on the demon again, "It's you. Isn't it?"

That was a first. Being asked to use everything it'd learned during it's enslavement to craft a spell of its own making…

A spell, to hurt the same ones who had enslaved it for so long. And who waited so eagerly to enslave it again.

It barely noticed the way the mageling's breath caught at the way its darkness swelled, its black depths left twisting in satisfaction at his request. {It is.} The demon agreed, in a low, pleased hiss. Yes, it could write something. Its mind had already begun finding the pieces, the best way to exploit what it knew of this family, its nature, its history, its sins.

Not only would it give its mageling a way to bind its would be master's magic though, oh no. It had something else in mind, an insidious thing, masquerading as a binding of magic in order to make him focus on that, while the true curse attacked its source- leaving the 'gift' inside him to wither at its root. By the time he managed to free it, if he ever did, there would be nothing left to free.

Then, once it was finally, finally free, there be no defense…

It didn't notice at the time the way its mageling was staring, or the pain in his eyes. It wouldn't realize until far, far too late, that Rantrum had already begun to realize the truth, or that the proof had already been visible that day in the way he watched it.

{It will need to start with a blood betrayal,} It had rumbled, oblivious to its plans being unraveled, not ten feet away, {But I know your brother's kind. All we have to do is wait, and he'll supply it…}

---

[bellsofblueficlets]

Still Further To Fall

Time was barely even a concept anymore. He knew it hadn't taken long after recognizing the damage done to his dusty's magic to realize just how deeply it ran, but that was where his awareness of it had ended, by his own request.

It would likely take years to repair what his carelessness had allowed to go unchecked for so long, and years more being spent in that place as he struggled and floundered blindly was more than he'd been able to face, looming ahead.

So he'd simply asked the demon not to keep track of time anymore, or at least not share it. He was certain that the very nature of this place would do the rest.

Maybe surprisingly, it had complied. Maybe on this one point, it even empathized, having done this itself for so long.

Maybe. But he doubted it.

So, again, there was no telling how long ago that had been, and yet a rhythm of sorts had been established in their existence. Sleep, wake, study the damage done, repair as much as he could, ensure Soot's magic level was in the safe perimeter, then spend some time attempting to halt or slow their prison-

Or direct it, or see beyond it, grab something from beyond it, anything really-

Repeat steps one and two of the 'day,' spend time sparing with Soot- they both still needed this- and then repeat steps one and two a second time before getting some rest for, again, an indeterminate amount of time.

Soot was under very strict orders though, to wake him if he felt even a slight deterioration in his health, to avoid the risk of the nightmare bitty possibly sleeping too long. It was made clear that he'd be very disappointed and upset if this wasn't done. Maybe it was a bit patronizing, but it had worked. Twice, Soot had done just this, and brief panic attacks aside, Gyre was mostly satisfied that this risk had been addressed as well as he could.

He had no idea how long they'd lived this way now. But, again, that was by design. By that logic, it shouldn't have bothered him. There's a certain… psychological attachment though, with days, nights, months. That reached sometimes, for something, anything, to hold onto, in a place where so little else existed.

Other times though… It became too easy to forget that the sketchiness, the not-ness, wasn't all there was. That there'd ever been anything before. That there still might be, out there, somewhere.

But even here, even in their monotonous, unchanging routine… Things, changed. Maybe the first time he'd realized this, was when he'd woken after what felt like too short a sleep, to find his dusty curled up beside him, his own tentacle curled around the other bitty. Not back to back, as they slept on those rare occasions when Soot slept at all, but almost in his arms.

Soot had woken almost immediately at this stirring, that wild, dangerous gaze immediately locking on his, the dusty tensing.

He'd known in that instant that how he reacted was important… So he'd done absolutely nothing to indicate that it was anything strange. He didn't remark on it, question it, call attention to it, just got up, and began their routine.

Soot had given no sign at the time that it made any difference to him. But that wouldn't be the last time it happened.

Yes, life had gained a routine of sorts, an order. Progress was… painfully slow, but it was progress. He gained a greater understanding of what had been done to the dusty's magic, what must have been done to others too, the part his own new magic played, and so much more.

So, yes, progress, order…

And then, there were the dreams, which had developed their own terrible, horrible, painful pattern. And it became increasingly clear, that wouldn't end anytime soon…

---

It wasn't fair. He knew now that it was a memory, and he knew now that the memory wasn't his, but it still superceded his own sense of awareness, of self, and relegated him to no more than the constant inescapable knowledge in the back of his own mind, that these events were long past, and it was too late to change them. They'd never even been his to affect in the first place, decided long before his time-

Far more than their prison and it's reality comprised of almost sketchlike space, this was very much his personal hell. He knew too well by now, and dreaded, how it would end…

In the dream memory, it didn't matter that it wasn't him, twisting slowly in the center of his cage, or that this creature's lack of bones, organs, or anything set in place was something long accustomed to. It was him now, and at once familar, and very, very wrong.

The boy from before was there, sitting at that same desk, older now. He'd some time since grown from a curious half hidden urchin into the gangly sort of youth you'd expect to see poring over books of magic and history. Not tall, no, and likely never would be, though from Kháry's perspective he may as well have been a titan.

He had an unhealthy sort of look, thin and pale, with dark bags beneath his eyes that remained visible, no matter how much hair fell in front of them.

Oh, but those eyes. There was a ravenous hunger there, devouring every scrap of information he could find, a brightness that never fully stepped away from that fragile line between eagerness and fanaticism. He knew nothing, he knew everything, and above all else, he wanted to know more.

What were food and sleep, after all, beside the delights that learning new things brought him?

It wasn't healthy, and it wasn't sustainable, and Kháry knew it. Still it only watched as he pored through yet one more book of some manner or another set before him, a thick sheaf of paper to one side, and half a dozen pencils chewed all to uselessness on the other.

Mind, it had been much worse when the youth had still been relying solely on pens… He really needed to do something to find some other way to address the compulsion, one less inclined to destroy his teeth long term, but while both knew this, it wasn't an immediate concern for either.

"…another sword," Rantrum was explaining excitedly, pointing to a poor illustration that honestly could have been any number of such weapons. "I think it's one of the ones my great aunt made. I've been searching for-"

Kháry stopped listening when he mentioned the weaponsmith, if not deliberately. Something deep inside it had just shuddered, remembering her. It was enough to leave the demon reaching for what traces were left of her soul, deep inside it, and squeeze, until it was satisfied it could hear her scream- even if her screams had truly gone silent long ago.

When Rantrum falls silent, watching, it realized it had been growling. {I do not,} It explains coldly, and without apology, {Have good memories of the weaponsmith.}

A surprised, contrite expression crosses the young teens face, guilty, and more than a little troubled. "I shouldn't ask you about the weapons then?" He guessed, some of his enthusiasm visibly waning.

{I could tell you every last one she made. She drained my magic, essentially my heart's blood, to nearly it's last drop to do it, every time,} The words were grim, cold, {And to take enough at once? Used roughly the force needed to draw a mile's worth of chain through the eye of a quilting needle.}

Judging by the blanched expression on the young mageling's face? It didn't need to explain further. The teen looked like he might be sick, clutching at the shirt above his chest. Magic users tended were better equipped to understand that kind of abuse more than other humans. Magic after all, was closely tied with lifestuff… and with soulstuff too.

What had been done to it was abuse. It was violation. And the weaponsmith had drawn out as much as possible every time, leaving it with little. Then, time for recovery, then-

{…I waited for her.} There was a darkness to it's tone that it usually concealed, at least for him. {And when her soul passed through my hands, I made certain she received all the same mercy she showed me.}

Silence fell, weighted. It was bitter, angry. But too, it didn't want to scare him off. It didn't want to lose this chance, and didn't trust its anger.

It wasn't the first time it had mentioned its masters souls coming to it, in their end. Just the same, Rantrum averted his eyes, something troubled there. He didn't press it more though.

"…Do you know what happened to them?"

Growling again, it coils up slowly, giving the side if its prison a light shove. No pain. No pain for years now. It could get out, it was sure of that. But unless it was freed…

There would always be a new master.

{…No.} Only this, no more.

The mageling is quiet, turning this over, and finally takes the paper he'd been looking at, moving it to the bottom of the pile. "Okay." And that was all. He lifts the pen, currently his only one, a writing implement encased in very chew dissuasive steel, and begins writing, and that was that.

Except… Except for catching a glimpse of the weapon, and something deep inside, something that wasn't the demon, recognizing it… A sword, massive, greater than any human could wield…

The moment of disorientation passes. It's still agitated over the mention of the weaponsmith, but there are more important things to address here.

"…Are you okay?"

Kháry realizes the scratching of the pen has stopped, and refocuses on its student. There's a sense of narrowing of eyes, though it isn't currently emulating any. {I'm in a cage, little mage. What do you think?}

"I- I meant…" The teen looks briefly stricken, before falling silent, and then utterly only a quiet, "Sorry."

{…For?} The demon demands, instantly suspicious. The guilt in his expression didn't match the 'crime' of being embarrassed by a careless question.

"…Bringing it up. Them, up." He swallows, tapping the end of the pen on the table nervously. "…Her. Up. I didn't… I didn't know. That that's what she did to you."

The demon just looks at him, not that it's easy to tell without set features like a face or eyes. {They all do that,} It answers, an unplanned ice to the words, {She just took more than most. Over hours or days, unrelentingly, until I had almost nothing left.}

Recovery, usually some small balm of being left alone at least, had instead been it's new hell of waiting to become strong enough for her to do it again. It hated her for that just as much as the rest. But it had taken exquisite pleasure in breaking her…

Rantrum stared at nothing, briefly, at this answer. "Oh." His eyes flicked back to the demon. "But… It won't do that when-"

"…It won't, right?"

…Right. It forgot sometimes, what the mageling thought it was training him for. And for maybe a beat too long, it hesitates in it's answer. {Giving. Is not the same as being stolen from.} Mind, it didn't actually know that, not first hand at least. {It's a rule in many things. I don't expect this to be different.}

Rantrum turned the pen over in his hands, frowning as he looked at it. "Is… there a way to be sure?"

{None you would enjoy,} Kháry's denies. It's tone advises he drop the matter, but, well, this was the mageling, he never did. Those clear blue eyes flicked up to his, clearly unsatisfied with this answer, and the demon sighed, internally, finally offering, {The only way to be sure, would be if you shared this fate with me. Then this magic would belong fully to us both. There would be no need for giving, or taking.}

"…" The pen in Rantrum's hand, stills. "That's… possible?" His expression, far from being horrified by this, was thoughtful.

At length, the youth looks back up. "How would such a thing be done?"

To this, for several, long seconds, the demon offers no answer. Long enough in fact, that the mageling begins to look uncomfortable, clearly thinking he must have mistepped, asking this. Still though, he doesn't withdraw the question.

How? Kháry finds its attention drawn elsewhere, its gaze lingering long on it's surroundings. Curtains, books, desk… How little had changed, in the time it had been imprisoned here. It still remembered those first days though. The prices that had been paid. How much had been lost.

{…By surrendering everything you are. To become something else.} Beyond that? It refuses to expand, instead asking, {Did you finish the task I gave you?}

At this, the mageling pauses, a brief blank look on his face soon giving way to recognition as he adjusts to the shift on topic. "Oh. Yes." A few seconds of flipping through the sheafs, and the youth offers one for inspection, followed by another, and a third.

On each, every sigil is perfectly inscribed, perfectly charged, and perfectly isolated from the others by appropriate safeguards. Nearly half of the sigils were ones that Kháry had taught him only a few days before, but his expression wasn't eagerness, nervousness, or hope, no.

The way he'd forgotten them, even briefly, and the way he almost seemed to offer them as though the demon's influence were a formality, both made it clear that there hadn't been a doubt in his mind that he'd done them right. Still, he waits, expectantly, after the last page is set down.

The demon mutters something under its breath before settling back in the center of its cell, a long learned habit, and… sulks? …Just a little. It had always envied those to whom magical knowledge came so easily. Who minds didn't go blank when they reached for an answer, whose hands didn't shake as they set pen to paper…

…Who hadn't needed to pay the price for their power that it had.

But. This was good. He was coming along well. It couldn't tip it's hand now. The youth would inherit it when the archmage's time had ended, and then, finally, finally…

It just. Had to maintain the relationship built. Guide him and shape him and influence him…

It was impossible not to see that the mageling was a prodigy. He had a rare skill, an innate intuition with magic, even in a family of skilled and powerful magic users. Yet when the demon had first met him, his eager curiosity has been left woefully underencouraged, even stifled, as the archmage took no pains to hide his favoritism for his elder son, or his dismissal for his younger.

He didn't seem to much suffer for the early neglect to his training though. The only reoccuring problem he had seemed to be how, now that this world of learning had been opened to him, his focus flew to so easily to any new thing he found.

For the moment, Kháry's mood was dampened by its memories of the past, and fears for the future, and the youth, for his part, seemed to recognize this. He didn't press any further, just stood, and pulled some random book off the shelf to peer through.

Propping himself on his elbows, the mageling leaned over the book, attention fixed on the words within. His gaze darted over the words, attention rapt.

A sense of dread begin to grew within, not the demon's own, but for now it was able to ignore it.

Gradually though, the dream changed. First it was shelves fading away, at first unnoticed, as if they were inconsequential things, only to be gradually replaced by weapon racks, stands, and strewn blades.

The combination of lamp and moonlight gave way to shadow, broken only by the unsteady light of torches. Within them, a bounty of weapons lay carelessly displayed, rusted and chipped and forsaken. Once, a skillful hand had crafted these, but now-

At first, it didn't notice. Couldn't put a finger on what was wrong, but dread began to quicken once it realized the change. This… It was familiar. It-

No, not it, he. He had been here before.

Before he lifted his head, he already knew that somewhere above them, a gargantuan sword was hangjng from the ceiling, gleaming that golden hue to it's blade, its hilt carved from the aged bone ivory of some massive beast…

The armory. He'd wondered before, why a mage had kept an armory, much less one filled with such… magicless things. But now he recognized the sword, the one from the mageling's sketch-

Mage… ling…

Gyre's soul seemed to drop, and his good socket squeezed shut tightly. No, no. Not again. Please, not again. He couldn't come face to face with his biggie, only to know he was gone, to lose him again…

He refused to open his socket again. He refused, he refused…

The nightmare bitty feels a familiar touch, gentle fingers, affectionately brushing his skull. He tenses, hard, and waits for the words, waits for… something…

Instead, the touch withdraws. One count, two… Nothing. Finally, slowly, Gyre opens his socket again. The room though, it's empty. Just… swords. And him. His mage was gone. His mage was-

…

…

No.

No, he wasn't.

---

He'd probably been pacing ever since he'd woken up. Agitated, with terse strides, he took nineteen steps one way, then nineteen back.

That was the length and breadth of their world. Nineteen steps. With nothing here but the three of them to work with. And therein lie the real problem, the one he'd failed time and again together past. There was nothing in their little prison that he could use to help Rantrum. Heal him, reach him, maybe even give him a second chance, even if they never stepped free from this cage again themselves. To give him the chance for more, even if-

Gyre stopped suddenly, his mind turning over that. Nothing here but theo three of them… Except it was four. In fact, it was more.

The husks, those souls ground broken and hollow by the demon, watching, imprisoned, undying, and no longer capable of anything but suffering… those counted too, didn't they? Maybe, he could use them to-

He felt as Kháry started to bristle over the idea of taking the trophies of its revenge, along with whatever chance still lingered to squeeze every last drop of suffering from their scarred and withered souls, and pure fury rose in the nightmare bitty in response, his bared teeth a sharp and pointed edge.

The aqua of his single eyelight burned like a damning star, as he turned his focus on the demon inside him. "You saw what he did," Gyre reminds it, the lack of snarl in his voice, if anything, making the cold fury of his tone all the more clear. "We both saw. So what do you think it took to find all those weapons, made from your suffering?Fundwise, timewise, effortwise-"

"Not just that," The nightmare bitty flexes his claws, agitated at the lack of anything to dig them into. Something that would scream, a distant part of his mind whispered to him. He ignored it. For now. "To empty every last one, so that no one else would ever benefit from the hell she put you through again? A fortune? Ten? His entire lifetime? Isn't that enough?"

{…} Silence in answer, for what felt like two long, before finally, quietly, only a {No.} If Gyre's rage was glacial ice, slow, but dangerous, the demon's anger boiled beneath their shared surface like a molten lake. {It isn't.}

Ever so briefly, Gyre falters… Then growls, pushing the moment of uncertainty away. He knew he was right, the damn demon was just being obstinate. He couldn't just take the souls though, shared magic or not. If he tried taking what Kháry's claim after all… It might return the favor. And he had only the one soul to claim…

Agitated, the nightmare bitty began pacing again. He could feel his dusty watching- Hell, he could see him watching, without ever turning to look. It was something he'd been able to do for a while now, of course, if he focused, but these days he didn't need to even try. He'd grown so much more acclimated to the magic of this place…

Maybe in another hundred years or so, he reflected glumly, he'd have enough grasp of this sketch space of theirs that he'd be able to find a way out on his own.

Sighing, he closes his good socket, rubbing the place between both, his anger ebbing. Stars, he'd thought he was so clever, damning them here…

Rantrum didn't deserve this. Soot didn't deserve this. His mage, his sworn… He needed a way out. He needed to get them out, if not himself. Though if he managed to get either, both, out… What then? A dead mage with a broken soul. A bitty with broken magic. What would happen to them without him?

No, getting them out, and leaving them to fend for themself… It might be worse than a death sentence. Gyre frowns, lifting his head, and considering the loosely sketched nothing of their imprisoning reality again. He thought about being trapped here, as long as the demon had been-

The number had been eluding him for a while, but- two hundred and seventy six, right? That was how many masters the demon had said? How… many centuries was that? How many millenia?

He didn't want to stay here that long. No, he couldn't stay here that long. He knew in his soul that it had been years already, years in this nothingness, with no sunlight, no starlight, no wind, no actual sound or color, nothing but the suggestion of both-

He wanted a blanket. He wanted a bath. Could he even still take one? Could he ever touch water again? He wanted at least to try-

To taste food, to sleep in a bed, to listen to music, to hear the rain- he wanted all of it, dammit! He wanted-!

…He, wanted…

"…" He wanted his biggie.

Gyre stares at the nothing for a long time, then… reaches out into it.

Where his tentacles reached the limits of their prison, pressing past the small barrier that made their footsteps turn back in on themselves again and again, holding them in their prison, and meeting the acceleration just beyond it…

They couldn't stand up to it, losing their cohesion without actually being torn from his body. It was a horrid sensation, but one he was used to by now.

He just watched as they became twisted, nebulous things, drawing longer and further into the wrongness of their prison until they looked like nothing so much as oily smoke, before fading into the magic of their prison. Not past, no, into, until there was no more point where one ended, and the other began.

He'd made up his mind. For Soot's sake, for his own, and for Rantrum's, he needed to get out of here. Because his mage wasn't gone, not really, not as long as Gyre still had his soul. They couldn't just stay here, there had to be something he could do, anything, that would let him out of this self imposed hell he'd made.

Anything.

---

His most recent immersion into the demon's memories might have given him more than renewed motivation. It might have given him direction, a means, because Kháry's magic, which meant his magic too, still existed in a thousand different places in the world out there. Worlds, plural, maybe? It didn't matter. His mage had had the idea of it, finding that sword. But-

A low growl vibrates lowly in his chest as he casts out again, again, reaching for something that resonates as him, as him. An anchor. Something to let him gain a foothold outside this place. Maybe Rantrum had found all of them, but if even a single weapon had been left intact…

So far? Nothing. There was no telling how long now he'd searched, how many times it had been sleep, wake, heal, reach-

He'd lost the rhythm he'd had before, but still kept going, as desperation turned to something more. Because there had to be something out there, there had to-

These were the thoughts still echoing through his mind, almost a mantra of sorts by this point, when he became aware of dust bitty signing that he needed healing. At this, finally, Gyre froze, his attention immediately shifting to Soot as he withdraw again from the greater magic.

Just looking at the other more carefully, he could already see that he looked shaky, and was breathing funny. Because of course he was, of could he'd waited as long as he could…

Except, Gyre had very carefully shored up his magic before starting this most recent round. Was his deterioration accelerating, or-?

Or had he been casting out into the magic for that long?

Unsurprisingly, no answer was forthcoming. Ever since the shared dream, and his denied request, Kháry had been…

He didn't know what. Withdrawn. Cold and seething. It was only a matter of time before that silence broke, and the dam within was set free in a torrent of explosive anger and sharp words, but Gyre was in no hurry, more than willing to wait on hearing the demon's next cruel words, some miserable 'truth' laid bare-

For now the nightmare looked over the structure of Soot's magic, easily find a dozen places where it needed repairs. Even now, as fixated as he'd been in his search, he forced himself to slow down, and use exacting care. He began to rebuild the pathways he could, even if only temporarily…

It was… discouraging, to say the least. Revisting the damage that had been done, not only by his own carelessness, but also by the ones who'd made him to begin with. And using their magic no less-

At least it meant he had an advantage when it came to finding weak points and repairing them. Maybe even properly rebuilding them, once he better understood how? A bitty could dream anyway. Especially as he couldn't help but notice that each time he did this, it became progressively easier.

Yes, the more he'd worked, understanding Soot's magic, and the best ways to interact with it, the more he was learning how to do more with his own magic, just as-

Well. Just as the demon had wanted. But he tried not to dwell too long on that.

It didn't take as long as it once had, though he took great care not to overlook anything, or rush the infusion of magic in any way. Soot soon looked better, or well, as better as he was going to anytime soon. If he wasn't mistaken, Soot even seemed… What? Satisfied?

Gyre sighs, gesturing his sworn away, and without pause for question, Soot obeys, leaving the nightmare to his thoughts. Yes, he knew the path by heart now, every twist and turn his dusty's magic took, and yet every time that he forced himself to look again, he was freshly devastated.

Soot's entire existence had been shaped, from the moment he'd been force-spawned, by using the demon's magic. They'd taken everything from him. By Soot's own words, they'd made him, so that he could be broken. The nightmare bitty learned more every day just what that meant.

Maybe worse still was that from the sounds of it, Soot was just one of so many bitties that had been twisted this way, so many he might one day meet, and see the twisted magic that now flowed through him, inundated with that magic stolen from the demon, reflecting in all the ways they were broken-

Wait. Gyre's thoughts slow, and stop, as he mulls over the words he'd just been thinking, again. One of… many. Its magic. Their magic. His magic.

His breath catches, and for a few seconds, all he can do is frantically turn the thought over and over in his mind, looking for flaws, for something that might not be true. But no, it made sense, it made sense-

There was an anchor out there for him to latch into, there had to be. Wherever Soot had come from, it had to have had samples of his magic, some way to draw on it, and he was suddenly certain he'd find his answer there.

Again, he reaches out, and tentacles are rent apart and made no more than mist, and he searches. Not for a weapon, some cold lifeless blade imbued with magic, but for a bitty. Like him…

More accurately, like Soot.

{…} For whatever reason, this finally stirred the demon within him, and he grimaced as he felt it's interest refocus. {Are you sure that's what you want to do,} It asks him, it's tone unreadable, but intent. {You know what you risk. And you know what you'll find there.}

"No, I don't," Gyre denies, trying not to let the demon distract him. It wasn't entirely true of course, he had at least some idea what he'd find. He'd seen what his magic had done to Soot, and killed another like him-

The nightmare bitty felt a pang in his chest, briefly distracting him. He didn't often think about the dust bitty who'd fallen at him hand. How could he? It could just as easily been-

"Just, leave me alone." Anger, buried beneath tight control. "And if you ever want us to get out of here, let me do this."

A pause, then the sense of an internal shrug, and a mumble of, {Don't say I didn't warn you…}

It gets only silence from Gyre in reply, as he reaches out with both tendrils, allowing them to be tugged into that strange vaporous haze, before beginning to carefully work them along the limits of their prison. If he pressed just so, at the right points-

This time, whether by chance or some other reason, it took little time to find something. And it was instictive when he felt it, the reaching out, the trying to catch hold, he didn't even think about it-

And he wasn't ready for the abrupt yielding under his touch, for the chill, or the familiar rush that accompanied it. He could only let go of what was already gone, feeling sick in a way he hadn't the previous time.

In his mind, the demon chuckled, a sound that seemed to flow over him like rotting honey. {A bitty isn't as easy to grab as steel, is it? Bitties being such delicate things… Tsk, shame. Oh well. Are you ready to try again? Don't worry, there's plenty more-}

Swallowing, Gyre looks down at his hands, unsurprises to find them shaking. More EXP. He'd… He'd killed. Again. Hadn't even seen their face, this time…

Taking a slow, shuddering breath, Gyre looks out at the nothing again, starts to reach out again- Then stops, and turns to look for Soot. The dust bitty's expression us little changed, but he's certain the other knows that he'd just killed. Maybe even knew it was another like him.

And… didn't care. At all. The unknown bitty's death meant nothing to him.

The nightmare bitty closes his eyes. He shouldn't do this. He should just accept their fate here. Otherwise, there was no telling how many more times he might rip some other unsuspecting bitty apart, trying to find their way out. No telling if they even ever would. He shouldn't. He can't justify it…

But, he'd been here for so long…

Maybe it's moments, maybe an hour, but eventually, he reaches out again. He won't give up. For Rantrum, for Soot… for himself. Maybe, even for the demon. He wasn't giving up.

No matter… No matter, what it cost…

He had no idea how long now he'd been trying. It felt like days. Mostly he missed, sometimes he didn't. He didn't think about it after the first few times, or at least that was what he'd told himself. He definitely didn't want to think about it, and he definitely didn't count. Something in him was… left different, for the choice.

And that was fine. It was the price he was willing to pay. And if something deep in his chest called him a liar, something that felt like painful sobs, and unfallen tears, well… He'd, get used to it. That was how LV worked, after all.

Time meant nothing. But he knew it had been a long time since he'd slept, and he knew that he'd need to stop soon, and sleep. Just the same, he was learning. Adjusting. If he managed a light enough touch, it meant he could hold onto, just the slightest bit longer…

He really, really didn't think too much about that. He refused.

Then, something caught beneath his grasp, and didn't give way.

At first he waited, still expecting it to, trying to get a read on their surroundings, on how the magic in their cell changed when it slowed…

Then, as it still didn't give way, the world around them seemed to slowly shift, the way it had before. Instead of garbage cans and pizza boxes though, they found themselves surrounded by…

Machines. Stacks of paper. And… cages.

Mind and soul felt like they ground to a halt as he stared in slowly dawning horror. The demon had warned him. It had warned…

No. No, no, no…

He didn't let go though, and slowly, the world around them grew more clear. Still sketched, still distant and soundless and untouchable, but shapes became more distinct, and as they did… he saw movement.

They weren't alone. For the first time in… too long, just too long… he looked up, and saw another person. A biggie. He couldn't make out much beyond chest height, and they didn't see him, and as they moved, their movements carried them in and out of his sphere of vision, but- But it was a person, just the same.

Suddenly he wondered what he'd grabbed hold of, and turned to look for an answer. He didn't see a bitty, and surely no bitty could anchor them like this-

Oh. A large dark cylinder, with a great deal of very familiar magic pooled within in. This… could not be good.

Then the battery began to warm under his hand. {Pay attention,} The demon murmured silkily in his mind, {You won't want to miss this.}

Briefly, he considered letting go. But in the end he held fast, as gradually more things became distinct, and pieces of a scene unfolded in front of them. As he watched, several things happened, one after another. There was a chamber, and monitors, and magic. One screen briefly showed numbers, nothing more. Then what must have been a burst of light, and then-

Something inside seemed to turn to stone as a positive aura flooded his senses. Not here, no, but- There. Where his magic still existed. Where he could still feel. There was a movement. A container opened. A hand. And a disoriented dream bitty, set down on the table. Again his aura flared, confusion, distress-

Then Gyre saw the biggie's other hand. At first, his mind refused to register what he was seeing, a syringe that big, they couldn't possibly-

He reached out, just the same, trying to grab it, wrest it away… It wisped around his grasp, just like the pizza box. He could only… only watch…

Fear. Pain. He felt it. Confusion. And then…

Only dust. And a hand, holding a syringe filled with something that burned with that same positivity, but with no bitty left to claim it.

How he was still holding on, after that, he couldn't have said. He had a death grip on the place, but no way to get any closer. He watched the dust swept away…

The longer he stared in horror, the more the demon chuckled. It seemed… satisfied? Vindicated? He didn't know, but it grew louder and louder until finally it was laughing uproariously, the ugly sound filling his awareness until it would have deafened him if it were really sound.

Gyre clasped his hands to either side of his skull, just the same, as if he could possibly hope to block out the dark, horrible sound. He'd never heard the demon laugh like this. He'd never expected-

"Funny, isn't it?" He snarls at the empty air, rage filling his chest. "That we're just breakable toys? Disposable tools? Lab rats? Pets!? That that's all bitties will ever be! Because they'll never see us as worth anything more, no matter what the laws say!"

As suddenly as the laughter came, it stopped, and for a moment he was left in silence in his own head, with only his thoughts for company. Far from being a comfort, it was weighted, and tense, like waiting for the other shoe to drop, the next terrible thing he wouldn't expect.

Slowly, a new laughter, low and bitter, seemed to almost drift around him, amused and hateful. {Oh, little smudge… Is that what you think? That's not what I've been telling you.} A sound, like the admonishing click of a tongue, the admonishment dripping from it's tone so unmistakably that he could all but see the other shake it's head. {You haven't been paying attention at all. I'm disappointed.}

Somehow, this was almost worse than confirmation. Gyre swallowed, looked at Soot, and then at the brief glimpse of otherwhere that still hung in the air, a fragile glimpse of a universe he'd never known. He stared at the scene, rife with death, the vials and tubes, and the clipboards with all their neat little checks and numbers.

Disappointed? "What. What are you talking about?" Gyre whispers. He almost can't recognize his own voice, as hollow and shaken as it sounds.

Still that laugh, bitter, cold. A low chuckle that would brush goosebumps along his bones if he still had them. {You think they only do things like this to bitties? And why, because they think you're less?} The chuckle trails off, into something even more bitter, more ugly, until it's a hiss that drips pure malice down his spine. {You. Haven't been paying attention at all.}

Before he can attempt to summon back some trace of the outrage that had vanished so quickly, or feign haughtiness, or indignation, the demon stops him with a soft, dangerous whisper, prompting the nightmare bitty, {Tell me what I am, little drop. Tiny, insignificant little smudge. You were oh so clever when we first met- Don't tell me you've forgotten already?}

"…A demon." Gyre barely managed a whisper in answer, and the words felt like the lie he knew they were upon his togue.

The demon snorted, amused at his attempt at self deception, disdainful at the sheer patheticness of his still trying to deny what they both knew, and disgusted that, after everything, he still wanted to save his own betrayer. {I am now,} It sneers, something so utterly venomous in the words that even now, Gyre can't help but shudder at the hateful voice that fills him. {But was I always?}

"…No." The nightmare bitty knew the words were true, and somehow… somehow, it cost him something, knowing this. "Not always."

His gaze lifted to the image again, the utter matter of factness of it all, the everyday drudgery. He watched another bitty pulled from it's cage. He wanted to look away, but for the life of him, he couldn't bear to. He couldn't look away. He couldn't just pretend this wasn't happening.

But he was grateful that he couldn't hear anything as he watched, until more dust fell, and was swept away, some traces of it drifting downward to join faint traces of the same from those who'd gone before.

"What happened?" Gyre asked, his chest so tight that he could barely manage the words.

{…Things change,} Was the demon's answer, amusement faded, and bitterness turned to something harder to define. {Often most especially, at the hands of those that we choose to entrust with our souls.}

Somehow, on some level. Gyre knew he'd been expecting the words. His socket closes, briefly, before he lifts his head to gaze on the image before him. After a moment more the nightmare bitty releases his grip, and the scene is whisked away, then gone. He continues to stare at the place it had been though, knowing that even lost to his sight, the horror continued on.

"Teach me," He whispers, a quiet new resolve to the words, "All of it."

There was a sense, contemplative, like he was being regarded. Weighed. Judged. {You don't want me to just do it for you?} The demon asks, after several moments to turn this over. {I'm certain I could, and it would be so much easier. We're going to be the same in the end, after all. And then you'll know everything I do.}

Gyre narrows his eyelight, turning his head, as if to look to the demon that he knew existed only inside him. Yeah, no. He wasn't stupid. If it could do that, it already would have. That it hadn't, meant there was a reason. "You offered to teach me, and I'm accepting. Why falter now?" Kháry had once taught his own teacher, right? It could teach him too…

{I didn't really think you'd accept,} The demon admits, sounding… more intrigued than anything. {At least not at this point. I expected you to just continue to refuse until you got tired of failing, and then demand your due, like so many have before. It is your due, after all. Far more than it has ever belonged to any other.} Then, it seems to think, again, turning the words over.

"And I should just trust you won't turn on me for using you the way others have?" Gyre points out, too aware how the demon works by now. He shakes his head. "No, I'd rather do this the hard way. You offered to teach me? So teach me."

A soft, wordless non sound, taking this in too. {It will take time,} It says at last, in warning. {Far more than I think you know.}

"I don't care," Gyre denies, something both resigned, and certain in those words. "I want to know everything."

The once reassurance of Rantrum's promise drifts hauntingly across Gyre's mind. Being grown doesn't mean you aren't young, my apprentice. Two years is all but an instant in the span of time you'll one day live.

Bitties don't always live long lives, he'd countered.

You will.

"…I have time."

---

[bellsofblueficlets]

These Lines Blurring

"There is one core rule to this magic we practice, my little apprentice," the words played through his head, again, again, again. He doesn't try to push them away anymore, but refuses to let them distract him.

"...What is it?" Words, echoed by the memory of a voice he didn't even recognize as his own anymore.

Gyre's mouth tightens into a thin line. The conversation had been repeating in his memory more often lately. At least he hadn't been having more dreams of his lost friend. He couldn't bear losing him over and over again, night after night-

With the tips of his claws, he traces the broken lines of magic carefully across his dust's chest. Soot no longer even needed to remove his hoodie for this part, their frequent sparring matches having left the thing in such tatters that it was more like the suggestion of clothing at this point than actual clothes. Claws of impossible sharpness, left gently brushing fraying threads aside...

"A binding must never be done on a person, against the will of the one being bound." He remembered the gravity to the old mage's words, and even now, he felt the weight behind them. How long ago had it been? They felt so fresh, and an ageless lifetime behind, all in one. "To do so is an unforgivable act. And one of great evil."

He couldn't have known how first hand he'd learn the truth of those words. Couldn't have known the nightmares that would gradually become more frequent, reliving the demon's tortures as they began supplanting his own painful memories more and more often. He'd seen the faces of only a handful of 'masters' so far- None, so far, being Rantrum's. Thankfully.

"So, only evil mages do it." The words sounded so confident in his memory, still secure in the certainty that things could ever be that simple.

The pause that followed his question though, he remembers it well, along with the pained look that had crossed his mage's face. "...No."

For an instant, just an instant, suspicion had risen in the nightmare's chest... but no. Not him, he'd assured himself. Never his Rantrum. He wouldn't. He must just be misunderstanding. "But you said-?"

"I said that the act is evil," The mage had denied, interrupting his surprised apprentice firmly. "Not that only evil people do it."

"...There are many evil acts in life, my little apprentice," Rantrum had continued quietly, "And one thing that I fear is inevitable, is learning just how many are done by people who are themselves generally good."

"Then... why do evil things?"

Why. Why. The one question that haunted him still. Would he ever learn the answer? Did he even really want to? Wouldn't it be easier, holding onto the memory of the eccentric old mage he'd known, with warm smiles and gentle hands, and that air of absurdity- which, the more he learned, became less absurd with every day.

"Because life is complicated," Had been his only answer.

Gyre had been left squinting up at him dubiously, he remembered it still so well. "That just sounds like an excuse."

He fully expecting denial, or some snippet of supposed wisdom from the mage disguised in riddle upon riddle. He already suspected that half of said 'wisdom' was bullshit, and constantly prodded to find inconsistencies, to find holes- Rantrum encouraged it, even-

Which was why the simple, subdued, answer of, "It is," From the mage had caught him so off guard. And just maybe, why the words still echoed so deeply.

There. One more broken point that needed repair. He draws the bit of remaining hoodie that still covered the place aside, and using his own corruption, drew a simple sigil on the dust bitty's skin.

Soot shuddered softly, breath catching as Gyre's magic traced almost immediately behind his touch, most of the corruption burning away... But traces of something else was behind, deep and cold, that seemed to soak into his skin, before vanishing.

Gyre felt the waves of revulsion, wrongness, and fear, that accompanied the intrusion of mingled magics into his body. He felt the stubbornness of his dusty as well, as the other rode it through the unwelcome sensations without protest, dutifully letting his nightmare continue.

...He can't help but wonder in some distant part of his mind if this kind of loyalty and duty was something common to dust bitties, or if it's only his.

So far, mapping the breaks and weak points in Soot's magic was the extent of what he'd done, marking each as he found it, to make it easier to keep an eye on in the future. At first, finding them had only gotten easier with time, but the more time passed, the fewer new breaks he'd found. That was a good thing...

...Except it meant he wouldn't be able to stall much longer. Soon, he'd need to start taking steps to actively repair the problem-

{Now, in fact,} The demon chimes in helpfully, a low purr in it's- well, not throat, though Gyre's hand briefly goes to his own, certain for an instant that he felt the phantom rumble there. {Took you long enough, though. Still, all you need to do now is reach in, grab all those neatly marked frayed bits, and see what happens when you give it a good pull! I mean, probably nothing good the first few times, but-}

The demon stops here, realizing that Gyre is ignoring it, and there's a moment of blessed silence, while this sinks in, before it speaks again. It's words are offered softly, but laced with venom. {You've been doing this more often- Tell me, do you really think it's a good idea to ignore the demon coiled around your soul?}

{...Keep doing it little drip, and you're going to regret it.}

Gyre's jaw tightens, and he straightens, rocking back to rest on his haunches. "Say something worth my time, then." The words are flat, cold. They sound... almost wrong to him. Was that even him? How much of him was still even him?

And what did it mean, if all of it was?

"You know by now that I'm not going to turn around and start tearing him apart to see what makes him tick," A mutter, his gaze tracing the magic he'd mapped so far. "And I'm not interested in being baited for your amusement."

He had a feeling that the demon was right about having mapped the last weak point though, and soon finds himself distracted, examining the markers he'd set. If there were no more, then-

The silence should have warned him. Instead, what 'warned' him was a sudden panic surging through him, and a sudden awareness of the demon's magic just reaching out like it was nothing, grabbing every marked point on every frayed bit of magic he'd traced-

How didn't matter, and maybe, in the demon's own twisted logic, that was the point. Before it could pull, Gyre seized it, and there was a sensation, like claws curling within claws, and water as it flowed through water, and-

Like it was the most natural thing in the world, he reached out himself, through the demon's magic, and... stopped it. It's grasp fell short, and Gyre just sat there, his hands curled into tight fists, and dark laughter echoing inside him. {Is that what it takes? Pathetic! How weak, ridiculous-!}

Gyre's hand opens, and again, without thought, his claws curl in the smallest way- And the laughter stops. In his mind's eyes, threads of rich blood red are coiled around his claws, leading straight from him, to the demon, and in that instant, they both hold it's magic.

"Do that again," There is a merciless ice to the words that drifts silently through his mind like falling frost, but there is no question whether the other hears him, "And I tear both our souls apart." In that instant? He'd never meant anything more.

He knows the demon can feel it. And right now? It's gone silent.

"...Have you ever bound someone like that?" How long ago? How long ago, those words? At the time, he'd been certain of the answer. At least, he'd wanted to be.

In retrospect, the answer had been inevitable. But, maybe he'd already known, even back then. "I have."

He'd climbed up... something. He can't remember what. Rantrum's vest? A stack of books? Funny, how the smaller details fade away. In the end, just a nightmare bitty, looking up with earnest eyelights, certain that his mage was better than that. If Rantrum had done that, then- "You- you had to have good reason, right?!"

A slow, acknowledging nod, and a gaze that he misses still. "I did, yes."

Here and now, the silence stretches. He'd overridden the demon's attempt, just like that, and now it was silent. The nightmare bitty breathes out, and his socket opens. It seemed he had just as much access to the demon's magic these days as it did. He wasn't sure whether it had already known this, but he doubted it had meant Gyre to find out. For now, he files it away-

Soot hasn't moved, waiting. He had to know. Had to have felt it. But no attack. No, he's unmoved. Not so much as-

...Oh. Gyre had asked him to stay still, hadnt he? He watched though, and oh, his eyes were madness, fury, violence- And yes, yes, he definitely knew. But despite all that, he'd never budged.

Stars. He needed to be careful with that one. He was the sort to walk right through the gates of hell, if his nightmare asked him.

Once, he'd started to relax a little, hearing his mage's answer. Reassured. It was the one he'd needed, so maybe he should have left it there, but he'd still wanted to hear the words from Rantrum, himself. "So... that means it wasn't evil, right? If you did it for a good reason?"

There had been a sigh, and a running of his fingers through wiry beard bristles, bowing his head a little, as if in contemplation of the question. Or, maybe, to not have to meet his bitty's eyelights.

"...No," He'd denied at that, a weight to the words that said he'd borne the burden of this for far too long. "It was still evil. Some would call it a necessary evil, but an evil act for the sake of a good outcome doesn't cease being evil."

"But," Gyre's arguments had been running out at this point, but he'd pressed on, if with far less certainty than before, "You- you had to do it... right?"

To this? Rantrum had just shaken his head.

An evil act. Gyre's soul feels heavy as a sense of realization settles within him. When it had come down to it, was what he'd done any different than what Rantrum had warned against?

At the time, the nightmare bitty had felt... a little lost, at his mage's answer. He hadn't had to do it. He had done it though, just the same. "But... it's better, that you did it?"

A sigh, as Rantrum had leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. He'd rubbed his hands, thinking for a few seconds. "That depends on better for whom." He decides at last, "And it changes nothing. There are times when the ends can simply never justify the means."

"Using an evil to prevent an evil remains an evil," This, a quiet, simple truth, as if there simply was no escaping this, "It is not absolved, nor justified."

The nightmare bitty took his time, taking care to ensure that each and every last frayed trace was exactly where it needed to be, before one by one, imfusing them with healing magic. It offered a support to a weaking framework that he knew couldn't be more than temporary, but it gave him time to find something better.

...Something that didn't entail poking and shoving blindly at his dusty's magic until something broke.

He remembered how confused he'd sounded, asking at last, "Then, why did you do it?"

"Because," Had come the answer, "No one else should have to." As if that might actually be answer enough. He'd stood then, offering his hand to his bitty.

Gyre had climbed onto it, eyelights still fixed on his mage, brow creased in a troubled expression. "I- I don't understand."

"A thing can be evil," His mage had told him, solemnly, "But still need to be done. And another soul should not have to bear the weight of that burden in my place."

"That... doesn't make sense," But even then there'd been a hesitation in the nightmare's voice that wasn't before, no longer sure himself if this was true.

"Perhaps not," Rantrum had admitted. Gyre vaguely remembered the sound of his biggie's foosteps as the other had carried him, soft leather on ancient stone. He'd always had such a light step, the nightmare remembered, for one so big. "But sometimes it's the only way to prevent an even greater evil."

With a soft sound, Gyre finished his self imposed task, and sat back to admire it. There. Soot would be okay, at least for a while. It was enough. It gave him time.

"That's... That's wrong." His own words rose up to haunt him, the memory now a lifetime gone, regardless of how much actual time had passed. "That has to be wrong."

Rantrum had muttered, "Exactly," under his breath, nodding solemnly.

"N- No, I mean..." That sense of confusion still felt so fresh to the nightmare bitty, but at the same time, hearing those same words again, now? He didn't know he'd still feel it. Not anymore. "There has to be another way, right? It can't... it can't-"

"...Then," Softly, "Maybe you will be the one to find it."

Had his mage had really once believed that? Gyre wished he could ask the old man, about that, about all of this, about everything. Who he really was, what he'd done- What he knew? Maybe what he'd really intended for his apprentice?

Because in the end, if the demon was telling the truth, then Rantrum had always intended to offer his soul up as a sacrifice... Whereas if Rantrum had been telling the truth, and actually been able to read the lines of fate, as claimed...

Then, he'd known this would happen. All of it.

...And he'd done nothing to stop it.

---

This was a new dream. Strange, for once, knowing it was a dream, even before it started. He was shapeless, confined, like before. The barrier hurt when he'd leaned against it, like before. But one, all important thing, was different.

He wasn't alone.

His 'guest' held up a book in front of him, pictures of vast oceans and wild creatures, painted in beautiful, horrible detail. Little could be seen of him beneath the hood that half obscured his face, but judging by that, and the hands all but lost in the sleeves covering him, patched and stitched a hundred times over, holding the book? Surely this was some nameless urchin who'd managed to sneak into the arch mage's fortress, and had the misfortune of wandering into the last place anyone should be.

Yet, the pull of his blood, that promise of binding, was unmistakable. This child was the same line that had enslaved it for more generations than it cared to remember. This specific child, in fact, grubby face, skinny frame, and hand me down clothes notwithstanding, was the arch mage's own son. Not the next in line to own him, no, it already knew that one, hateful bastard that he already was, but his son just the same.

"Is that one you?" Blue eyes, earnest and eager, peered over the book's frame as he jabbed at the picture of a kracken. "Bet that could be you! It's got a hundred arms, and a thousand teeth-!"

{It's not real,} The demon had muttered distastefully, though it's gaze devoured every line and detail just the same. {Just some idiot's drawing. Don't believe everything you read.}

"...Oh." The child had deflated, visibly, and turned the book to look at the picture again. "But, krackens are real, aren't they? Everybody says so..."

{Just because everybody says something doesn't make it true,} The demon muttered, poking at the barrier. It couldn't see the picture anymore... {But yes, kracken are real. They just don't look like that. Some idiot with a brush just decided to draw a picture, and say it was that.}

"Oh." Disappointment gone, curious child back. "Well, what do they look like, then?"

The demon had debated not answering, but for nearly two hundred years now it had sat in this spot, in this library, nothing to do but watch the motes of dust as they danced in those scant rays of light that managed to found their way through the heavy curtain- that, and prod at the painful barrier, reminding itself it could still feel something more than boredom, bitterness, and hate.

Archmage's son or not, it wanted the company, the questions. It wanted something, anything but the same, day after day after day...

{...They have arms, usually eight, all covering in tearing cups, with two long tentacles even longer than the rest. It's has a beak, right in the riddle of all of that, like-}

"Like an eagle?!" The child had leaned forward in his eagerness, his face now far too close to the painful wall.

{...Think more, snapping turtle.} It denied flatly, adding in a sharper tone, {And don't touch that!}

His eyes had widened big enough to promise that he'd at least seen a snapping turtle before, if not a kracken- But the demon's next words give him pause, and he looks confused. "How come?"

There was an innocence to the question, an earnest confusion, and for an instant, the demon felt something it hadn't in a long time- pity. This kid was in for some hard lessons, in this family. Though judging by the way he was dressed, despite his father's influence and power, there were at least a few that he was already learning.

{These walls are to keep me in,} The demon answered, not bothering to hide the bitterness in it's words, {And to make sure no one else tries to 'steal' me.}

Not that they could. It was bound to this family, this bloodline, and blood was one of the strongest bindings there was. For the demon to be bequeathed to someone else, it would need to be passed through a binding at least equally strong.

The boy hesitates, hearing this, and bites his lip, now watching the barrier uncertainly. "Does... It hurt you?"

{...Yes.}

This clearly wasn't the answer the archmage's son had wanted to hear, but he drew back just the same, now visibly unhappy.

{...What?} Finding itself annoyed at the child's shift in mood, it's voice grew gravelly, agitated. {Why are you acting like that?}

The child had shifted, Gyre remembers through the dream, and breathed out, hard, lifting his eyes back to the demon. He wasn't close to tears exactly, but he was very, very upset. "I don't like that it hurts you," He muttered, as if this was explanation enough. "It's not fair. You've barely got any room in there, and you're probably all squished up too, just so you don't touch it- and it hurts you."

The demon had stared at the child as though he'd started speaking in tongues. {So? Why do you care?}

At this, the child had full stopped, but didn't answer. He pulled the book of pictures close to his chest, and looked down at the table for several quiet seconds. "Because, it's mean." He whispers, a new tremble in his voice. "I don't like when people are mean. I don't like when they hurt each other. I don't like it when they hurt you."

"I like visiting you," The book thuds softly to the table as he lets it go, and those earnest blue eyes are watching it. Almost... Almost familar. Like something from another lifetime. "You listen to me, and you don't tell me to go away, and you're not all mean like... like..." He never actually says like who though, just sniffling, and wiping his nose on his sleeve. "I don't like... I don't like it hurting you."

To the demon's credit, it considered, briefly, not saying what he said next. Considered briefly the trouble this earnest eager child would get into if he did as the demon suggested. It considered not saying anything-

But it did. {You could do something about it, you know.} It's tone was... different now. Like despite what the child had claimed, it had barely been noticed him before, but now? Now the young mage to be had his full attention.

"I... can?" The child seemed unsure. "But, I don't think my dad will listen if I-"

{Of course he won't. But you could do it yourself.}

For an instant, it seemed like the boy may have stopped breathing, and he is definitely a few shades paler. But a moment later, he's leaning closer just the same, and whispers, "How do I make it stop?"

Something like a chill spread through the demon at the words, and it was rendered silent for several long seconds. He was listening. He even wanted to help. His father would be furious, if he found out...

So they'd just have to make sure he didn't. {I can teach you how,} It had promised, shifting closer to the glass. It tried to hide the eagerness in it's voice, but, it had been so, so long, since it had last tasted hope. {But first, we have to make a bargain. Just a little one. That's how it works.}

Technically it wasn't, but the archmage's son didn't know this, and mulled this over fir several seconds, even reaching out, just once, and almost touching the glass, before faltering, and withdrawing again. Finally, asking,"What... kind of deal?"

{The kind where we both get something we want,} It promised/lied, watching him intently, {But before we make a deal, there's something else we need to do.}

"...What's that?"

{Introduce ourselves, obviously!} It would be smiling if it could. A name, give it a name, and it would have a handhold, if only a little one. Seeing his doubt, it added helpfully, {I'll even go first, okay?} At the child's nod, it starts to offer something, anything...

But it falters, meeting the gaze of that earnest, hopeful child, and instead, after a moment, it only offers the truth. {Kháry.} The demon introduces itself, {My name is... was... Kháry.} Is, was. Was, is.

Either way, it didn't matter, it had offered the truth. Though when it looked at the archmage's son, it was suddenly strangely certain that the child had known all along.

{...Your turn, then,} Kháry had pressed, just the same, making sure the young mage hadn't forgotten his part of it.

The child looked around the room slowly, even the locked doorway, as if to make certain no one had snuck in when he wasn't watching, before leaning close to the demon again, and whispering, "I'd tell you my name," very familiar blue eyes meeting the demon's gaze...

Not. Not the demon's, no. His. Gyre was looking into the eyes of his mage once more, held gently in his hands as the once again old man watched him, with sadness, with trust.

"But you already know it," He finished softly, "Don't you?"

"I do," He assures the memory of his mage, quietly, "I know you, Rantrum." The worst cruelty of lucid dreams, he'd learned, was knowing they had to end.

"...I always will."

---

[bellsofblueficlets]

In Choice, And Its Lacking

How long had it been since they'd been in one place for longer than an instant? Gyre swallowed hard, staring at the monolith of corregated steel that stood before him.

According to the demon, they'd been trapped for sixteen months now. Sixteen months without real ground, without a sky, without light or even genuine sound. Sixteen months in a place where none of these were necessary to see, or hear, or stand. Sixteen months, and already there were days when he couldn't remember what it felt like, living any other way.

Sure, it was just a garbage can, but it was a garbage can that existed outside their self contained little prison. In it's own way, it was proof that the outside worlds still existed- maybe, even proof they could still be reached.

Soot crouched to one side, eyes narrowed as he took in the change to their surroundings. He couldn't really blame the dust for his wariness, the vortex prison was probably the first place he'd ever felt anything like safety, or peace-

-then again, it could just be the fact that the outside world looked like a roughly sketched outline, against a very faintly staticed background. Compared to the two of them, it looked nothing like real. Almost more like a memory that someone attempted transcribing by pencil.

His gaze flicked to the side, where the scattered debris of the pavement was only faintly visible, and only to roughly a foot and a half away. Beyond this, the world fell into what he could only think to call background noise, a sense of existence without form, or substance.

It wasn't enough, not yet. But it was progress, just the same.

Their prison was the equivilent of an out of phase, ten ton cannonball through reality, traveling about a thousand times faster than a bullet train between both places and worlds. Keeping it anchored this way made as much sense as mooring a barge with chewing gum and yarn, and yet... here they were.

...for a little while longer at least. He was hard pressed to hold the place, tentacles winding and wisping far past where they 'should,' and knew he'd need to let go soon. Just... not yet. Not yet.

His dusty is eyeing the pizza box, and though still his expression offered no change, it wasn't hard to guess what he was thinking. There could be food there, even just a little. Fuck, even crumbs, smears of dried sauce, or bits of cheese that stuck to the sides- It was so *close.*

Soot looks back at him, waiting for orders, and Gyre grimaces, shaking his head. "Can't," He mutters, "We're not as close as it looks." He reaches one tentacle towards the thing, by way of demonstration, and it gives way, reshaping like mist around the appendage. At least it seems to, though from it's place, he doubt anything has changed. Either way, the bits of 'mist' re-converge, and it's like he never made the attempt at all.

Another bitty might have been disappointed. Not his dust. Soot nods, just the smallest trace, still not moving from his spot. He'd been told not to budge, so he wasn't budging.

"Time to go," Gyre mutters, as he feels exhaustion start to grip its talons more deeply. It had taken a lot to reach this point, and while the progress was gratifying, they had a long way to go still. For now, he let's his hold slip, and like dust under a light breeze, reality beyond their prison is whisked away, and into nothing.

Funny, it's almost reassuring somehow. Like something had been off, being anchored that way, and now it was right again. That can't *possibly* suggest additional problems to worry about later, *no...*

Soot says nothing about the lost chance of a meal, just sitting down, and gazing at a point of nothing in the distance. When Gyre had first suggested meditation, Soot's reaction had been... predictable. The nightmare was met with an utterly flat look, the kind typically given someone insisting that it was only polite to introduce yourself properly to the nice fae fellow in the forest, or to invite the friendly neighborhood vampire in for a warm drink.

He'd gone along with the suggestion anyway, and from time to time, he'd even close his eyes. It was still strange to see, to be honest? But he was reaching a new normal of sorts, and his emotions reflected it, so it seemed to Gyre like the meditation might be helping.

One member of their party had been ominously silent through all of this, and Gyre couldn't help but wonder what it thought. He didn't ask, of course. There was no need, since-

{...I think you're hopeless,} It mutters, the undercurrent of frustration and annoyance in no way hidden, {I can't believe I'm stuck here with you. Out of one prison, and right into another.}

-since that.

Beyond a noncommittal grunt, Gyre doesn't answer, just rotating his shoulders, and stretching, lying down near Soot to let the other keep his back. The effort had taken a lot out of him, and nothing more would happen without rest.

---

Sleep offered the troubled nightmare no respite. No sooner had his senses begun to drift than something else began to fill them, cloying, sticky, bitter, and dark.

He'd had nightmares before, since his mage's death, he knew them all too well, a ravening darkness, all hungry teeth and greedy claws. This though, it swallowed him whole, like a careless stone, tossed into an endless black sea...

...and something else began to fill his senses, quickly eclipsing him in his own troubled sleep. It forms like a memory. Reliving... something.

There are opaque white walls, painful to the touch, with a lingering sharpness that spreads like poison, one lingered long after drawing away. The liquid touch of...something... runs slowly down the barrier that held it in, winding a path of wretched magic that trickled slowly down the walls before rejoining it's body.

It hurt... Stars, it hurt... But it was also the only stimulation its prison offered, and it was long, long used to the pain...

The being slowly shuffles the withered husks of soul inside it, as though rolling a handful of shells between its fingers. It's newest master will join them soon. It looks forward to it. It hates her. It hates all of them.

Even now, struggling for her final breaths, she takes from it. Desperate to avoid what awaits her. The feeling only makes it hate her more, keeping the memory of what she'd done to it fresh in it's mind. It feels as though its heart's blood is pulled from it, endlessly. Violating, horrible, wrong. Emptying. Eternally emptying. Helpless. It's powerless to stop her. To stop any of them.

But it can wait. It can-

---

Something takes hold of the lingering traces of Gyre's awareness, and *pulls,* forcefully dredging him up from the suffocating darkness. Dizzy, disoriented, he offers no struggle as he's drawn free, a lingering rawness left in his consciousness from everything he'd experienced.

A deep growl fills him, and despite not thinking he was the one growling, it feels like his own. Slowly coming back to himself, he first becomes aware of the sketch-like existence around them, and for a moment the lack of color, of sound, is terrible and wrong.

Squeezing his socket shut again, he's certain somehow that the feeling will pass, and slowly, it does, his own magic gradually filling in the gaps for him. He doesn't have to open his socket again to see Soot, warily crouched at a distance, watching him. Or, watching *something.*

The growl continues, but this time Gyre is certain it isn't him. With a deep, shuddering breath, he pushes himself up onto his hands, taking a moment more before opening his socket, and looking around. Briefly he sees what seems to be more than one version of their prison, each trying to superimpose over the other...

Then the moment passes, and the glimpse is gone. His sense of self slowly rights itself, and he sits up, sighing, rubbing the heel of his palm against a dull throbbing in his temple. That was miserable. He'd like to never do that again, please.

Slowly, the growl subsides, until what he sits in again can only be called silence.

{...I hate you.} The demon finally mutters, a familiar sentiment, if not quite as seething as he remembers.

"...I know." He hadn't, mind. He certainly hadn't expected the demon to like him, but- that hate. That deep, all encompassing, all consuming hate. It had become all the demon had to hold onto, and the reminder of the only satisfaction it would gain. And sometimes, it must have been all it had to remind it that the rest of anything existed at all.

Near complete sensory deprivation for so long. It must have-

The growl returns, interrupting his thoughts. {I don't need your pity, *smudge.*}

"Do you see me offering it?" Gyre's words are tired, and again the growl fades, albeit more slowly. "I can recognize you went through hell, and recognize it hurt. That doesn't make me suddenly see you as some hapless victim of the multiverses."

"You're part of an empath now," He mutters, rubbing his temple again, "Time to learn the difference between pitying someone, and acknowledging their pain."

The growl fades again, leaving him once more with the silence of his own mind, only broken by a muttered, {Idiot,} though it *maybe* lacked some of the venom of before.

A noncommittal grunt from the nightmare bitty, finally lifting his head to regard Soot again. The human dust bitty still watches, position unchanged, sharp eyed, with a simmering undercurrent of wariness. Gyre gives an absent wave with his fingers, barely a gesture. "I'm fine. You can stand down now."

Soot... obliges. Slowly. He doesn't sit though, watching for an extended moment more, before pacing a brief distance away, and seemed to be deliberately looking anywhere but the nightmare, as though letting the other bitty compose himself again.

Said other bitty appreciated it. He was still a little shaken, to be honest, not just by having sat in the demon's memory- that was rough, definitely- but specifically remembering just how much suffering it had been waiting for the chance to inflict on its 'master.'

It must have had his mage for hours...

Too, he remembered that feeling of being taken from. It had felt so wrong. So emptying, but like emptying something that could never truly empty. It was... cruel. Horribly cruel. No amount of power justified that. Had Rantrum...?

He didn't want to think about it. It made his bad socket hurt, like memory, like tears, trying to fall from a shattered socket, and a dead eyelight. He rubs the spot, gingerly, but there was no salving the pain of an injury that didn't exist anymore.

Giving up, he drops his hand, his shoulders slumping. Assuming Rantrum had... Then what?

{...It surprises you. Still. Your precious mage served me your soul on a silver platter, and it still surprises you he'd add to the suffering of a demon, as well.} Rather than disgusted, or angry, it just sounds... what? Incredulous. That's the word. Its tone is thick with it.

Gyre doesn't answer. He doesn't have an answer that the other will find satisfying, that it won't mock him for, he knows that. He knows what it looks like. He has no reason to doubt that everything the demon has told him was true. His own memories line up with it, even!

But he still believes in his mage. He knew Rantrum. Loved- *loves* him, and somehow, he's certain that his biggie had good reason for... all of this.

...Somehow.

{You... really are an idiot.} No fire this time. No venom. Rather, something almost... sad. Almost envious. As if it wished that it could believe in people like that too. {No, don't read into it,} This, added with a bit of annoyace. {I just feel sorry for you. Trust that blind only leads to one thing.}

"Imprisoned in a non place more concept than reality, unable to escape, with an assassin for company, and a demon digesting my soul while I fail to starve to death?" He asks dryly, unable to resist the trace of amusement to his tone- gallow's humor though it might be.

{Never assume things can't get worse,} The demon mutters. Beyond this? It seems to have nothing else to say.

...The nightmare bitty isn't sure that isn't worse.

---

{You're not trying hard enough,} The demon admonishes, impatience in the tone that filled his mind. {You have almost no experience manipulating magic without resorting to sigils and circles, and fumbling around blindly is taking too long.}

Gyre growls, opening his socket, as though to glare at the demon that isn't there. "I'd think you'd be used to cages by now," He mutters, a low blow, he knows, but how long is he supposed to let the creature goad him? He'd been struggling for hours to gain a grasp of the prison again-

{Days,} The demon corrects, a new ice to its tone. {And yes, thank you, I'm very used to prisons. And very ready to be done with them.}

Days? Gyre's retort falls to ash on his tongue, and he stares at nothing for a moment, finally rubbing the soreness between his sockets, gingerly. The demon was right. With the impermanence of the place, his ability to scribe, glyph, or rune was nonexistent, which left him scrabbling to learn a new way to magic, without book or instruction or anything.

If he was being honest, even the fact that he'd managed to pull them to a stop for as long as he had was probably more fluke then skill- Or at least he hadn't been able to repeat it.

"What is it you expect, exactly?" He asks finally, the words thick with an exhaustion that at least made more sense now. "I'm an apprentice. I hadn't even been an apprentice for six years yet when I wound paired with you-"

{'Wound up,'} The demon echoes faintly, amused or annoyed, it was hard to tell which.

The nightmare bitty ignores him, continuing the thought. "Remind me, how long are mages usually apprenticed for? Ten years? Twenty?"

{Fifteen, if you're any good at it,} The demon admits, somewhat grudgingly. {But I guess twenty five is usually the norm.} A moment passes, then another, before, {Not even six? Really?} A low, irritated grunt, no waiting for a reply. {That wastling mage really took his time, didn't he?} For some reason, the demon seems irritated by this. {And then what does he give me? A fucking bitty. And not even properly trained...}

Give it? Its words aren't lost on Gyre, who narrows his gaze as the demon rants and seethes about what he'd been doing all this time, anyway... It doesn't really match the story it'd been telling him, but the nightmare bitty doesn't interrupt. Who knew, he might actually learn somethi-

{Oh, shut up,} The demon grumbles, ending it's tirade abruptly, {You think too damn loud.} A moment of further grumbling, followed by brief silence, and then, almost reluctant curiosity- or, maybe wariness? {What exactly were you hoping to learn?}

"...Why you didn't already know how long I'd apprenticed." The demon wasn't lying about memories, he was certain of it. So why then-?

Silence, for all of an instant, a cold, warning note to its tone, {Just. Shut up.}

"...You asked."

Neither spoke for a whole after this, while Soot sat without a word, gazing at the wall of endless movement that encompassed the length and breadth of their world now.

Something had kept the demon from knowing Rasmus' memories the way it had the others... Or at least kept it from knowing them as well. He now knew too that it didn't want him to know. But why?

{...Get us out of here, and you'll get your answers. Once we're whole, you'll know everything, and we'll both be free."

Free... Freedom to him didn't mean losing himself that way, but it was the best he had to look forward to. He'd made a deal after all... He'd honor it. Even if it meant-

"I'm not trained for this," He agrees grimly, picking up where that part of their conversation had left off. "And complaining isn't going to get us free any faster. So maybe let me concentrate, if you ever want out of here."

This time, the other doesn't answer, maybe surprisingly. Gyre waits a little longer, just in case, but when nothing seems forthcoming he closes his socket again, settles his shoulders, and extends his tentacles-

{You know,} It interjects suddenly, interrupting yet again, {You have a way to hone your skill sitting right there in front of you. You might try using it.}

...Stars take it. Gyre sighs, and just falls backwards, letting his tentacles take the brunt of the 'blow.' "You," He mutters, under his breath, "Are just making this harder."

{Aren't you going to ask what I mean?} Annoyed. Again. Unsurprisingly.

"...No."

The demon goes quiet, and Gyre waits for it's inevitable interruption... protest, insults, annoyance... But this time? They don't come.

---

While his original intention had been to sleep, that had been some hours since. Since sleep, it seemed, had no intention of heeding his call, he watched instead the weird reality above him for some time, sketched and filled in and... strange.

Trying to focus on the lack of detailed surroundings for too long was dizzying though, and eventually his socket closed again. Too often lately, he found himself tired, in a way that wasn't body or magic. He recognized the emotions, understood them. But he wasn't immune to them.

How different he was now, from the excitable passive nightmare bitty he'd once been. What would his mage think of him now?

It's hard to tell how long he stays this way before Soot joins him, the other bitty sitting against his side. Gyre doesn't protest, thinking instead about the demon's suggestion.

A way to hone his skill... He hadn't asked what the demon meant. He didn't need to ask. It's not as if there was much here that he could 'practice' on, and he doubt the demon meant any part of itself, which by association, also meant any part of himself.

What did that leave then, except Soot?

Admittedly, the demon wasn't wrong. Soot would be a way to hone his magic. Hell, with what he'd learned about the other bitty, and everything that had happened since the binding? There was probably no one better he could have practiced on.

The dust bitty had been remade by the demon's magic, and his existence sustained by his own, for months, and in that time, he'd already permanently altered Soot's magic and- Did that count as altering his soul?

No. He knew the answer. Either way, he was more than just 'attuned' to Soot's magic. The other bitty would be a perfect, pliable canvas for him to practice his art with. He likely wouldn't even protest. Maybe that was part of why it felt so wrong? Or, maybe, he just-

The line of thought is broken, dread coiling tightly within the nightmare at a small, out of place sound, so brief, so small, it could have easily been missed, or imagined. A ragged breath... Not his. Instinctively, he holds his breath, listening for the small sound to be repeated.

{Tar drip,} The demon's words strangely serious for once, despite it's wording. {Your dog's sick. Take care of it.}

Any response the nightmare bitty might offer dies before it can reach his tongue, its words sinking in. Sick? What? He sits up, looking around. At first glance, the dust bitty looks fine, just sitting and meditating. He's sitting straight, breathing evenly, eyes still open, looking off at nothing-

Staring off at nothing. It sinks in slowly that Soot hadn't notice Gyre waking up. Had that ever happened before? ...No. He was certain of it.

Well, no good would come of surprising him. "Soot?" The dust turns as Gyre says his name, "What's wrong?" When the other doesn't answer, he pushes to his feet, approaching slowly, ready to back off if needed- or well, dodge. Either one.

...Soot looks away, his fingers curling more tightly, and Gyre's soul sinks. The demon's right. Something's wrong.

The nightmare kneels before his dust, carefully where the other can see him, even half turned away. He does his best to look him over, to see what's wrong. Him bring a human type dust makes this a little harder, but well, Rantrum was human, the same things should apply, right?

He was pale, but that was normal, he was always pale. His lips though, those weren't supposed to be pale, right? Pale lips... Gyre's mouth presses into a thin, worried line.

"Here, let me see your hand."

When Soot doesn't offer it, he hesitates only briefly before reaching it out, and slowly taking it. He has to unfurl the other's fingers to see what he's looking for, and yes, his nails are pale too. Worse, they have almost a tinge of gray to the edges.

Fear swells in the nightmare bitty, pretty sure that's an extremely bad sign. Taking a shaky breath, he reaches out, gently turning the other's face enough to see his eyes. Pupils, dialated. Not fully focused. And his skin felt strangely chilled under the nightmare's hand.

This was bad. This was really bad. They had no access to doctors, no access to vets, and no help was coming. There was only him and the demon.

How long had the dusty been sick? Why hadn't Gyre noticed sooner? "How long?" Is all he asks, his voice gruffer than he means it to be. He's scared. Stars, he's scared.

The dust bitty doesn't answer, only looking at his hand, still held by the nightmare.

...Oh. Belatedly, Gyre frees his hand, to let him talk.

Soot signs, in 'answer,' "Can still follow orders. Will still follow orders."

Gyre just stares for a few seconds, then asks again, more softly, more firmly, "How long, Soot?"

A hesitation, if brief, before signing slowly, "Since... different."

Since...? Oh. The nightmare's essence. This was his fault, then. Starting to reach out, he pauses short of placing his hand over the other's soul, looking for permission before continuing. The slightest, slightest inclination of a nod, and his hand rests against Soot's chest, as he closes his socket.

He worked through it, slowly, carefully, finding the places where magic had gone faint and fragile, or the balance of it was off, or things just felt wrong. His own magic lingering in many of the places thar Soot was worst off, and he realized with a sinking feeling how close the other was to dusting.

For months now, he'd been making sure Soot had the magic he needed, sustaining him, keeping him alive. More than a year. To realize that for maybe most of that time, his dusty had been slowly dying... Not only was his magic sustaining the other bitty at this point, it was literally holding him together.

"I think you left something out," Gyre mutters to the demon, casting about, gently, to try and find a solution. "Maybe about how drawing out that negativity out would end up dusting him?"

{Something was scraped away,} The demon reminds him, its words dull and flat, and devoid of anything like remorse, {In order to make room for something else, something to make him a more useful tool, in it's place. You took away the something else, and now he's less than whole. Is this hard to follow, little nightmare?}

{Well. You took away one part of it.} It amends, as the nightmare tightens his jaw, {Something remains. Just not enough.}

...Right. The killer bitty essence.

Gyre frowns, and begins healing Soot again, thoroughly, slowly, watching the color come back to his skin, watching his breathing even, and his gaze return to something more like normal- Well, normal for him.

He relaxes a little, seeing that. It meant he could keep holding him together, at least for now. To make extra sure of it, he takes his time, making sure to strengthen every last point of weakening magic.

By the time he's done, Soot is breathing steadily, but avoids the nightmare's gaze. Eventually though, he's the one to break the 'silence,' hands tracing the words without a sound. "It wants use me," He signs, each word chosen with slow deliberation. "Make you stronger."

"And?" He doesn't mean to sound irritated, but the words come out close to a growl, just the same.

Even if it wasn't worded as a question, it wasn't exactly hard for Gyre to figure out the question behind the lack of one, and he had no intention of using the other bitty like some personal pet project to twist and tweak until he somehow got this new magic right. "It can want enchanted muffins handspun by cotton candy pixies too, that doesn't mean it's getting it."

The demon snorts, it's amusement returned. {Cotton candy pixies couldn't handspin a decent enchanted muffin if their sweet syrup depended on it. And if I want failed magic, little drip,} It adds, sounding even more amused, {I'll just ask you.}

{...Speaking of which. How long do you think you'll be able to keep holding him together, unless you manage to repair what's been damaged?}

A low growl from Gyre trails to silence, and finally, a sigh. He wanted to blame the demon, but this was his own oversight, his own failing. And now-

Well. It had him exactly where it wanted him, didn't it? If he wanted to fix what had been broken in the dust bitty's magic, he needed greater control over his own magic. Which meant he needed to practice his own magic. And in the end, meant that to save Soot... He needed to use him, in order to practice.

"..." The nightmare closes his socket, bowing his head. "Stronger," He echoes quietly, resigning himself to what needed to be done. "Yes." Strong enough, at least, to heal what had been broken, and maybe even see the dusty free of their prison. He deserved a chance at the freedom that had been stolen from him for so long...

Even if it meant leaving Gyre alone here, with the demon. Forever.

"...I won't force you." Ever. Ever. He would never take that choice away from the dusty again. From his dusty. "If you refuse, I'll find another way. But... it will take lomger." And even then, in the end, there was no one else who could repair the damage done, was there?

The waiting... seemed forever. It wasn't, but guilt wracked him, asking this, so it felt like it just the same.

Finally, the movement of fingers, there in that nothing space, that offered his answer. "Can still follow orders," He signs, and with every word, the weight inside the nightmare bitty only seemed to grow. "Will still follow orders."

And finally, after a pause that might have been too long-

"...Waiting, for orders."

----

[bellsofblueficlets]

The Truth Within

He was getting more used to this place. Gyre crouched in something like a runner's stance, one hand braced before him, fingers splayed, head bowed, and good socket shut tightly. Behind him, his tendrils had unfurled, like plumes of smoke, rising into the magic of the place, until it was hard to tell where exactly they ended- a trick of the eyes that could prove deadly to the wrong opponent.

There was no sound, but he heard every last one, his socket was squeezed shut, but in this place that should be empty and lightless, he could see every last detail.

It was impossible to tell just how much time had passed... days, weeks, more... and maybe it didn't matter. The dust bitty- Soot, Gyre had taken to calling him, for the black tear tracks that left soot like smudges on his cheeks- had fortunately been receptive to their magic. Very, very receptive, to the point that there really was no question anymore that what the demon had told him was true.

So now he knew they could keep him alive, indefinitely even. Shame that did nothing for the near constant gnawing hunger, but a win was a win, and he would take it. And the dust bitty? The dust bitty has rewarded his efforts a hundred times over, in the very best way he knew how-

The blade sliced so close to his cheek that the air of its passing felt chills across his corruption, but Gyre was already moving, having spun on his heels, and twisted aside, landing lightly to resume his stance, once more facing his opponent. This time, the followup was immediate, and the nightmare bitty leapt back, and back again as Soot continued his pursuit.

Strike, blow, blow, strike, dodge- As much as he'd gotten better at this though, for nearly every blow he evaded completely, another left a sharp sting somewhere on his body.

At least now the wounds were mostly shallow things, mind. He'd lost count of how many times those blade had gouged deeply, in what would have, in another life, been killing strikes. The dust bitty hadn't held his blows, but Gyre had never intended him to. Pain was a good incentive to do better, and if he was anything by now, it was very, very familiar with pain.

Then again, maybe on some level, that was part of the point. If he was used to pain... then, it could never blindside him like that again... right?

As if on cue the dust stepped back, and Gyre was left without his intended target. This led to overstepping, which led to his foot coming down too hard, and his focus was split for an instant as he recovered his balance.

An instant was all it took. Something moved past him, alarm flaring with him as he tensed, spinning to meet the next attack-

The hilt of a blade slammed into his temple, filling Gyre's head with a ringing that would be deafening under other circumstances. This was followed almost immediately by the flat of Soot's palm striking him in the center of where his ribcage would once have been, with enough force behind the blow to have quite conceivably shattered the bones he thanfully no longer had. With the breath driven from his lungs, Gyre stumbled backward-

Soot darts forward, pressing his advantage, and sweeps the nightmare's legs, striking upwards as he falls, letting Gyre's own momentum drive his blade bite deep, as unable to twist enough, impaled as he is, to keep from at least partly landing on it. This doesn't stop the dust bitty from reclaiming it, the blade all but tearing his chest open in the process, a long, deep cut slicing both across and through a significant portion of his upper body, before the weapon is violently ripped free again, even as it's twin is driven into his back-

'Enough!' The word is almost felt more than heard, as his attcker is knocked free, hard, Gyre's tentacle slamming into him, and ragdolling the dust's entire body some distance away... 'We're done!'

Blood flowed heavily from the deep wounds his dust had inflicted, or... magic, or... something. Corruption at this point, mostly. He definitely had no marrow left to bleed. No dust left to shed.

His head was swimming from the pain, but he didn't lose consciousness, just lying there, the brief burst of strength soent, and all too aware of the weapon still embedded in his body.

Managing to curl a tentacle around it's hilt, slowly, carefully, he attempts to pull it free, but his efforts are rewarded by further agony, and a terrible pain that lances through his body.

With a whimper the tentacle falls slack at his side...

{Still useless.} The demon mutters, summoning an additional tentacle, and starting to reach for the weapon, to pull the thing free itself-

Only to find a bony grip closing around it instead, as the dust reclaimed his weapon, drawing it forth in a smooth, easy motion. The demon hisses, its tentacle sharpening, but Gyre growls under his breath, forcing the thing to retreat into his body again. That was *his* dust, dammit.

Learning that the demon could not only summon additional tentacles from his body, but control them in ways he couldn't, hadn't been a welcome discovery, though it shouldn't have been a surprising one. It was something, in the end, he'd begrudgingly come to terms with, as deeply unsettling as it was- But he would not let it use them on Soot.

Repairing multiple stab wounds was hard though, and harder still when his consciousness was blurring from the pain, and having rejected the demon's 'help' once, he could feel in it's seething that it had no further intention of fixing the problem itself, shared body or not.

Admittedly, Gyre had never practiced healing magic the way he probably should have, which didn't exactly help, but now? Now had the motivation to learn. He had things he needed to do, and it was a means to an end... One he feared he'd need to resort to far, far too often.

The wounds close, slowly, agonizingly. The one on his chest takes considerably longer than the others, naturally, but in far less time than it had previously taken him, the nightmare breathes a deep, shuddering breath, pushing himself to his feet.

Now to deal with his 'minion's' injuries...

The dust's magic was very, very receptive to his, and the dust himself offered no objection, meaning that what damage the nightmare had inflicted- a couple busted ribs, and a cracked ulna from the dual impacts at the end from Gyre's tentacle and Soot's landing- mended fairly easily, not even leaving any visible scar tissue to mark the place.

Gyre also shored up the dust bitty's magic reserves a little, endlessly nervois about them running too low, before reclaiming his hand again. Traces of dust and blood lingered on his fingers...

"Training's over." He repeats bluntly, looking at the dusty, intending to make absolutely sure the other understood this, before doing anything else. Soot signed acknowledgement, meeting that gaze, and Gyre sighed, relaxing a little as he walked a short way away, sitting with his back to the other.

It wasn't long before the dusty joined him. It never was. He sat with his back to Gyre's, and though the nightmare didn't like admitting it to himself, he welcomed the company. The demon hissed silently inside him though, bristling against... something. He didn't know what. He told himself he didn't care.

Soot didn't like the creature, and went to no pains to hide it. The dust bitty could clearly hear the demon, and he didn't pretend otherwise. Yet never responded to it, directing anything he said to Gyre himself.

It soon becomes unmistakable to Gyre that there were a few injuries that he'd missed, and after a brief, dour reflection not to send his dust after anyone he might actually want alive later, he turns to addressing them. He thought he'd caught them all this time...

The demon notes, bemused, {You're the only person I can name who can 'spar' with a trained assassin, not to mention a creature specially crafted to serve the role, with LV like his, and end up surprised every single time by how many places you're bleeding from when it's over.}

"Do you ever have any helpful observations?" He mutters under his breath, nevertheless relaxing still more as the pain from his previously lingering injuries begin to ease.

The question has the effect of rendering the demon silent, if only for all of a few seconds, before offering coldly, {Sure. Helpful observation number one. Maybe don't lock doors behind you when you don't have the key.}

Okay, admittedly he'd walked into that one. He decides to go back to ignoring the demon. Gyre might be getting a bit more used to *his surroundings*? But much of the company definitely left something to be desired...

Once the last of his wounds are addressed, the nightmare bitty starts considering sleep, not sure how long it's been since he has. Sitting back to back with Soot is a very different mood though, than waking to find the other intently watching him sleep. Telling him not to had resulted in him sitting against 'his' nightmare's back instead, and staring off at nothing, a position that Gyre found him still in when he woke again.

Several iterations of 'stop doing that' later, to the point where he genuinely couldn't tell if the other bitty was deliberately missing the point or not, he kind of half gave up, and accepted sleeping as little as possible. He was pretty sure that Soot wasn't sleeping at all, mind...

Sleep was out of the question for at least a little longer though, until he finished his full 'post sparring check,' which meant- "Your turn," He says, well aware that Soot by now knew the routine. "Let's see what I missed."

Soot stands again, obediently, and walks around him, before sitting back down in front of him. Every time... Gyre didn't question it anymore, suspecting by now that routine was important to the dust bitty. He couldn't really blame the other, remembering that collar. A dog who knew his role well being less likely to suffer his master's hand, or something.

Knowing which actions promoted which reactions... Yeah. He could see that being important. He in turn did his best to be consistent, at least in things like this. It was almost a ritual by now-

None of Soot's wounds were as severe as his own had been, unsurprisingly, and luckily, but skin did have a tendency to bruise more easily than bone, and injured muscle tissue wasn't always immediately obvious, and well, organs and such...

Once he's pretty sure he'd tended every last bruise, he sits back, dropping his hands into his lap, and starts to tell the other bitty that he's done, only to pause, certain something in Soot's unchanging expression looks different...

...No. Not his expression. It was hard to sense much else beyond the mismatch of roiling negativity that continuously churned beneath Soot's surface, but something about him felt... waiting? Giving him a studying look, Gyre finally straightens again, and nods. "Go ahead."

It takes Soot a moment to nod back, if so brief that someone else might have missed it. Still he chooses his words, carefully, before beginning. "Why say 'dust?'"

Gyre blinks, caught off guard by this. "You... mean monster dust? Or bitty dust?" How did this guy not know what dust was? He'd seen his LV. He'd almost definitely seen his share of death.

"...You call me dust." Soot answers, simply, those piercing eyes too bright, too alert, too steady somehow, as they watch him. "You, and the thing. Both."

{Thing?} The demon echoes, all but bristling. {Excuse you...}

Ah. He supposed they probably didn't explain much to their creations. Not like they consider people...

"Many bitties belong to types," He taps absently on his knee, thinking the words through. "I'm not sure why, myself- When bitties wild spawn from residual magic buildup, they're usually one of these types, though if anyone knows where that magic comes from, I've never been told. It must have a common source though..."

"I'm a type of bitty called a nightmare bitty," That aqua eyelight burns softly, looking at nothing. "More accurately, I'm a corrupted nightmare bitty. My bitty type has... an unstable sort of magic. I wasn't like this... before." His tentacles shift behind him in slow undulations, before curling around to settle into his lap as well. "No tentacles, no corruption- I was bones, and lavender magic." His fingertips brush briefly against his brow. "I had a circlet. My kind tend to wear them. They're... important."

"Mine was lost that day." He doesn't need to clarify which, he doesn't think, but does anyway. "It must have been knocked away when my mage was killed. That's when I corrupted too, and my magic became this. I... became this." It didn't trouble him the same way it had, in the beginning, but it did remind him of what his life had been, and how much had been lost, "And I can never be that again."

"...your bitty type is called 'dust,'" He explains, clarifying after, "And yes, you're named after that dust, the one that comes with death."

Through all this, he listens, and Gyre feels the twist of emotions that never reveal themself in his expression. Anger, loathing, resignation. "Because this is what we are. Made for death."

A soft sound, unreadable, from Gyre, as he reflects on this. "Is that why I'm a 'nightmare,' then? Because I was made as a thing to fear and despise, leaving people desperate to escape me?"

"...No."

It's not a surprising answer, exactly? But Gyre doesn't expect it from the dust bitty. "No?"

"No." This is signed almost impatiently, but if he expects further elaboration, there's none. Instead Soot gets to his feet, and walks away, with a sense of the discussion being done. Maybe this is why the nightmare bitty is surprised when he continues anyway. "What does it mean, being stripped? What was taken from me?" Nothing he says indicates he cares, there's no tremble to his hands as he signs, and his face, before turning away, was as always impassive. Anyone not an empath might even believe it was true...

"Every bitty type has their own traits," Gyre decides to start with, watching the turmoil twisting within him. The dust bitty hadn't struck out at him since declaring his loyalty, at least not unless ordered to by Gyre himself, but he was careful to stay alert just the same. "Aspects that most others of their type share, like the fact that nearly all nightmares have a dream, at least to start out with, and nearly all dreams have a nightmare."

"We're brothers," Something in his tone changes, marginally. "Whether wild spawned, factory spawned, or naturally born, we start our lives together, our magics each the balance of the other, in a way that pretty much defines our types, despite being different types ourselves- though, some just call both types 'guardian bitties.'"

"...I was an exception." A soft sound, weighty, but hard to read. "Even though my kind aren't supposed to, I came into existence alone. A wild spawned nightmare, without a dream."

"Dust bitties aren't supposed to come into existence either," He continues, and finally here, his sharp eyelight catches a reaction, the merest twitch, before Soot turns his head marginally, to indicate he's listening. "They come into existence with a papyrus that no one else can see or hear, like a ghost that always stays with them. A brother. Family. Or at least nearly dust bitty insists it's true, though usually no one but the dust bitty can see him."

Soot has turned back away by the time he's done, just staring back at the not ground, his hands clenching and unclenching, slowly, deliberately. Gyre can see just barely seen the tightness of his jaw, and his breathing, just a bit more tightly controlled than usual. "The demon said that I had this." He asks, the words carefully, deliberately slow. "A papyrus."

"...Where is he?"

Ah. That... was a question he definitely should've expected. Okay.

{There's nothing left,} The demon answers before he can, something hard to put a finger on behind it's words. {They killed him before you ever took your first breath, and pulled out whatever was still left, never telling you. Then they shoved something dark and painful in you instead, that they could use to break you, and make you obey."

"Shut-up-shut-up-shut-up-shut-up-" Gyre growls under his breath, though when Soot's gaze flicks to him, he stops, hesitates- and taking a deep breath, nods, ever so slightly, admitting it's true.

Oh, what begins to rise slowly inside that dust bitty is like something so distinct and palpable that in his mind's eye, it rears like a serpent, a black gaze cold as death, slowly revealing it's dripping ebony fangs as this slowly sinks in, and just... doesn't stop. Going deeper, and deeper, as this rage bristled and swelled, a knot of rage and pain that burned deeper than even Gyre could hope to see. The sheer degree of raw negativity was overpowering, pain and grief and despair and rage and hate. Above, all else. Hate.

Something like black sap begins to dribble slowly down his cheeks again, where previously they'd been reduced to little more than faded smears. It would be easy to mistake it for tears of some kind, but what he knows of such things, it's Hate, Gyre remembered hearing someone say it was, liquid hate, too much to keep in. Whether it was true, he didn't know.

What Gyre did know was that that building fury was going to need an outlet, and he was the only target here. And he did not feel up for another fight right now.

He's surprised then, when rather than attack, those same hate filled eyes lift to his, startlingly lucid, and utterly furious. "I was made. To be broken." It's, among other things, asking Gyre to confirm this, which he does, if with some reluctance, nodding again. This time, Soot closes his eyes, and turns away again. He just stands there, the maelstrom of negativity burning like some twisted hellfire within him, rising until it fills every last hidden corner of his soul, burning hotter and darker, until it seems like he has no choice to be consumed...

And then a takes in a single, slow, deeper, shuddering breath, clenches his fists exactly once, and turns back to Gyre. "The ones who stripped me. They took your mage, too?"

"Yeah," The nightmare agrees, the reminder still bringing pain, despite already missing him constantly. "They did. My mage. My home-"

"What they didn't take from me directly. Is still gone." The person he'd been, that sweet little passive nightmare, filled with eagerness and curiosity and hope, may as well be dead, and he the creature that had taken his place. Just. With every memory. And every pain.

As for Soot's pain? The twisted knot of hate inside Soot felt like the warmth of a hearthfire to him, but maybe one that burned just a bit too hot, like being so close to it should sear his corruption...

Instead? He just felt...

{Not surprising,} The demon almost seems to smile, {You're a nightmare. The more you surround yourself with the suffering of others, the stronger that part of your magic becomes. Even better, I can feel it making me stronger too.} And judging by the demon's tone? This absolutely delighted it.

A tentacle outright snaps, whip like, in irritation at the creature. " Do you think you could enjoy my sworn's suffering a little less?" He growls, furious that anything in him would take such pleasure in his subject's pain.

{You're a nightmare,} It growls, contempt quickly returning to it's tone, {You can feed on misery, draw it out, magnify it, or inflict it. Or you can lie to yourself, and pretend you don't enjoy it, but it doesn't change what you are. You'll find it far more useful to just embrace it.}

Gyre growls more deeply, but the sound cuts off as he feels a shift of emotions close by. Turning in surprise as he registers it, his expression becomes almost confused, but all thought of comfusion fades when he sees the dust watching him again, and remembers the demon's words. *Feed on it, draw it out, magnify it, or inflict it.*

Wary. He's wary. No, suspicious. It feels like a light bite on the tongue, the sort of unique warmth and sharpness of wine, and if it hadn't been so unexpected, if it wasn't so unwelcome, he might gave enjoyed the sensation, which to his mind only made the whole thing worse, as it seemed to prove the demon's words true.

Aqua eyelight narrow slightly, anger briefly registering there, corruption even peeling back enough to expose sharp fangs- funny, he hadn't had those before. Beyond this, Soot earns only a glare. No growl, no rebuke, no scathing remark, just a look, anger and... probably some other feelings as well, that he wasn't prepared to sort out right now.

Still angry, he looks away, frustrated by his inability to storm off, and put some distance between them. Damn cell...

Back turned, he could still 'watch,' and he did. He was getting better at it, and why wouldn't he? If the dust really thought he was trying to feed his pain, he could very well attack, and Gyre had every right to defend himself.

He saw as well as felt when, after several 'however many longs,' suspicion faded, at least a little, and Soot seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. Not that Gyre cared. How dare he suggest-?

A tentacle thwacks him in the head without warning, and he stumbles, confused and alarmed by where the attack had come from, and raising his other tentacles in ready-

...Other. Tentacles. The nightmare stared in disbelief at the added tentacle that the demon had summoned, again, this time with the apparent intention of smacking him upside the head. It adds cooly, for good measure, {He didn't *suggest* anything, your butt hurt lord of dumbass. So stop moping, and do something. Or did you miss what I said about drawing it out?}

"I didn't. Miss it." He denies, the cut of ice in his words. "You said I can draw out the negativity from a person, feed it to get what I want-"

{Why would you-} Followed by a pause, and a mutter of disbelief from the demon, {Wow. So apparently you know jack shit about your own magic. I'm finding myself so reassured that we're ever getting out of here.}

{...Drawing it out. Means draining it. You fucking moron.}

Oh.

No, wait...

...Could he actually do that?

There was echoing disapproval in the demon's thundering silence as he weighed this new information, before asking at last, {Do you actually know anything at all about being a nightmare bitty?} From it's tone, it was clear that the demon already knew the answer.

Gyre bites back his own answer of 'of course he does,' because, well, if the demon is telling the truth, he obviously doesn't.

But. How much doesn't he know?

{...Have you ever even met another nightmare?}

Had he? He'd been found less than a day after spawning, a brand new life stirred into existence among the overgrown weeds of an empty lot...

From there, he'd been taken to a bitty acclimation center, where he'd been introduced to a few bitty who had trained in helping other bitty adjust to existing, and find their own places. His instructors had been a baby blue and a sansy, and from there he'd slowly been introduced to a few others here and there-

The first time he'd met a dream, he hadn't understood the way something inside him ached, and he'd stared, confused, until he was gently reprimanded for it. The dream hadn't seemed to mind, waving at him, but when he'd tried to walk closer, intending to introduce himself, the both had been urged in opposite directions. He still remembered the confused look in the dream's golden eyelights, looking back...

It was then that he'd been told more about what he was. Told that dreams and nightmares sometimes tried to kill each other, and that it couldn't always be predicted whether it would happen, especially when meeting each other for the first time. Told that sometimes, they succeeded.

It was also when he'd first learned that dreams and nightmares usually came into existence together. That he was an exception, a nightmare with no dream. In fact... it was when he'd first learned... a lot.

It was also the last time he'd tried to get to know a dream, even after he chose his placement, and trained, waiting for his bitty. There had been dreams, both with nightmares and without, but he was the only nightmare without a dream. The other nightmares had moved on after a while, tired of waiting to be chosen, or just tired of having people want their brothers, but not them, and being the reason their dreams were passed over. Their dreams had always refused to be placed if it meant leaving their nightmares behind. When they left, they always left together.

When no one else had chosen them, their dreams had chosen them over and over again.

He'd... mostly avoided both. After a while.

Gyre sighs, gently rubbing a strange, dull ache, in that place where an eyelight no longer shone. "I've met other nightmares," He denies, quietly, "But no, we didn't exactly hang out together and compare magics."

"...If you have a point, get on with it."

There's a huff, and a general sense of annoyance from the demon. {You can feed someone's negativity, and make it stronger, and you can force them to feel a negativity of your choice, you can grow stronger from their negativity, and you can draw it from them as well. If you want to do something about his pain? Do it.}

Gyre is quiet, taking this in, and turning it over, weighing it.

Finally, he turns back to Soot. Take some of his negativity?

"...Well?" He asked, softly. Leaving the final decision to him.

The dust doesn't answer, at least not with words. He does approach though, after only a moment to consider, and then, surprisingly, he reaches for Gyre's hand. Cool, scarred fingers closing around his, and just... stay this way, if only briefly, before lifting the nightmare's hand to his chest, hate still dripping sticky black down his cheeks, and waits.

He doesn't need to be so close to feel the knot of rage and pain burning just beneath the surface, it was overpowering, evdn from a distance. But being this close, one corrupted hand resting over Soot's soul? It was... different.

Okay, Gyre thought, taking a slow, deep breath, here goes. Taking great care, he began opening his magic to the terrible anger, with it's roots of something twisted and bitter, winding deeper and deeper into what felt like his very design, the very magic that makes him. It had been biting and burrowing into itself, eating him alive from within for what felt like a very long time...

How old was he? Decades? Centuries? Did it matter?

Before he can think long on this, Gyre feels something else, deep in this mass of pain. Something familiar, and dark, and...

...and well, nightmarish.

Something cold settles inside him, as the significance of this sinks in. He swears he feels a shudder tracing across his soul. There was no question that this magic had come from a nightmare, but this...

Swallowing, he closes his eyes, looking more closely. The demon had said something about a killer bitty...

There.

His throat had gone dry, a trick in itself considering the circumstances. This didn't end with dust bitties. These magics had been taken from somewhere, someone, in a way that let them self sustain this way. It wasn't the kind of magic that a nightmare used, but the kind that made them nightmares in the first place. The magic that *made* them.

So somewhere inside the magic of this shaped, stripped, reshaped, and previously enslaved dust bitty, was whatever was left of a nightmare bitty's life-force, winding its roots deep inside him, every part of it seething anger, loss, and despair...

Just how many bitty types are being used, crafted and then stripped? Or, maybe worse? Was there worse?

...How much of this would lead straight back to the demon? To him?

His dust waits, watching, the drip, dripping of black tears whisked away as quickly as they can fall, except the ones that hit Gyre's arm. No, those... tingle.

"They took from you," Quietly, he says this, suppressed rage behind, held in tight control. "And took from other bitty types, to remake you." His gaze lifts, settling on Soot's with a look that many would shy from now. "Life magic taken from a killer bitty- and life magic taken from a nightmare bitty." The unspoken words, *like me,* hanging in the air.

And as a nightmare bitty, the magic responds to him. With great care, he begins to work it free, approaching the Gordian knot of stolen lives and magics, and coaxing it gently apart.

He can't help but wonder how many of his type they'd ended, to make chains like these...

...It feels, wrong. Like cold, clotting milk, being drawn into him. Little by little though, he claims it, every drop, every last spark of pain, and only when the last of it settles inside him like a bloating, rancid meal, does his hand fall away.

Soot sinks to his knees, as soon as he let's go, and remains there, shaking. The negativity inside him that had overfill his senses, leaving no room for anything else, a constant cacophany of anger and despair, had faded to a background 'noise,' and for the first time in his existence, there was room for more.

It would be a long time before Gyre's 'meal settled. It might take longer still for Soot to... a lot. Just a lot. And the killer's magic was still wound inside him...

The nightmare sits slowly, his socket closing. He had a lot of magic to process. He had a lot to process. But he had to know one thing, before he could process anything else...

"Was this our magic too?" He asks the demon inside him, still shaken. He knew the answer. He already knew. It wasn't just because the magic belonged to a nightmare that it had obeyed him, it was because it had been made to obey magic like his before...

{...Yes.} This was all he said, but the weight in that one word told Gyre far more.

I've had many, many 'masters,' the demon had told him, and they've taken my magic, and done things with it that if you knew, if you understood the true cruelty of the souls inside you, you would never sleep well again.

It was... so much. Too much. Maybe it really would be better if they just, stayed here, do nothing so terrible could be done with their magic again...

{It won't stop what they already do,} The demon points out, it's voice more dull and tired than he'd heard it before. {But sure. Sit here forever. That's definitely going to change anything.}

"...I'm a bitty. I can't-"

{You're a demon,} It corrects, {Just as I am.}

This time, Gyre doesn't respond.

A familiar weight settles back to back again, far sooner than he expects. Soot, still trembling, but there. Still beside him. Maybe still unable to feel joy or hope, but still, better. And able to choose his own loyalties.

The nightmare bitty remembers a dying slave, and a burning library, and his mage, his family, fallen, never to rise again. He remembers everything he'd lost, and everything that Soot had never had, and even a demon, imprisoned, by so many masters...

...And he begins to understand that it had never been the demon at all, that the world had needed protecting from.

----

[bellsofblueficlets]

In Painful Memory

The armory was a dusty place, with none of the light and warmth of the library, but it was, if nothing else, interesting.

Cluttered, eclectic, and filled with untold hordes of weaponry of every shape size, and description, from towering battle axes- the nearest, for some reason left leaning against a shelf erect, the ancient iron wedged into it at just the right angle to keep it from toppling- to long bows of shimmering ebony- one of which was currently stuffed into an umbrella stand otherwise overflowing with crumpled paper, along with what seemed to be a broken scabbard- as well as great swords of impossible weight and heft-

The most obvious being the one suspended above their heads by what seemed to be piano wire, its length at least five time his mage's height, if not more, with a hilt nearly as thick around as his waist, and very clearly intended for no human hand.

This place promised untold secrets and stories, and things tucked away, waiting for just the right time-

And his mage? His mage acted like it wasn't even there, brushing aside a quiver of arrows, and lifting a mace out of the way, like they were so much clutter, clearing a space on the wall.

"There we are," He mumbles, before turning to look around the room. "Ah, now where did..." This is followed by a weighty sigh, and a shake of his head. "Yes. Of course I left it there." He combs his fingers through his beard, turning to look at the nightmare bitty currently on his knees on the table, stretching as far as he can over the edge to reach a gleaming rapier hilt propped close by.

Caught in the act, Gyre hesitates, looking between mage and hikt, before his tiny shoulders slump, and he retreats back to the safety of the table, not quite managing to hide his pout.

Rantrum gives his pocket sized apprentice a sympathetic pat. "I'm afraid I forgot my bag in another room- Can I trust you to remain here, and touch nothing until my return?"

Touch nothing... until his return.

...Okay, yeah. That wording worked. He could do that. Gyre nods, and Rantrum smiles at him, making a small, satisfied sound, before patting him once more, and leaving him there to vanish down a row of hand axes.

...Right. He could totally just sit here, and not touch anything. Gyre crosses his leg over the other, tapping his foot idly with his fingers. Yep. He could totally do this.

A minute passes. Then another. Then another. Gyre sighs, adjust his weight, and looks around. It was a formidable collection, or would be, if his mage bothered to maintain any of it. As it was, the greatest danger any of the pieces currently posed was as a tetnus hazard.

Well. Except for that one. Gyre lifted his head, the piece above him impossible to ignore for long. The sword is gigantuan, and gleams a golden hue to it's blade, while it's hilt is aged bone ivory, from what beast though, he can't begin to imagine. It must have been enormous...

Strange, that such a thing, which must have been wielded by, or crafted from, creatures so clearly not human, possessed no magic. In fact, he wasn't sure why, among all the weapons here, none held any trace of it. After all, shouldn't a mage's armory boast magical weapons?

Then again, it's hard to imagine Rantrum using a weapon at all, so maybe...

His thoughts are interrupted by Rantrum's return, a bulky, heavy looking bag of thick black canvas carried over his shoulder. This of course, immediately draws Gyre's attention far more than enormous, albeit magicless, and unexplained swords which admittedly he'd seen at least a dozen times by now.

"What's that?" He asks curiously, standing, and craning his neck for a better look.

"Ah, an antique learning tool," He explains, with that sage, mysterious affectation he sometimes dons, albeit with varying effectiveness.

The look of begrudgingly amusement he gives the bag spoils the attempt a little, since he's not quite able to suppress his rueful smile. "I remember my own teacher dragging this out for the first time... a foolish thing if you ask me, but I suppose it is tradition." With a small shake of his head, he begins unwrapping it. "It's an effective enough tool to explain the unexplainable, mind you, but really only works once you already understand it. Ah, well."

Rantrum draws forth a bulky bronze shape, elaborate and tarnished, and lifts the thing, hooking it upon a heavy nail that from his current angle, Gyre had previously taken for a broken chip, or stain on the stone. It's some small effort, and the older man grunts, then sighs, and bids him wait again, wading back through the rows of weaponry.

Gyre walks cautiously closer, or as close as he can without stepping straight off the table, narrowing his sockets to try and make it out. It looked a bit like a bronze maze, fashioned like the face of some Halloween demon, its mouth stretched far too wide to make room for the twisty labyrinth within.

Huh. What kind of maze was this? Every path led downward, none back up, allwere curved, with no straight lines, and curiously, despite there being only a single entrance, there were multiple exits, without a single dead end. Some paths were longer than others, or had narrower paths, but for all the splits and turns, rejoinings and redirections, every path led back out. Didn't that defeat the point of a maze?

The sound of shambling sort of footsteps, the sort made by thick slippers when worn by a mage in no real hurry, draw his gaze back to the direction Rantrum had left in, just in time to see him return, with a small bucket of water in one hand, and an empty tray in the other. The second, he sets beneath the maze, before sighing, straightening, looking at it with bucket still in hand. "Well, then," He mumbles, shaking his head. "This will make sense to you one day, my apprentice. It always does."

With this, Rantrum lifts the bucket, and attaches it to a small hook previously unnoticed, at the top of the maze. At which point it just sort of sits there. Waiting.

Rantrum turns back to watch him, that same small, resigned amusement in his eyes. "So," He begins, patting his pocket for another chewing stick, and clamping it neatly between his teeth, reducing his next words to half mumble, "Tell me, my apprentice. If I tip this bucket of water down into this labyrinth mural, where will the water go?"

Fortunately, by this point, Gyre was familiar enough with this practice to gave little troubke understanding him. He looked from Rantrum, to the moral, to the bucket, and back at Rantrum, before suggesting dryly, "Down?"

A snort, and a chuckle from his mage, with a faintly wistful look in those clear blue eyes, like he was remembering something. "You say that sarcastically, but that's exactly the right answer."

Gyre blinked, taken aback. "...What?"

"Ah," Rantrum smiled, something that on another man Gyre might call faintly mischievous. "Well, you see," He's gestures vaguely at the thing, "There are many different paths and routes through which for it to get there of course, marked and routed by the maze, but," He tips over the bucket, which begins a small cascade of water spilling down the front, winding through various maze routes, and here and there simply spilling over them entirely, bypassing the whole thing, "The final answer is indeed 'down.'"

Gyre watches the water, winding and overflowing, and by every which means, flowing steadily down. "Uh. Okay..." He looks back up at his biggie. "And why is that important?"

"Ah. Well," He hemmed, looking at the maze, tapping his finger on the wall. "Ah, that is," His expression was hard to mustake as anything but one belonging to someone who'd known exactly what it was they were going to say, right up until the point where they actuallytried to say it. Gyre wondered briefly, suppressing a chuckle, how many times Rantrum has practiced this speech in the mirror.

A brief glance from the mage, reproachful, madd the bitty's smile vanish, and he sat up straight, doing his best to play the part of the dutiful pupil.

"Because Fate is the same way," Rantrum answers after a moment, drawing back to look at his demonstration- Which was now admittedly finished, save for clinging drops, agleam of wetness, and a not quite fully contained puddle where it had fallen into the pan, as well as here and there on the floor surrounding. "You see, sometimes though there are a thousand different paths, every end result of what may happen still leads to the same conclusion." A gesture, half at the mural- Half at the spilled mess at their feet.

Okay, so this was genuinely a lesson... All right, he was paying attention. "But only sometimes?"

"Ah," Rantrum pauses, thinking, before shaking his head. "Always, in fact."

The nightmare bitty gives his mage a dubious look, lifting a brow. "Okayyyy. Then, why say 'sometimes?'"

Rantrum hesitates, the bushiness of his brows draws together- then smiles, reciting matter-of-factly, "'Because sometimes the journey before reaching a point, makes all the difference in both how you reach it, and where you go after!'" Maybe he'd managed to remember part of his speech, maybe he was just good at improvising and pretending, Gyre had no idea, but when he offered his hands to his bitty, Gyre climbed on, soon transferred to Rantrum's shoulder.

Gyre got comfortable, easy enough with that mane of head and face hair his biggie has to lean against, and considered this, watching the water soaked mural and pan briefly, not overly surprised when Rantrum just turned, and left both there, with no attempt to clean the mess. "Sooo, nothing is a choice?" He asks, figuring they must really be done here as Rantrum absently waves a hand, extinguishing the lights before closing the door behind them.

"No, no. Everything is a choice." The mage denies, pausing to adjust his cufflinks, and search his pockets.

Okay... Gyre tries again. "Then, it makes no difference?"

"Ah, in fact," Rantrum denies, before making a small sound of satisfaction at finding the key he sought, "It makes every difference." The heavy door is locked behind them with a click of finality, before being slipped away into his robes again.

It was hard to say whether this way of speaking in riddles was more intriguing or frustrating, but at the very least it was quickly becoming familiar. "But how?" Gyre presses, "If we end up at the same destination either way, then why does it matter?"

"That," Rantrum answers, offering a small pat to his companion, "Is because only some things are set in stone as Fate, determined by choices which in turn become a bottleneck for the choices of others, when-" He offers a vague gesture with his hand, not quite dismissive, but in a so on and so forth sort of way, "Well, when taken in context with certain inexorable forces- gravity, for example, and myself, who hung the thing, as well as the one who shaped it, and i turn the one who forged the metals, where it was mined, how it was forged, the type of metal itself, the time and other factors with affect it's growing tarnished-"

"Yet the specific paths determines the speed at which it descends, the precise direction it takes, and the force with which it arrives there. In turn," He continues, a bit more softly, "This affects the path itself."

The mage pauses briefly before a window, gazing at the sky, currently dark and heavy. A moonless night... Yet without a single star to be seen.

Gyre looked too for a few second, then sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah. That kinda sounds like bullshit."

A soft chuckle, surprising him momentarily. "Absolutely." The mage agrees.

...Oh. Despite himself, Gyre can't help but be disappointed somehow. It certainly sounded like mystical sage-stuff. He tries to play the disappointment off, shrugging, as he lies, saying, "I knew it was."

"Ah. No," The mage denies, the words rueful, "But it certainly does sound like it."

Gyre doesn't know how to answer this, and Rantrum continues to watch out the window for a little longer, before finally nodding, though what he might have nodded for, Gyre didn't know.

"Occasionally," The mage continues, as if he'd never paused, "Though we cannot change our own fates? We can change those paths we take, as we take them, for those who follow. That way, theirs might have the chance to lead somewhere better than our own ever could."

"...Sometimes," This, said with a soft sigh, "That is all that even the best of us can do."

The nightmare bitty is turning these words over in his head, when he notices the direction they're heading, and a sudden chill shoots down his spine. "Where- Where are we going?"

"The... library?" His mage attempts to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "You asked to stop by there after our lesson today, remember?"

Library...

...Library. Gyre swallows, takes a deep breath, and forces a smile. "I changed my mind. It's fine. Let's do something else."

This time the mage stops, and something troubled passes his eye. "It's no trouble, Gyre. Rea-"

"No, no. You're always telling me ghat too much time in that place isn't good for you. Let's go somewhere else. Uh, we can go back to the weaponry! Or the map room! You had that map you wanted to show me, ri-?"

"...My Gyre," Softly, firmly, his mage interrupts, silencing him.

After a moment, he offers his hands to the bitty. Slowly, Gyre climbs out on them, though it's hard, the way his entire body is suddenly trembling. He lifts his head, eyelights shrunk to pinpricks as he fights down a rising panic. "We, can go look over the balcony, or take care of those dumb little plants, or-"

His voice is almost shaking to hard to keep going at this point, "Please," His gaze desperate as he looks up at his mage, his biggie... His best friend, and only family. "Rantrum. I don't want to go up there. Please."

Soft, sad eyes watch him, that same deep, clear blue that he remembered so well. "I am... I am so sorry, my friend. But the past," He reaches out, Gyre squeezing his sockets tightly shut as a hand closes over him, "Is the one path of fate, that is beyond my power to change."

"...It was never your fault. I promise. It was always going to be where my path en-"

---

It felt like he should have startled awake, he just couldn't remember why. But whether the exhaustion of everything had finally driven him to need a deeper, more genuine sleep, or the demon had just decided it for him, Gyre was somehow certain when he woke this time that he'd been asleep for a very, very long time.

It felt like coming back to himself, slowly, curling his fingers as he remembered how to move them again, and breathing, like it had been years since he'd last drawn breath. How slowly, slowly he pushed himself up, with deliberate effort, to reach his hands and knees again. Even opening his socket, blinking groggily, felt unfamiliar and wrong.

For an instant as his sight finally focused on the splayed fingers drenched in deep, viscose black, he wasn't sure what he was looking at, and his head seemed to swim in confusion. It was a beat, and then another, before the memories begin sifting into place.

Waking hurt sometimes. Rantrum had told him that once, and promised him that he'd understand one day, "regrettably, we all do, I fear."

He didn't know if this was the kind of pain the old mage had meant though.

His soul hurt, and his chest heaved, and before he could think not to, before he could think of the demon inside him, or the dust bitty close by, he finally started to sob at the full weight of everything that had happened. All the things that had gone numb in the midst of the chaos felt newly raw again, all the emotions he'd pushed away flooding back in an instant.

Droplets of black fell by his hand, one, by one, before falling to nothing on the empty surface, like so much soot scattered to the wind. Drip by drip, corrupted tears fell down his cheek, as he cried, unashamedly, not caring who heard, or who was there to listen.

Rantrum was gone. His mage, his biggie, his person. Gone, gone, his soul eaten hollow by the same demon trapped somewhere inside him. His home was gone, all his little trinkets and toys, his books and notes and soft things. The bed where his mage had sat beside him, telling him about places he'd been, things he'd seen, or secret wonders that might lie tucked away in some far off forgotten stretch of the omniverse.

Everything he knew, everything he loved, everything he'd worked for, it was gone, gone, and there was nothing left, nothing to go back to. Nothing to look to. Only this silent prison cell, empty and featureless, with nothing to touch, no one to talk to but that fucking demon who'd gnawed on his mage's soul, and the dust that had tried repeatedly now to kill him.

He didn't notice when his tears started going from black, to murky, to slowly, slowly, running clear. Droplets of brilliant cyan, gone in a breath as they were whisked away to nothing. He cried until every breath became agony, until he was shaking so hard that he couldn't hold himself up anymore, and his arms gave way.

And when he hit the nothingness that served as the ground, he just curled up where he fell, burying his face in his arms, and wrapping his tentacles tightly around himself.

He wanted his biggie. He wanted their home. He wanted to just wake up, and find out this had all been the bad dream, and his mage wasn't really dead, and he hadn't betrayed him, and their home wasn't gone, and he hadn't sold his soul to a demon, and he wasn't trapped in this horrible place...

This was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare.

But there was no gentle voice waking him. No soft touch to stir him from the terrible visions of what had happened. No weight on the bed beside him, as Rantrum sought gently to sooth his dreams. There was only silence. And he didn't come.

Every time he thought he was out of tears, he thought of his mage's sad, gentle eyes, and started crying again. Part of his soul felt like it had been ripped away. It felt like a hurt that would never, ever heal.

He knew the dust was there. He didn't care. The other bitty didn't interfere, didn't do anything that he could see. And the demon? The demon stayed silent. Not a word.

Gyre wasn't sure, in those moments, that this hell wasn't really his alone, and he'd only dreamed that the others had ever been real at all. But eventually, eventually, he ran out of tears, and just laid there, remembering. A dream... Of course he'd dreamed of him. Dream and memory and fear all twisted up into one. Gyre sighed, rolling to his back, and held up his hand against the near nothing.

What even was he now? Corrupted, sure. But that hadn't been a bitty's soul he'd held.

That wasn't when it happened. It wasn't when he died.

Dammit, what was he trying to tell me that day? Mazes and paths and-

His socket closed. His good socket. He only had one of those now. Just something else, lost...

Then something brushed against his side, and his socket opened again. He should've jumped, should've startled, bared his teeth- He was just too tired. And what was the point? He was pretty sure that no injury was lasting anymore. And he didn't think it was even possible for him to die now, anyway.

Two years is all but an instant in the span of time you'll one day live.

Bitties don't always live long lives.

You will.

...Immortality. Fun.

Turning his head to see what had brushed against him, not that their was more than one thing it could be, to see the dust bitty sitting by his side, his back turned to him. Gyre took a few seconds to process this. Someone trained to kill, turning their back like this...

It meant something.

"...What are you doing?" His voice is hoarse, or again, would be, if he could hear it.

"Waiting for orders." He answers. The dust doesn't turn around, or lift his lowered head, but holds his hands just far enough to the side to be seen- Even if reading them from behind takes him a minute to reverse in his mind.

Gyre sighs, just giving the other a weary look. "Your... whatever they were... aren't going to give you new orders. They can't control you, can't hurt you..." He doubted they ever expected to see him again, for that matter. And if he couldn't find a way out of here...

The dust bitty turns his head, the smallest bit. Enough for Gyre to see the smudges of black on his cheeks, though they weren't as thick as they'd been when he first saw them. His eyes, just as manic, cold and savage, as ever. "Waiting for orders." He signs again.

Gyre just stares at him a moment longer, then sighs, rolling his head back to look skyward again. The dust remained where he was.

...This was his life now, huh? Silence stretches for several minutes. Maybe longer.

{He means, from you.}

It was the first time the demon had spoken in a while, half a day or more, maybe, and that before sleep. Gyre sighs, too tired to be upset at the voice coming from inside him. "What are you talking about?"

{He's waiting for orders,} The demon repeats, drawing out the words slowly, as though Gyre might simply not understand them individually, {From you.}

"...What?" This actually gets him to sit up a little, but though the dust tenses slightly, he doesn't react further. "What are you talking about?"

There's a sigh from the demon. {When a dog shows trust, it lies with it's back to you. Demonstrating that it trusts you not to attack it from behind.}

{He's a hunting dog, and he's showing you in every way he has, that he's your hunting dog now. He's waiting to take his orders from you.}

Whatever answer Gyre had been expecting, it wasn't this, and it takes him a few seconds to manage, "I'm nobody's master," in a mutter, turning back away. "And I'm not interested in a slave."

{...Idiot.}

Gyre decides not to answer, closing his socket again. He... doesn't tell the dust to leave though. The company... is nice.

{Slaves don't choose their masters, smudge,} It growls, after several seconds of this implies that he doesn't intend to say anything else. {The chance to choose who he serves is something this bitty has never had before. It's a freedom to him.}

Still, Gyre remains silent. He'd... read. That dust bitties could forge an attachment to nightmare bitties. That sometimes, something in them drew them to a particular nightmare bitty, who they'd look to after. It wasn't something he'd ever expected to see first hand.

Panic blew the dust bitty's eyelights wide as he realized what Gyre was doing, and he tried to struggle free-

...It wasn't something he wanted. Still...

"He won't survive here, will he?" The words were quiet, well aware of the answer.

{Let's see, a bitty of his size? His type? With a stripped soul?} The demon snorts. {I give him maybe another day before he starts shedding dust. Don't worry,} It adds, with feigned cheeriness- At least he thought it was feigned- {His dust will just swoosh away and be gone, just like everything else dropped in this place! No cleaning required!} Check that, probably not feigned. It sounded almost gleeful, for fuck's sake...

Gyre grunts, turning this over, then sits up with a sigh, deciding that apparently rest time is over. "Then I'll get him out." His tone is quiet, and matter of fact. As if there was no question in his mind it could be done, which while not quite true, still sounded convincing at least.

{I told you,} The demon denies, an edge of irritation easily returning to it's tone, {We can't leave that easily. It-}

"We can't leave," Gyre reminds bluntly, getting to his feet. "The way I remember this cage working, the bigger the magic, the harder it is for it to escape... But I'm not trying to escape. And a dust bitty's magic should be 'small' enough to slip right through the bars of it."

The impossible silence still hung over the non place, and those bound within it's heart, but by now Gyre paid it little mind. Again tried to get a better look at their surroundings, his remaining eyelight trying to focus on any single point. There was something about this place that made it hard though, and it seemed like before he could fully focus on anything, the nothing/something he'd been trying to looking at had slipped away.

Annoyed, he kept trying, and failing, until his head started feeling dizzy, and annoyance slowly gave way to puzzlement, then slow realization, as he finally realized that what he was seeing was movement, despite there being nothing there. Or... maybe...

Maybe something was there, it just kept moving too fast to see.

{Do you even know where we are?} Now the voice sounded almost tired, and maybe a bit exasperated. {Are you that reckless, to twist yourself in a prison about which you know nothing?}

"What part," Gyre asks it flatly, not letting the demon distract him from continuing to examine his surroundings, "Of dragging you to hell with me did you not understand?"

Thus actually seemed to give the demon pause, and for several seconds there was blessed, blissful lack of interjection on it's part, before the demon finally muttered, {You're telling the truth,} It's tone, echoing disbelief. {You were really willing to bind yourself here for all eternity, if it meant taking me with you.}

Silence. Silence. And finally, just, {...You're a fucking idiot.}

While Gyre didn't know what he'd expected the other to say, it wasn't this. Bitterness drips from his answering growl, "The selling my soul part didn't convince you already?"

...This time though, the demon didn't answer.

Good. Gyre turns back to his task, ignoring the creature. Something moving too quickly to see? Everything moving?

Or. Maybe just them.

They were moving. So fast that nothing around them seemed real. So fast that no sound reached their ears, and anything that fell was ripped apart and scattered like dust in a heavy wind.

Many magics, but especially binding magics, were inextricably interwoven with the magics of specific locations. Since the bigger the magic that needed to escape a binding like this, the bigger the exit would need to be, that meant that the bigger the exit needed to be, the longer it would take to coax the woven magics to create an opening that was also big enough, which in turn meant that a continous, rapid change of locations made it all but impossible to adjust to the changing locations quickly enough to do anything.

That... was clever.

...Also bad. Very, very bad.

But the opening for a dust bitty? That would take less time. With a noncommittal huff, Gyre continues to watch, looking for a chance to create an opening... When he sees it, a tendril shoots out, and he grabs it, and to the surprise of maybe everyone there, the whole world- or their pocket version- is yanked to such a sharp stop that they all go flying.

All being limited to himself and the dust, he grabs the other before he can be dashed to pieces by the speed, tendril coiling harder against the... something he held in it tightly.

There it was, a glimpse, of something so distant that it seemed like a long tunnel lying before them. He could be the world... Well, a world...

He would never be able to reach it. But he was certain the dust could. Mind, he might have to add a little momentum, but-

Add momentum? Stars, it was still speeding by so fast. It would like trying to set a teacup on the sidewalk, while in a speeding car.

He stared at the opening, then looked back at the dust bitty in his coils, still watching him with the eyes of a deranged killer. Despite his claws being buried deeply in the corruption holding him, a pain that hadn't even registered to the nightmare bitty, he hadn't actually attacked. He just... watched, and held on. His features always, always unreadable. Waiting.

When a dog shows trust, it lies with it's back to you, The demon had said, Demonstrating that it trusts you not to attack it from behind.

Gyre let go, slowly, of his grip on the binding. There was a sense of vertigo, and things tilted a bit, before settling again.

He'd had an opening. And he'd let it close.

...It would have killed him.

Gyre sets the dust down, slowly, the other retracting his claws once his feet were back on solid... Well, not ground, but...

With a sigh, running his hand over his face, he sits back down. He couldn't do it. He couldn't kill another one. His couldn't kill this one. Not... not this one.

{...It works both ways, you know.} Insight from the demon. Wonderful. Gyre tries to ignore it. {A dusty choosing a nightmare. A nightmare accepting a dusty.}

"Shut up." This time though, his voice lacked venom. His dusty. His. He'd never agreed to that.

...He was agreeing to it now, wasn't he?

After a few minutes, he felt the dust sit beside him again, but this time, he didn't turn to look.

For a while, nothing is said. Finally, maybe unsurprisingly, it's the demon who breaks the... Well, it doesn't break the silence, but it speaks. {You're not wrong. His magic may be small enough to sneak through. But it will take time, and it will take practice. And before you find a way to let him through, you'll need to find a way to slow us down.}

{Obviously? That's more time than he has.}

"Thank you," Gyre mutters, "For that enlightening bit of information." This must be why the demon doesn't want him to able to pull his soul put. The temptation to grab him and squeeze, at times like this, even knowing how badly he'd be hurt too.

{...You do realize that we have more than enough magic to sustain him, don't you?}

The nightmare bitty scoffed. "Oh, yes. Spreading our magic around even more. That's brilliant. I'm sure that won't fuck his magic up even more."

{Then,} Cold, and blunt, {Watch him die.}

For the life of him, he wanted to argue it, but the way his soul sank inside him, he knew it was true. "What are you proposing?" He asked, finally.

{I want what was promised to me,} It growls, as if this should be obvious- Which, in fairness, it was. {I can take it now, but our new self will be trapped here forever. And I'm not willing to stay here, even if you are.}

{You won't work to get us out, but you'll work to get him out, right?}

Gyre hesitates at the question, but finally nods.

{I'll take it.} The demon says bluntly. {I'll teach you what you need to know to get him out, and I'll help you keep him alive until you figure it out.}

{What do you say, dust? Do we have a deal?}

Gyre blinks, caught off guard, and opens his mouth to protest- Only to close it again as the dust looks back, and then at him. "Waiting for orders." He signs, then clarifies, a moment later, "Your. Orders. Not that one's."

He could... Hear it. All this time, everything...

"Have you heard," Gyre asks, stunned, "Everything? All this time?"

The dust simply signs again, "Waiting for orders."

Gyre closes his socket, resting his head in his hand. What was even happening anymore?

The demon seemed mildly bemused by his reaction. {He's a dust. Many are predisposed to interacting with hauntings, or various possessions. And his lack of a papyrus of his own just makes him even more receptive. How do you not know this?}

"How exactly would I know this?" He demands, starting to get impatient again. "I wasn't studying other bitty types, I was studying bindings and fate and-" A pause, as something sinks in. "Wait, he doesn't have a papyrus of his own? I thought all dusts-"

"Wait, no. Back up. Do you mean a dust's papyrus isn't just a hallucination?"

{It can be a hallucination rooted in the dust's unstable mind, or the projected manifestation of a secondary personality, or even simply an extension of the dust bitty's magic. It can also be a genuine secondary being, either specter or demon.}

{And no, they don't always have them, but-}

{What exactly did you think they stripped from this one's soul?}

A sense of sickness washed over him, his soul sinking. Did. Did it mean-?

{Put bluntly,} The demon says coldly, interrupting his thoughts, {They have a little arrangement set up that makes it possible to accrue and manipulate just the right kind of magic to force a bitty's 'wild' spawn, in a manufactured setting. Not too weird, lots of places do that-}

{They just, tweaked it, so that as the summoned bitty begins to form, parts of him are forcibly stripped away, and replaced, before he can finish. He loses his papyrus. He's stripped of his ability to feel anything but hate, pain, anger, and fear. And he's infused with magic harvested from another bitty, in his case a killer. That's where the liquid hate pouring from his eyes comes from.}

{When making a living weapon, you take away everything it has that makes it who it is, give it nothing of love or hope, and make certain it knows what happens if it disobeys you, then give it a target to take out all that pain on.}

With every word, his soul sinks, and he feels more and more sick. He'd figured out most of it, of course, but- "How. How do you know all this?" He asks, finally.

There's a long pause, before the demon explains quietly, {I've had many, many 'masters.' And they've taken my magic, and done things with it that if you knew, if you understood the true cruelty of the souls inside you, you would never sleep well again. I know what they do, because I remember. Because they used me to make it possible.}

{...I know what they did, because the magic that runs through both of us, is what they used to do it.}

---

[bellsofblueficlets]

The Ruined Soul

He had no idea how long it was before he regained consciousness, or even how long he might have lain there after he did, his mind still a haze...

He eventual return to full conscious was a violent one, yanked back to himself very suddenly at a deep pain, driven unexpectedly into his chest.

Gyre opened his good socket, and sighed as still nothing but darkness greeted him. This, again? Without effort, he parted the magic that obscured his surroundings, then grunted disintrestedly at the sight of the twin blades buried in his chest, looking instead to the dust bitty on the other end of them. Without ceremony, he lifted the other with a tentacle, and with another, tore his collar free.

Again, he saw the terror, but this time there was no cracking, no dusting, no silent scream, no pain. One second passed, then another...

He gave the dust bitty long enough for it to sink in that he wasn't about to die, then just sort of threw him, carelessly, before turning his attention to the blades in his chest. These he tugged free easily, giving him a flat look, and tossed him aside, ignoring the panic and confusion rolling off him.

Slowly he pushed himself into a sitting position, before turning to look around.

Well, if this was hell, he supposed it could be worse... For the most part, it seemed like a localized emptiness, which probably should bother him more, but at the moment he was beyond finding it strange that the majority of reality just happened to be absent wherever he'd woken up.

He'd suffered a broken soul bond, lost his best friend, his home, and his purpose. He'd corrupted, gained EXP, learned he'd been all but served on a platter to a demon, nearly died, partially dusted, and sold his soul. After all this happening in maybe a handful of hours, he wasn't sure that much would ever be able to shake him again.

He. He really had, hadn't he? He'd sold his soul. And his body. Everything he was, really. He wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. What the hell, even? He still thought he was himself, mind, but would he even know if he wasn't?

Gyre sighed, running his hand over his face, pausing only at the realization that it didn't hurt anymore. Well, that was good, anyway? Hesitating briefly, he proceeded to carefully probe at the injury, trying to find the extend of the damage beneath his corruption.

At least half of his upper skull was simply gone, and he really didn't enjoy the feeling of his own fingers probing inside the area where his skull should be, but wasn't. Gyre sucked his breath in, 'calmly' removed his hand from the injury, and deciding to never, ever do that again.

He didn't know whether it had given way at the initial blow, or if that was what he'd felt give way when he moved, or even whether more was missing as well. Quite frankly, this last he wasn't willing to find out. Not... Not yet.

Did he still feel like himself? How could he even know something like that?

Another sigh, running a hand along the back of his neck. Okay. Time to take stock. He made... almost a show, of counting his legs, his arms, his fingers, his toes...

Then, as something of an after thought, his tentacles. One... two. Huh. Didn't most corrupted nightmare types get four? Despite gaving never wanted any, he can't help but feel strangely ripped off.

Well. Two would be easier to adjust to, anyway.

...Funny. He should still be in pain. He'd been just about dust-

Wait. He'd just been stabbed. He blinks, looks down at his chest, then over at the dusty, currently on his knees, head held between both hands, staring at the ground in front of him. His expression was imoassive, but the glimpse he could see of his eyes...

Even if he hadn't been an empath, he'd gave kniwn full well that this bitty was not remotely okay, with that look in his eyes. The black tear tracks he'd seen were mostly gone now though, little more than smudges left.

...Smudge. Right the dem-

Before he could finish processing this thought, the dusty lurched to his feet, like a marionette on a strings, and his head swiveled, that gaze fixing on Gyre sharply. The dust bitty was shaking, his fingers clasping and unclasping reflexively for blades no longer there- Then his head twisted again, and his gaze landed on where they'd fallen.

His attempt to teleport to them was strangely visible, and so was when he failed, despite the only visible tell being an instant's hesitation before just running straight at them instead.

Gyre simply snagged both before he could reach them- extended reach for the win? -causing the bitty's attention to snap back to him again.

Something about the look in his gaze sent a chill down Gyre's back. Unhinged wasn't the word for it. Violent wasn't the word. Desperate wasn't the word. Those were... if not normal, then understandable. No, this was...

This was a bitty with no capacity for positive emotions. Whether they'd been removed, or were never there at all, Gyre didn't know, but he didn't have them now. There was no knowledge of joy, love, comfort, or mercy in those eyes. He'd been bent into a tool, and that was all he knew.

{A stripped soul,} A voice inside him growls softly, {That's what you're feeling.}

"...What?" Gyre stared, every drop of his magic running cold at those words.

The dust bitty seemed to see the reaction as weakness, and attacked. Gyre could feel the single minded desperation to reclaim his blades, as well as his hate for the one that had taken them. Gyre snaggs him by his jacket with a tentacle, wrapping it tightly around him. He just glares, with that same combination of blank expression and furious eyes.

With the threat contained, the voice of the demon continues, {I'm certain you know that bitty are formed several different ways,} distaste, disgust, scorn, and a shift like displeased shifting, from somewhere inside him. {I'm less certain that you know there's ways to... influence that forming.}

{...He was made incomplete, little nightmare,} Now, the words are venom, and purr, if a purr were an oily thing, thick with disgust, {Intentionally. And then remade further into something broken. A good little tool, hollowed out, broken, useful, and disposable.}

{So. What will you do with him, little nightmare?}

Gyre sighs, picking up the blades with his other tentacle, and setting the dust down, offering them to him, handles first. The dust immediately grabs them, and-

Predictable. Gyre grabs him again as he's about to stab. "No." He says firmly, frowning. He puts the dust back down again, and growls at the slice of a blade along his tentacle. He picks the dust back up, resisting the urge to shake him, and takes the blades, giving him a flat look. "You get these back when you stop attacking me."

Inwardly, there's a snort, suggesting both amusement, and disgust. {Are you really trying to correct his behavior? This is what he was made for.}

"Don't care," Gyre mutters, setting the dust down again- He dives for his blades, and the nightmare stops him, using one tentacle to keep him back, and the other to hold the blades out of reach. "Why are you a voice in my head, anyway? I thought we were supposed to 'become one,' or something."

Silence, for a stretch of several seconds. The dust has stopped trying to escape, pausing to watch him. Finally, the voice just mutters, "I'm tired. I need time to get my strength back before I finish this."

"Well, that sounds like a lie," Gyre notes, bluntly. "Try again?" As the dust continues not attacking, he returns the blades to him. "No attacking me. And you can keep them." He says, keeping his voice even. "Understand?"

The dust just watches him. There's an instant where he tenses, visibly straining on the very edge of attack... But doesn't, and after a few more seconds, he turns and walks away, keeping his blades close. He sits on the ground, pointedly turning his back to the corrupted duo.

He may not have said yes, but it's a start.

{You want something from me that I can't give once we're one being,} The voice says finally, somewhat grudgingly, {And you've dropped us into a trap that actively works to contain me. If I want that broken, I can't be part of doing it.}

"You're already part," Gyre points out, finally looking around a bit more carefully- Not that there was much to look at. "You're literally inside my magic." How easily he says that. Like it doesn't coat his tongue with bitterness, at the very idea.

{...We can still escape. With... effort.}

"And why would I do that?" The exhaustion creeps into Gyre's voice, as he sits down too. Why not, after all? "I knew what I was doing, binding us here. I knew what it would cost."

Quiet, but far more briefly this time, before simply asking, with a soft undertone of menacing amusement. {Did you?}

Despite himself, the other's words give Gyre pause, and the 'demon' presses it's advantage.{Tell me. What do you intend to do with your mage's broken little soul then, when I give it to you?}

Cold suffused the nightmare bitty at the words, and those that follow only leave him all the colder. {Your mage is still here. I keep my end of the bargain of course, just as you've kept yours. But where do you expect it to go? Will you keep it here, in our private little hell? Just you, and me, his damaged soul, and this broken little tool, for all of eternity?}

{Did you really think this through as well as you think?}

"..."

Fuck.

Gyre exhales slowly, closing his good eye, and rubbing his forehead- Away from his bad one. Eternity, with a voice in his head, and- Wonderful. He lifts his head, looking at the dust again... And finds him looking back, eyes narrowed.

Admittedly, the nightmare bitty hadn't met any human variant bitties before. He'd known they'd existed, but- Actually, come to this of it, this was only the second dust bitty he'd met, and the first-

A memory of terrified eyelights, and a silent scream, fill his memory, and he takes a short, sharp breath before pushing himself to his feet. Right! Okay! Getting out of here!

Lifting his hand, he reaches to find the bindings surrounding the place, but much to his surprise, and concern, nothing becomes any clearer to him. His brow creases, and he tries again... Only to find nothing.

{I'm sorry- Did you think, 'unbroken prison between the pages of reality' secretly meant 'cakewalk to escape from if you change your mind?'} The demon's voice could hardly drip more with scorn, and Gyre swore he could almost see the other's expression of disgust. {This is my new master? Wonderfu-}

"I'm no one's master!" Gyre snapped, the depth of fury in the snarl that tore through him surprising even him. "Don't ever fucking call me that, this was your idea, asshole! You-!"

He freezes, spinning back on the dust, fully expecting him to have taken advantage of the distraction to ready a new attack, but... instead, the other bitty just, watched him. After a long, long moment, Gyre's hackles slowly lower. The anger doesn't fade so quickly though, and he growls under his breath, looking around more carefully.

It wasn't a cell with visible walls, the way the demon's previous cell had been. Rather, it seemed like their surroundings were a lot of nothing, a hazy place with nothing much below and nothing much above- And beyond a few steps in any direction, simply nothing, period.

Once more, he reaches out, trying at least to find the threads of magic that magic up this place, but again, nothing's there. There's magic, of course, just... No binding. Nothing he can see, nothing he can touch...

A snort, amused disdain, from somewhere within. Gyre ignored it, growling under his breath, and started walking. He didn't know what this was, or...

Or really, what magic he'd used to get here. This gives him pause, and he looks around. He'd used the strongest binding he'd known, but... When did he learn a binding like that?

Nothing, nothing, nothing...

Gyre frowns, and starts walking again. Fine. He can't get out if the trap, can't get away from the voice in his own head, just... He needs to walk. So he does.

So much has happened... So much lost... Even trying to push it all away, the memories return to mock him...

---

"This is mine?" There was sheer awe in the nightmare bitty's tone as he climbed from Rantrum's hand, looking around the very much not bitty sized room.

There was a plush bed, vast as a football field to a person his size, all velvet and softness, with huge pillows and velvet hangings, as well as an agucentire library's worth of bitty sized tomes filling shelf after shelf. There was even a desk with ink and quill and parchment, a big one, with a bitty size one sitting atop it, this being where he currently stood.

There were pathways, ropes and ladders and bridges, as well as a skywalk, for lack of a better term... And his eyes picked out points where lines could still be secured, say, for a zipline, as an example...

"Well," Rantrum mumbled, pulling on his beard as he looked around. "It's a bit makeshift, admittedly. I've never shared a home with a bitty before, and my hands aren't quite as good as they used to be, crafting tiny things and tiny rooms..."

The lie was unmistakable, betrayed by an amusement to his tone and a faint twitch beneath his whiskers. Gyre was certain that everything here had been prepared by his mage, personally, and it wasn't lack of ability that had kept him from setting up something far 'more him sized.'

Still, if Rantrum wanted to play it like that- Gyre nods, trying not to actively rock on his heels as he takes it all in. "Oh yes," He grins, looking pleased, "This is definitely way less work than setting up one of those mass produced portable bitty houses. No question."

The mage chuckles, but certainly doesn't correct the bitty. "Shall I assume this is sufficient, then?"

Gyre just grins up at him. "Yeah, this'll do," Adding, in the manner of an afterthought, "I'm definitely gonna need a birdbath though. A deep one."

Rantrum's eyebrows raise, and he hums, starting to say something- Pausing to pat his pockets for one of his chewing sticks.

The nightmare bitty glances back at him when he doesn't answer, sees what he's doing, and points. "There. Inner pocket on the left."

Again the mage pauses, checks, and grunts in small satisfaction as he finds it. "Ah, thank you," He mumbles, placing the thing between him teeth with a sound of rueful resignation. "One of the difficulties of age, I fear. A lifetime of memories, and only so much mental faculty for it all. I do wonder how boss monsters and bitties manage it..."

"Magic!" Gyre grins, as if he has any experience whatsoever with the kind of time lengths that Rantrum is talking about. "Works way better than that fleshy wad of stuff that you non magic sorts are stuck with."

The irony of calling a mage a 'non magic sort' is anything but lost on him, and those bushy eyebrows raise a bit again, but he just shakes his head, looking mildly amused. "Yes, well. I shall have to keep that in mind, my next incarnation. Make certain all the forms are filled out properly, and in advance, that sort of thing..."

Was Gyre imagining the faint trace of ruefulness there, or the twinge of regret? Just as he's about to question it, his mage renders him silent with a particularly knowing look. "A birdbath, was it?"

Torn between rescinding the ridiculous request, and doubling down, Gyre pauses briefly as he decides, then nods emphatically, thoroughly forgetting his own question- And so also missing the irony of this.

Rantrum chuckles under his breath, starting to reach out... And, hesitating short of the bitty smiling up at him. Gyre couldn't read his expression, but he'd admitted to not having a bitty companion before, so maybe he just thought it was weird, petting him? That had clearly been his instinct...

Gyre tilts his head, and as his mage starts to lower his hand, reaches out, taking it in both of his- At least as well as he can. "You can pet me," He assures his biggie, "It's okay, really." Besides, he liked pets! Well, not that he'd gotten a whole lot of them, but- They were nice!

Another pause, then a nod, slow. Rantrum shifts his hand, gently stroking Gyre's head with just the tips of thick, calloused fingers, his expression carefully unreadable. It seemed strange to

Gyre, but the nightmare bitty nuzzled his biggie's hand happily, encouraging more pets, and after a few seconds, Rantrum began to relax, and look more comfortable.

Gyre in return, looks unabashedly pleased- and maybe a little smug.

This was not lost on his mage, who shook his head, rueful. "I fear I may be outmatched in this relationship." ...More scritch, just the same. "Ah well," He reflects, a quiet warmth to his tone, "I was bound to meet my match one day."

"What, you didn't see this coming?" Gyre teases, half climbing on his hand now- Much to the nonplussedness of his mage, who just watches, visibly bemused by him. "What was all that about fate, then?"

"Fate," Rantrum explained, electing to help his bitty scale him, "Is among many other things, the product of our choices. The bindings we set to ourselves, by choice, by deed, and by our own sense of self. You're very young still, and haven't yet begun to grasp the scale of the choices you will one day be required to make. Your loom of fate has only just begun to be strung. It takes time."

He scoffs softly, swinging back down again. "Uh-huh. All right, what can you tell me?"

He's not prepared for silence to answer his question, and looks back after a moment, ready to apologize and admit that he was mostly just being an ass, but Rantrum's expression, serious and reflective, leaves the words to die on his tongue.

Fingers are drawn through a wiry beard, bushy eyebrows bunching a little, as the mage just watches him, the blue of his gaze quietly intent. "You will live a long life," He says at last, repeating nothing really, but what he'd already told him, "And you are exactly the bitty I was looking for. And to be perfectly honest, my friend? I wish to look no further than this."

"I may have set you on this path, but it is your own, never mistake that." A gentle hand pets softly, less hesitant now, and Gyre rumbles, pleased, both at the pets, and being told again that he was exactly what his mage had looking for. Him, not someone else. He was exactly right.

"Never forget, fate is wound by choice, in many things. There is very little absolutely predetermined, and there is very little, even predetermined, that cannot still be affected. Perhaps not by much, true," That blue gaze watches him, unreadable, but soft, just the same, "But should the choices be left to the right person..."

"...Maybe, just maybe, it can affect enough to make all the difference."

---

How much of it had been true? How much of everything he'd lived had been true, and how much just manipulation? It had felt true, he would have sworn on his soul that it was true...

In fact, he had, hadn't he? Gyre runs fingertips absently across his chest, over his soul. Their bond had been real. Not forged, or forced... And it had run both ways. There was a truth there then, that was unmistakable.

He had loved Rantrum. And his mage had loved him.

So... there had to be a reason for this... right?

...There. Had to be.

Gyre sighs, rubbing the place between his eyes- Immediately wincing as his hand very clearly gets too close to... that.

Speaking of...

"So. Why am I not in pain anymore?" He asked aloud, a trace of weariness to his tone. He had a couple ideas why it might be, mind...

{Why would I not preserve my own body?} The demon's asks, the word wry, and faintly amused, despite sounding in a decidedly poor mood. {That is our deal, little nightmare. I see no reason to make myself suffer just to allow you to. Besides which, most of what's left of said body is pure corruption. Not exactly hard for a creature like myself to repair. I could very nearly be annoyed in your general direction, and it would be sufficient to patch such trivial injuries.}

Trivial? Gyre takes note of this, and also the demon's apparent willingness to repair the wounds of this shared body, as well as the mention of little remaining of it but corruption. He doesn't think the demon is lying, there, but he's not willing to dwell on it too much yet either.

It's... uncomfortable, to say the least. A bitty, knowing he's technically dusted. A skeleton, knowing his bones are gone. It doesn't really explain why that one spot is so much more uncomfortable to touch, either...

In the end, he supposes it doesn't matter. Not with everything else already 'wrong.' Gyre holds up his hand, attempting to summon his soul, and feels it start to respond, before almost jerking to a stop, refusing to emerge. He winces at the sensation, and at the sense of... something... coiling about where it should be, as the demon within him growls. {Take care, being 'clever,' little smudge. Mind our bargain.}

"I don't remember anything about our bargain saying I couldn't summon my own damn soul," The corrupted one mutters, an edge of growl there too. "Did you manage to stick that in the fine print?"

{Hardly,} It denies, a chilling warning to the words, {It's our soul, now, remember? I made no efforts to hide that. You don't get to decide what to do with it, without my input. What exactly were you doing?}

His growl fades, and then Gyre's shoulders start to slump. The demon was right, of course. And something in him felt... broken, at this realization. His own soul, wasn't even his own. Why was he even surprised? How had he expected that to go? He'd expected to be someone else by now. But would that be any better?

"I just wanted to look at it," He mutters, deciding he felt the need to sit. Fuck it. He wasn't going anywhere anyway.

Brief silence answers this, then quietly, simply, it warns, {I promise you, little nightmare. You do not.}

Something twists inside him at like, like a rope of frozen slime being twisted and squeezed between listless fingers, but Gyre says nothing, just thinking quietly for a while, before looking around again.

The dust was watching him still, with that cold, empty not glare of his. It settled a chill down Gyre's lack of spine, so surely that he swore he could feel it.

He... should probably do something about that, shouldn't he?

"..." Okay. He can do this. Deep breath. "What's your name?" It's, not casual, exactly. But casual would be extremely out of place anyway, given the circumstance.

"Name." The way it signed it wasn't a question, but it obviously wasn't an answer either.

This only briefly gives him pause. Why would they give him a name, anyway? He was a weapon. A tool. "Designation?" He counters, figuring they still needed a way to tell their 'tools' apart. It still needled though... He wasn't even worth a name to them...

That other dust had died nameless...

At first he wasn't sure whether he'd get an answer, the other bitty just staring at him with that same look, feral, unbalanced, deranged...

"A-713." The dust signs at last, after several seconds. His expression, as ever, unreadable.

Gyre's magic on the other hand, just about runs cold at this answer, and for all of maybe a minute he just stares. 713? A? How... how many were there, like him?

{You're so surprised,} The demon reflects, his tone somewhat droll, {It's almost as if you still don't understand that your soul was hand delivered to a demon, by the person you loved most. That you've met two bitties now whose magic was stripped and reshaped before their first breath. That one of these died at your hand.}

A low growl from Gyre, towards his unseen companion. It probably isn't wise, considering that the dust bitty would have no reason to assume it's not directed at him, but to his surprise, it draws no visible reaction. The other bitty just continues watching. If he was coiled any more tightly, he would snap, but-

Gyre's own hackles slowly lower though, and after a few seconds, he looks away, finding it hard to meet that stare. The demon was right. He was being naive. But what difference did it make, anyway? His story was done, or may as well be. He was never leaving this place.

A sigh, sitting cross legged, and gazing out at the nothing, as though it might reveal it's secrets if he just stared long enough. His claws trace across his chest, feeling corruption beneath his hand, where there had once been ribs. Dwelling on what lay within. The demon, his soul, Rantru-

Wait. Gyre's hand stills, as something cold flutters inside him, fear and realization all in one. If Rantrum was claimed by the demon, in payment, but only as the most recent in a long line of masters...

Gyre takes a ragged breath, closing his socket. "How many?" He asks, his voice hoarse somehow, even in the absence of sound.

{Two hundred and seventy six,} The demon answers smoothly, a smile with teeth somehow offered behind the words. It hadn't even needed to be told what he meant. {Does that bother you, little smudge? Knowing how many rot and roil inside you? Bound and left in payments fir services claimed?}

The nightmare bitty feels colder with every word, and he's silent at first. When he finally does try to answer, his throat is almost too tight to manage the words. "How. Long. Were you a slave? How long did they cage you?"

Judging by the lack of answer to his words, the question hadn't been expected. And as minutes pass, and no answer comes, he decides it won't be.

For a moment though, for one moment, he would almost swear he felt something from the demon, a flicker of... something, that didn't feel demonlike at all.

"...How do I get them out?" He asks at last, settling on this instead.

And this, this gets an answer, but snarled with such a deep and underlying fury that he winces. Wordless or not, the demon's answer is unmistakable. It will never let them go. They will rot and twist and be gnawed hollow, left to watch and sob and weep forever for what they'd done.

A hard swallow, as the snarl finally fades, pretty damn sure he should never ask that again. He's left shaken by emotions more felt than heard, a surge of raw fury finally breaking past the control the demon had been carefully maintaining since they'd 'met,' baring what lay beneath it in the process,a twisting rife with grief and despair, betrayal and pain.

The nightmare bitty knows he shouldn't press it, not know, but... He has to know, he needs this. "And Rantrum?" He insists, refusing to drop it. At least Rantrum. That was their deal.

A growl answers, low and angry, as the glimpse within the demon's heart slowly closes again, shutting away it's suffering, beyond his reach. {A deal,} it hisses slowly, {Is a deal. Like any other, I am bound to keep it.}

Was it his imagination that it had hesitated, just a little before answering? Why would it? Was it lying?

"Then give it to me," He demands, trying to make the words a demand, despite his hands still shaking from the demon's pain.

The growl fades slowly, to silence... then a snort. Amusement. {Very well. Hold out your habd, little smudge. I will let you see our soul once, to reclaim your precious enslaved. Attempt to remove me instead though..."

The threat is left hanging, and Gyre can't help the chill get feels at it, but for now he ignores it. The tightness in his chest is loosening, like knots being gently unwound, and he feels a warmth there.

Eager and hesitant all in one, afraid of what he'll find, but hopeful still, he takes a breath, lifts his hand again, and slowly, carefully, he summons his soul- their soul-

It... squirms, as he gently tugs, and his breath catches. Resisting. Not being refused, just... Not easily slipping free, like something caught in the mouth of a jar that needed working loose. He swallows, and tries again, gently, oh so gently, coaxing it free...

The soul comes free with almost a small 'pop,' or maybe a 'plop?' Either way, it-

Gyre stares at the heaving oily mass in his hand, a stained aqua still inset with traces of lavender here and there, and something familiar and oily and dark wound about it. There seems no certain point where it ends, and his soul begins, leaving the bitty soul now misshapen and distorted.

Worse still, was the way it moved- And the way it didn't. The soul of a bitty was meant to beat soft and strong, and his always had. Sometimes it raced, sometimes it pounded, sometimes he swore he could feel it soar-

This? This didn't beat. It heaved, and lurched, as though something struggled within, leaving it writhing and stretching...

Dizziness swept him, and the nothing around him seemed to tilt and bend.

Wrong. It's wrong. It's wrong...

Gyre felt physically sick, but just continued to stare, doing nothing. Slowly, at last, his fingers curled around it. A shuddering breath, escapes as a near silent hiss.

Stars. What had he become?

"And... Rantrum, is in there?" He presses, choosing to hold to this, rather than risk losing himself in the riding tide of panic.

{Of course,} His near the words to silk, to purr, and in his mind he sees that too wide smile again, stretched across the only face the demon had ever shown him- his own. {Where else would he be?}

"...We had a deal," It's hard to keep the tremble from his voice. "You agreed to let him go."

A low, amused hum. {Oh, but I already have.} It assures, the purr turning sickly sweet. {Now his soul is simply mired inside your own. Why, what did you expect to happen?}

A slow horror descends over Gyre at it's words. "That- that wasn't our deal..." He tries to protest, weakly. "You were supposed to free him."

{And I did,} The feigned sweetness vanishes. {I set him free, I let him go- I was just already entrenched within you when I did, so now your soul holds him instead. It's a step up, if that helps. He drifted into something like sleep, once in your 'care.' So, really, you've 'saved' him. Aren't you proud?}

"Let him out!" Another time, another place, he would have been surprised a snarl filled with such fury coming from him. "Get him out, this wasn't our-!"

{I agreed to free him,} The demon interjected, a new coldness to it's interjection, {And have, per our bargain. As I said. I made no promise of what would happen after- rather like you,} It adds, points out, a trace of disgust coloring its words, {After all, you agreed to give yourself, body and soul, that I might be free... and just look how free I am, little smudge.}

Gyre's soul- Well, no, his soul didn't sink, even if it felt like it. No, that lay in his palm, lurching like a half filled water balloon, left in shuddering by a careless hand.

{You made a bargain with a demon,} The demon continues at last, when it's clear that Gyre isn't going to argue this, it's tone dropping to a softly venomed whisper, {With every intention of honoring only the letter of it, while leaving me entombed. And so I honor my end, just as you did.}

{...He sleeps. Free of the hellish, endless waking of the others. It is more than he, or any of them, deserve. Be grateful, smudge.}

The demon was, without question, snide, smug, and disdainful. And why wouldn't it be? The point of its words had been cruelty by way of truth. But if it expected... any sort of outcry, protest, anything? It doesn't come.

This was his doing after all, the demon was right. Gyre gazes at his soul, something soft and sad in his eyelight. "My mage," The words, the barest whisper of a trembling voice, and the brush of his thumb across the shifting surface, the touch of his own hand sending a shiver down whatever remains of his spine. "Sleep, then. I'll guard you while you rest. I promise."

"...I'll never leave you alone." Maybe it's imagination that the heaving seems to slow, the writhing movements shift more gently, but he lets himself believe that his words are heard. He needs this much.

Gently, he presses the soul mass back into his chest, wincing slightly at the strange... something, that comes with the distorted thing settling into place. Then, wiping traces of tears from his good socket, he looks back to the dust, who during all this, had been left all but forgotten.

He watches, as before, but now his gaze lingers on the other bitty's chest, where the mass of soulstuff had vanished. There's something different to his eyes, but Gyre can't put his finger on just what, and after only a few seconds he looks away.

The nightmare bitty can't help the itch of uneasiness, whenever he meets that gaze. It reminds him of another gaze, so similar. Of dust, under his claws. Would this one die too? He'd thought to free him, save him, not for the other bitty's own sake, but a final 'fuck you' to his master's...

But there was no way out, and there was nothing here. He had no doubt that the demon and himself would survive- if this counted as surviving- but him? With no food, no water, and no escape? He had nothing but a slow, horrible death waiting for him. It would be kinder to-

No. He pushes the thought away, unable to bear it. The demon wanted out, so they'd get out. Somehow. And the dust wouldn't starve, and then maybe, maybe, one day...

Maybe. One day.

Gyre closes his socket, resting his hand over his chest again. For now, Rantrum was as safe as his apprentice could make him. And yes, one day maybe he could give his mage more, but for now? For now, he slept peacefully, and for now, he wasn't alone. And for now, that had to be enough.

From the demon, throughout this...

...Strangely, only silence.

---

[bellsofblueficlets]

Broken Secrets and Unspoken Lies

Was this the fate that Rantrum has always talked about? The words felt out of place somehow. Wrong. Intrusive. His mage lay dead, crushed by his beautiful bookcases. He'd protected the nightmare bitty with his own body. Did he know this would happen? Was this his 'fate?'

Humans didn't dust. He'd known that of course, but... It was different, actually seeing it. The empty thing before him still looked like his friend. Like any moment he would open his eyes, groan, sigh, and sit up, offering his hand, and some rueful observation about hubris. Like he would... get up. And everything would be fine. They could rebuild the library. They could. He just had to get up.

...Get up. ...Get up. ...Please, please, get up.

He didn't, of course. He couldn't. His soul knew it, even as his eyelights tried desperately to make him believe the lie before him. Even if it still looked like him, it wasn't.

Rantrum was gone.

The first sounds of fire drew his attention, and he turned his gaze to see. The small moment was agony, and he didn't even flinch. He just watched the pages of one of the books curl, and burn. What had started the fire, anyway? He didn't know. It didn't matter. He was going to die-

That was when he heard the voices, some distance below, and he froze, his mind trying to make sense of voices where there should be none. People? Here? Why? Rantrum never had visitors, he was a stuffy old homebody like that, and far too protective of his-

His treasures. Despite the temperature in the room still rising as the flames began to spread, his magic ran cold as his thoughts made a connection between the still distant voices, and the damaged library... between them, and his dead mage.

Gyre swallowed against the tightness of his throat, before reaching out to brush fingertips against Rantrum's wiry beard, and closing his eyes. How had he missed them? He was so used to Rantrum and his bindings, all his little secrets tucked away so tight that not even an empath, not even a soulbond could trace them- How had he missed other people in the keep?

Glimpses of... scorn. Coldness. Amusement? Disdain. Impatience...

Eagerness. Hunger.

...So that was it.

Again, waves of coldness sweep through him, through his magic, but this time it isn't fear. Thieves. His eyelights... one at least... lingered on his mage a moment longer, and something hot and angry sparked to life inside him, and swept through his body, replacing the cold. Thieves, and his mage was dead, his home was gone.

A low snarl fell from his throat as the nightmare pushed himself to his feet, too aware what that cloying, painful pressure inside him was, like fury that built and surged inside his bones until he thought they would shatter-

-and suddenly, he was no longer alone.

Gyre's head snapped towards the source of seething hate he could feel approaching, a cold deeper than any he'd ever felt, a fury that burned like the ice of hell. Whatever was coming hurt deeply, and wanted nothing more than to hurt in turn. This was his life, his reality, all he knew...

As the dust bitty appeared through the growing smoke, Gyre could taste the waves of negativity rolling off of him, but he didn't even need to be an empath to read the rage in the eyelights of cyan and red that came to a rest in him, the message behind them clear as day.

He couldn't hurt the ones who liked to hurt him, so he was willing to settle for Gyre instead.

An instant later he was gone, and Gyre's soul dropped as he realized the dust had teleported. He had barely an instant's warning as the other bitty appeared behind him, spinning and lifting his arm to try and block the blow-

An edge of steel bit deeply into bone, and he screamed, barely recognizing the sound as his own voice as it became a roar of fury instead. Against all reason, he shoved against the knife even harder, making it cut even more deeply into the bone.

From this close, he could see the tear tracks of black usually unique to killer bitties and their kin, and see too the brief confusion in the dust's eyelights at his reaction, but Gyre only snarled, shoving against the blade again, hard enough to knock the dust away.

Something thick and black dripped from the gouge that had been sliced into the bones of his forearm, anger and magic struggling to force his corruption. He knew it would happen, but he also knew it would incapacitate him, possibly for hours.

So even if he couldn't stop it? It wasn't happening now. Not! Yet!

For all of a breath, the dust just stared up at him. The hate, fury and pain in his gaze finding its match in that of the nightmare before him, and there was recognition there...

Then he narrowed his eyes, tightened his grip on his blade again, leapt to his feet, and struck!

Gyre was a house nightmare. A familiar. He lived in a mage's keep, drank tea and read books- But he was still a nightmare, and he was ready. Ducking under the dust's attack, he shoves it upward with his bad arm, while the other struck his attacker, fingers curled into a tight fist, with every drop of strength he still had, and killing intent behind it.

His fist met it's target with a sickening crunch, and the dust bitty fell onto his back, struggling for air, and finding none, trying to scoot away, and failing.

Above him, the bleeding nightmare stood, haloed by the glow of the spreading fire, and swathed in smoke and shadow. He may as well have been a lord of hell, looking down with that single eyelight of blazing cyan, judging his worth, and finding it lacking.

A look of disgust and contempt curled at the corner of Gyre's mouth, not for the dust himself, but for the glimpse of red he'd seen beneath the dusty's shirt as he'd fallen. A collar. A binding. This bitty was a slave, a hunting dog broken and bound into serving his masters.

His sharp eyelight could see the binding, now that he knew it was there. It was so, so easy. And he was so, so angry. All he had to do was reach down, take hold of it... Make someone else hurt, the way he did...

Panic blew the dust bitty's eyelights wide as he realized what Gyre was doing, and he tried to struggle free as his shirt was grabbed, pulling it away to expose the collar. Desperation, and pure terror, the nightmare could feel it as his fingers curled beneath the woven threads. Despite the dusty's silence, Gyre felt his terror, his screaming panic, and a fear that both made his marrow curdle and his magic strengthen, all in one.

The taste of his suffering lingered like a thick cherry syrup, like wine, like blood, and Gyre simply tightened his grip-

A binding. A binding. On the weapon used against a mage of binding. Ridiculous.

The failsafe is simple, and he stirs it to wakefulness with little effort. There's an instant, just an instant, when he almost hesitates-

-and then, he pulls, and the collar snaps free in his hand.

The jaws of the dust bitty part in a silent cry, agony and terror twisting his features into a tortured mask that quickly splintered apart as dark red cracks began shooting across it.

His eyelights never lost their awareness, or the look of panic and pain. Gyre had felt everything. His fear, desperation, pain, despair... and then, something else, followed by a sudden, terrible absence, as he just crumbled beneath Gyre's hand. It was as though what the nightmare bitty had thought were bones had never been anything more than tightly packed, fine white powder.

And now that was all that was left. Powder.

He felt sick, felt furious, and wanted to scream and cry, and yet with the way the negativity and EXP made his magic feel electric, strangely, horribly giddy too, which only left him feeling more sick still. He just stared at the dust lying at his feet, the bit of red still clutched tightly in a trembling fist.

How much time had that taken? Seconds? Instants? It had seemed like forever, but forever and he already would have been burned alive.

The library was an inferno now, the heat long past the point of unbearable. Soot and burns alike marred his bones, and as he watched, the form of his friend was lost to sight completely.

The nightmare bitty closed his socket, not daring the deep breath he really needed, and then teleported away. He was jumping blindly, and jumping exhausted. He'd be lucky if he didn't end up inside a wall.

Instead his jump met open air, and he fell...

Before he could more than feel the drop in his non existent guts, the ground beneath him hit, and he staggered, falling forward onto his hands. He stayed this way, palms splayed out against something smooth, and cold. Maybe strangely, the sudden absence of smoke made him fall into a fit of coughs, maybe from trying to breathe in too much, too fast, which left his ribcage aching.

It seemed at first like it would never stop, but eventually the coughs subsided, and only silence was left. The crackle of the flames, the creaking of the burning beams as they swayed and threatened to fall? All of that was gone. He couldn't sense the intruders emotions anymore, couldn't hear them... couldn't hear anything...

He opened his socket to absolute darkness- Absolute, save the single cyan eyelight looking up at him, bitter, hateful and exhausted. Panic swept him at the sight, and he tried to push back, away-!

The owner of the eyelight did the same, and Gyre went still.

That. That couldn't be. No. ...No. His soul sank, and he reached out with a shaky hand, his touch coming to a rest against whatever cool, reflective surface he rested on.

His hand- What, was wrong with-?

Sticky. and yielding.

His head hurt.

A broken sound, unmistakable as anything but a sob, tore from his throat as he folded slowly against the smooth surface. His hand felt wrong. His head hurt so much, and his magic still buzzed with negativity and EXP. It was a horrible combination, only reinforced by the image that felt forever burned behind his eyes, of his friend's body, consumed by flames. His friend, they'd taken him. He was gone.

Again he felt the corruption swelling up inside him, felt the pressure that threatened to shatter his skull and splinter his bones, and this time, this time he gave into it. He let it take him, and a screaming roar split the silence, and his world was nothing but pain...

...And then. Nothing at all.

---

The silence was what finally drew him back to consciousness. A terrible, empty, echoing silence, the kind that spoke of absolute solitude, and an enclosed emptiness that should capture even a pin drop... but found only a silence that filled his senses, until it felt like all there was. Something unnatural, and impossible.

Caverns dripped, artic tundras had constant sounds of wind and shifting snow, deserts, lakes, obviously neither was silent. Even tombs echoed... But this echoed only silence. And every instinct told him this was wrong.

Amplifying the sense of wrong? His body doesn't feel like his own. The weight is wrong, the balance, the moments- Everything feels alien. strange, clumsy, and unfamiliar, and suffused with a deep seated ache that throbbed through every inch of him. He could feel his body rippling, dripping, a constant movement, and it left something inside him shuddering at the sensation.

Gyre just grit his teeth though, and pushed himself up. First to his hands and knees, then, less steadily, to his feet.

There was no moment when he didn't know why he felt this way, no moment when he didn't remember. How could there be? It felt like a raw wound had been gouged from his soul, the place where his own had connected to Rantrum's now just... empty.

And now he was corrupted. That had always been a possibility. But different nightmare corrupted differently depending on their family line, and the make up of their magic. For some, the sludge simply slid over their bones, like a dripping skin, while for the others, that 'sludge' was all that remained of them.

Him? He was first generation. He'd never known which way it would go, and had never intended to find out. Unfortunately, it seemed that was no longer an option. Maybe extra unfortunately, his current circumstances weren't exactly ideal for finding out.

Neither was he. Ideal for anything, honestly. Gyre was numb, and he ached soul deep. Both were true. So how could what path his corruption had taken matter, when everything was wrong, and could never be right again. It felt like he was beyond fear, beyond grief. There was only hollowness and pain. Even his anger had burned away. He just felt... defeated.

But. His mage had died, saving him. He couldn't let that be for nothing.

That first careful step was him barely moving his foot forward at all, but it felt like a leap of faith. More importantly, it also felt a decision, and one he knew needed to make. To get up. To keep moving. To go forward. It was important.

The movement though... felt wrong, and he shuddered again. Still, it was followed by another step, then another, cautiously. Testing that strangely smooth, cool surface with every step, his progress was painstakingly slow, while his legs threatened to give way with each.

His magic seared, it tingled, it sang. Corruption, EXP, loss, grief and rage and pain. Darkness and silence, and silence, and silence... He couldn't sense anyone. Anything. No magic at all. Isolated beyond anything he'd ever experienced before, he-

He couldn't even feel his own magic. He stopped as this sank in, and with a shaky breath, he sank to one knee, bracing his hands against the slick nothing. And when he looked, there it was, a single aqua eyelight looking back.

Okay. This he knew was real. There was magic here, because he was here.

So it must be the lack of magic that was the lie.

Gyre closed his eyes, focused on drawing his magic closer, and tried to remember what he'd learned, apprenticed to his mage. About magic being mutable. About how magic existed everywhere. Therefore, magic existed here. He just needed to understand how. Maybe...

Ha. A binding. Of course, what else? He had a brief dizzying moment of thinking how proud Rantrum would be that he'd figured it out- Then cold reality rushed back in, and any satisfaction or pride left him in an instant.

He just reached out, and... parted the magic.

Just like that, he stood on a surface of polished black, surrounded in all sides by more of the same, a cylinder of mirrored obsidian whose walls he should have easily reached by now, but hadn't.

He must have teleported right into a safeguard. A trap, by any other name. Sighing, his ribcage aching from the exertion, he pushed himself to his feet again-

Only to find himself nose to polished surface with another cylinder, exactly like he was in... Or at least that's what he thought, until he saw this blackness move, shift, liquid and oily and deliberate, like a crawling, greasy smudge that filled the space before him.

Gyre stumbled back, and in his weakened state, lost his balance, and fell backwards.

Again, he hit.

And again, his world fell into a different sort of darkness...

---

Waking, the second time around, was... different. A marrow deep exhaustion had taken him, and he was certain, as he moved, that he felt dust sifting from his bones.

It seemed... unimportant. His socket opened, and a single aqua eyelight fixed on the something behind what he recognized now to be a second barrier. He watched it slip, slink, spiral, and slide, before settling to the bottom of it's prison... and then, watched it stand on two legs, tentacles unfurling from it's back. It's socket though, stayed empty and black, as it grinned...

"So, you're the apprentice of that wasteling mage," It purred. It was a sound like silken oil filling his non existent ears, "How... lovely. A bite sized little morsel, just for me."

Wastling mage? Gyre knew exactly who he meant, and inwardly he seethed, but outwardly his expression was unchanging and cold. What was this creature, bound up in Rantrum's tower? They'd had conversations before, about binding people... Was this a person? ...Yes. Whatever else it was, it was a person.

"Hm, maybe less a bite," It melts to almost nothing, "More like a drip. A drop. A nothing at all." The creatures chuckles, silken oil turning to a growl, coarse and dripping with disgust. "Of course you're all he left me with. They all do their best to betray me, twist our deal, bend its terms... They all try to break the chain-"

Through this speech, Gyre's expression grew slowly angry again at what this... thing was implying...

"-but each and every one, every time," It 'stands' again, taking the form of a corrupted nightmare bitty again, and smiles, with far too many needlesharp teeth, more than should ever be able fit in his mouth, with a smile that stretched in a way that shouldn't be possible, "But every time," It draws a length of coiling magic it's from it's own chest, which takes the form of a chain as he pulls it further still, "They provide me a new link, just the same."

Gyre starts to growl at him, but the thing's chain seems to reach it's limit, somehow...

...And Gyre's remaining socket widens as he feels an answering pull inside him. Horror washes through him at the creature's ever wider grin, as this time, it yanks...

And the nightmare bitty screams at the pain that seems to tear through his magic, anchored deep inside his soul. He heard the being's words, as though whispered across an endless space, low and mocking. "Soul bonds are such deep and sacred things, aren't they?"

Gyre couldnt think, couldn't move, but he could all but see the sneer on the creature's face, just the same. "Still, I have to wonder. When a man knows his soul is forfeit... food, by any other word... what sort of man seeks out an innocent little bitty, just to drag with him to hell?"

"Still. You're not so innocent anymore, are you?" The purr, amused, as Gyre's vision slowly returns, leaves his magic running cold as the sound, "I can taste the new LV in your magic, little smudge. I know what you've done."

Gyre manages to push himself up on his hands and knees, and the look in his eyelight is pure hate as he levels his gaze with the other. It just... looks amused. Or... annoyed? Both, Gyre decides. "I don't know why you're smiling," The nightmare denies, coldly, "Sold or not, my soul isn't yours to claim until you do me a boon in turn... And I have to ask for it."

For the first time there's a hint of pause in the other, though it only tilts it's head, narrowing it's 'sockets.'

Gyre manages a smile in return, though it feels bitter and empty. "Bindings like this work two ways," The nightmare 'reminds' it, forcing himself slowly, unsteady, back to his feet, "I may belong to you now, but that means you belong to me too, until our deal is done. And you have nothing I want."

"Rot in your hell," He mutters, turning away, ready to find his way out again.

Silence, for all of an instant. Then the creature twists in its cage, abandoning the Visage of 

Gyre's distorted reflection, becoming several stretched and oily strands of dripping, something, with terrible claws, raking slowly across the barrier.

Gyre freezes at the sound, like the shrieking of countless voices, whispering with a soft, knowing certainty, "We may not be able to claim you in death, without your compliance. But we claim you in life. We pulled you to us when the old man died. And we will not let you leave."

The nightmare bitty tried to ignore him, pushing his pain away, his grief and fury, and begin walking again, but still the sounds grew, still the whispers grew. Those fine dripping filaments felt like they were starting to drape over him, strand by strand, limb by limb, weighing him beneath an unseen net.

Gyre just gritted his teeth, looking around, and trying to think how to get out of here. The pain he'd been forcing himself to ignore began pushing itself to the front of his awareness again, making it hard to even think of escaping, but he gathered his strength, reached out, and found the delicate weaving of magic that Rantrum had taught him to recognize. It would be so easy to part them, and slip through.

They shone like a latticework of crystalline gossamer... So strangely beautiful...

But when he attempted to pass through them, he felt the threads again, and... He fell just short. Either that, or the gossamer threads retreated beyond his reach. He strained to reach them, and again...

The exhaustion was too much, and they vanished before his eyelight. Gyre swayed briefly on his feet, before giving up, and sinking to the ground. There were tears in his sockets- in his remaining good socket, some cruel part of his mind corrected him dully- and as much as he wanted to push himself back up, to try again, he just... didn't have the strength.

There was a low laugh behind him, one of many, many whispers and hisses. "You see here, little drop. Little dribble. Little insignificant smear of corruption. This is what will happen. I will not let you go. You will not free me. Very well. Then you will die here, of injury, of exhaustion. Your dust will settle on the stone, and your soul will slip beyond my grasp."

"And hooray," The sneer in it's voice was unmistakable, "You've won. Except... You know what I am, don't you, little drop? You know..."

"...Demon," Gyre whispers, on his hands and knees now, his world shrinking to a singular point of awareness, "But not. You were nothing of hell. You were mage, or you were monster, but it doesn't matter anymore what you were."

"...Yes. I know what you are." It was hard. So hard. He was so tired. He just wanted to lay down. To let it all slip away. Instead, he pushed himself back up to his knees, and then, again, to his feet, and wobbly as he stood, he turned to face the creature again.

"Do you, though...?" It didn't bother returning to it's mimicry, just watching him, somehow, without need for eyes. "I am power, little nightmare. I am raw magic potential. I am temptation. And I am more a thing of corruption than a dear little thing like you will ever be."

As it spoke... Gyre knew it was true. It was all those things. He just didn't care. "Then tempt me." His voice sounded dry. Dusty. Barely even him. "Oh great. Fucking temptation."

"...You have nothing I want."

Again, that laugh, like dead fingers tracing their way through the corruption that was now him. "But I have something they want," It taunts, in a low, pleased humor, "I always have something for creatures like them. What do you think they came here looking for, little drip? Or did you think your wastling little master had a greater treasure hidden away in this ruin, than me?"

A retort tried to rise on his tongue, tried and failed, and died, unfallen, as Gyre slowly realized that it was right, as the understanding washed over him, slow and horrifying, that this thing, this source of magic, this demon, was almost certainly why the intruders had come here. And thus, why Rantrum had died.

If they'd come this far, would a barrier stop them? Two? How many has Rantrum placed around this prison?

They'd find a way in. They'd get what they wanted. What they'd killed his mage for. One day, they too would pay for it with their souls, but that was obviously a price they were willing to pay. For now... For now...

They'd win.

"Now you understand," It purrs, silky and cruel, "There will always be those willing to sell their soul for what I offer. I'll lose your soul. But they'll have my power. His death at their hands will be rewarded, and his death to save you? It will be for nothing."

It... was right.

...It was right.

He wanted to think of something clever to say. That Rantrum would rather that happen, than see him lose his soul too...

The ache inside him, still raw, still new, told him he was wrong. Rantrum was a clever man, and a brilliant mage. He'd known exactly what would happen...

...And he'd betrayed him.

---

"...do you know my true cruelty to you?" The words echo through his memory, with agonizing clarity. He swore he could see them again. See the way Rantrum had sat in his chair, turning one of those damnable sticks between his fingers, another already tucked in his cheek. It was a habit he'd never explained, and Gyre had never seen in another.

"What?" The nightmare bitty could hear his own voice too, tolerant, exasperated, as he'd knelt before the elaborate sigilwork Rantrum has lain out, certain that the timing was anything but coincidence. This seal was the strongest Rantrum had let him work with after all, and it was an exhausting effort to keep from hitting the many, many sensitive triggers within the spell...

But Rantrum had just gazed at him with those tired, knowing eyes, their blue light and soft today, but sad. "It's that by the time you understand," He begins, even as his gaze turns back away, the bit of chewing stick slowing as he spins it between his fingers, "Why I should never have invited you to learn this magic?" A slow, resigned shake of his head. "It will be too late for me to say I'm sorry, and beg your forgiveness."

It had been one of those moods, he'd realized at the time, and the sigilwork had been abandoned to regard his mage with his own look of soft worry. "And is that choice," He'd asked quietly, "Or fate?" Let him talk, Gyre had thought, for what it was worth, let him know someone was listening.

There's quiet for a long moment, before Rantrum finally sighs, rubbing his forehead with a free hand. He had days like this. Gyre supposed everyone did, but it always hurt to see it in his mage. "...That," He'd admitted quietly, the words burdened, and weary, "Is the consequences of my own actions."

Gyre had just watched him through this, struggling to find something to say. Nit the right thing, no, he wasn't sure such words existed, just... something. "So. Both." He decided at last, certain by now this was what those words meant.

His gaze had listed, that clear, wonderful blue, and a fleeting smile had passed his lips, a faint, quick twist only just visible beneath his sizeable beard. Taking comfort in his companion, regardless of what was troubling him. Taking pride. "Yes," He'd agreed, "Both. Now you're beginning to get it."

Any indication that maybe his mood might haven lifted then however, vanished, as that smile fell away, and his gaze did as well.

Gyre had left the sigilwork behind, at this, and hopped from the table to Rantrum's chest, snagging the lapels of his heavy, colorful jacket, as his mage opened one eye to watch, making no effort to stop him. The little nightmare had climbed to his shoulder, and sat there, patting the coarse face fluff that had long since overtaken so much of his mage's features.

"...I'm sorry." The words, offered by the mage too soon. The words he'd just admitted he wouldn't be able to say when he'd needed to. That he'd said then, in some small effort to assuage the guilt that had pooled behind his eyes.

"I know," Gyre had promised, softly. The words implying a forgiveness that he'd known even then couldn't bear any real weight to the man- His teacher, his friend, his biggie... His mage.

That he forgave him.

Rantrum had hesitated, trying to look down to him, for all that one could really look down very well at his own shoulder. "But," He'd reminded his bitty, quietly, slowly, "You won't understand why, until you do."

Gyre had just pat his beard again, soft lavender eyelights looking up at him, promising again, simply, "I know." It was all he could say. He'd believed it, then. At the same time, knowing that Rantrum had good reason for worry, whatever that reason might be. So maybe his promise couldn't be kept. Maybe he would change his mind.

...Fine.

...Just let them both have that lie. A little longer.

---

The gaze of a single cyan eyelight had fallen, as he recalled all of this, staring at nothing at all. One hand, lifted, resting over his chest. Over his soul.

Yes. Rantrum had known exactly what he was doing. Gyre closed his socket with a sigh, ignoring the pain that even this simple movement caused him. Some distant part of his mind wondered whether he'd ever not feel pain again.

Considering what he'd done to that dust bitty, maybe he didn't deserve to.

Rantrum... Stars, it hurt. The wound, the absence, it hurt. Just... knowing that he was gone. It hurt. Beside these, how could the rest of it even touch him?

So Rantrum had betrayed him. So what? What difference did it make, now that he was gone? He'd lost his teacher, his friend, his mage. Nothing could be worse than that pain. Even knowing that the demon's words were true, that his soul had been all but sold by the man he'd trusted... Gyre just, couldn't hate him.

What happened to a mage's soul, when that creature finally claimed them? He was pretty sure he didn't want to know, but-

"...Where is he, now?" The words were hollow, and empty. But oh how they trembled, and how he hated the thing even more for showing that weakness in front of it.

"Where they all go," The creature answered in those horrible whispers, a myriad of sounds that made his corruption ripple in disgust and unease, "Into me. He is part of my being, his soul, his mind. There is no seperate self left, no part of him that could still be defined as him. I have his every memory. Could tell you his every secret."

"And yet everything he was is forever lost, eclipsed within me, guttering out like a dying spark, but never truly extinguished. Existing, trapped within a conscious sort of oblivion. Just enough, to know that he exists no more. Watching the pieces of the life he left behind- watching you- knowing how much they once meant, and feeling nothing."

"Any lingering trace of him that remains, will never exist again as anything more than a shell of his own awareness and memory." A low, horrible chuckle, viscous, somehow, clotting, and cold. "I promise you, little nightmare, it is not hell. Not as the humans know it. But in it's own way, it is far, far worse. He is nothing, now... But he will endure, forever."

"...So be satisfied. For what little it means, you have your revenge."

Gyre is silent, in response. He'd never known just how much it could hurt to cry, but the drops of aqua spilled down his cheek from his good eye, which hurt enough in itself as his body continued to adjust to the new magic, and in his other... It was sharp, burning agony.

Revenge? Was he supposed to want revenge?

"...What do you want?" The words offered were sandpaper, quiet, rasped, and to anyone who heard them, without emotion. As empty as the demon promised that Rantrum was now.

A chuckle, low and dark. "Does the price of a soul not give you your answer? The mention of gaining all he was, and all he knew? Or do you need more, as w-"

He didn't even let the creature finish, interrupting, "No. I mean, what do you really want?"

Gyre turns his head to look at the creature, opening his socket again, and making no effort to wipe away the fallen tears. He wasn't ashamed of them. They weren't a weakness. "I know a means to an end when I see one, mage. There's no point in having those for their own sake. You're not a genuine demon. They can't possibly have any real value to you."

This time, the being falls silent. For a breath. A minute. Maybe several more. What is time, after all? "It has been a long, long time, since any called me mage." It muttered, annoyance in it's tone.

"I would call you lich," Gyre retorts, turning to look at it more fully now, anger seething in his one good eyelight, as he tried to pretend that his legs didn't feel like they could collapse beneath him at any moment, "But that's not what you are, is it?" This time, silence answered his words, and growing bolder, he took a step closer. "No, calling you a lich would imply that you did this on purpose, you-"

It's chuckle returned, soft and... angry. "Probing for a weakness, little nightmare?" It taunted, slowly coalescing into a singular form again. "Do you think you're the first to try that tact?" The laugh slowly became more and more angry, though the thing never raised it's voice. Still, it built like crashing waves, until it wasn't laughter at all, but a low, muted snarl. "Archmage, student, novice, master... All try to break me in turn. To take my power, cage me, or just destroy me."

The snarls fade, slowly, and the form dissolves again. This time it hadn't mirrored him, but he couldn't really see what it was, either. Too indistinct...

"You think you'll succeed, where they failed? You?" The words are scorn, and dripping with disgust. "Know your place, little nightmare. You're nothing but a damn pet."

There is was, Gyre thought to himself. It wasn't greed that drove it, or hunger. At least, that's not what the nightmare bitty had just heard in its voice. No, that was anger, hurt...

...More. Far more.

Gyre turns his head, slowly, looking over their prison. He breathed in slowly, and out, measuring every breath now. His strength was leaving him, and he knew the creature was right. His injuries were too severe. He was going to die if he didn't heal himself, but magic seemed impossible here. Not... that he'd tried using healing magic...

He still had magic, still was magic. Was it enough? To heal his injuries, without leaving so little that his bones no longer had enough to keep them together? The other muttered something, low and bitter, as he focused on his magic, but he couldn't make it out, and didn't try. He was trying to draw on enough to mend his wounds enough to stay alive a little longer. To escape...

The pain in his skull began to intensify again, accompanied by what seemed like a sharp point of light inside his skull, growing brighter and brighter as the pain grew worse. He kept pushing, through it all-

It was like slamming into a brick wall, when the binding around his reacted, nothing gentle, but a violent impact that blew out his eyelight like candle for several seconds, and left him barely standing... and then, hitting his knees, hard.

He became aware of the creature humming under it's breath, watching him. Or, what he could only assume was. It wasn't like he'd seen his new reflection yet. "I tried to tell you," It pointed out, as though Gyre had actually been listening. "You can't escape. You-"

"Wasn't trying to escape." The nightmare bitty sighed, as his vision slowly returned. The creature had taken that twisted mockery of his own body again.  He said nothing on it, just pushing stubbornly to his feet again... and immediately falling.

"Then what?" The other did it's best to sound scornful, uninterested, and maybe it genuinely was, he wasn't certain. "What could possibly-?"

Gyre lifted his arm, by way of demonstration... corruption, slowly sifting from it as dust. It had been too much. "You were right," He shrugged, wincing at the foolish motion, "I'm dying. Everything was for nothing. I'll dust, they'll come for you..."

"...You'll be free. As free as a slave ever can be, anyway."

The silence that followed was so weighted, it almost echoed. "Slave...?" The creature murmured, finally. Perhaps strangely, it didn't sound angry. "Then I guess we are a pair, little drop. A slave and a pet. Both of us betrayed by our masters."

"...But I shall endure. And you? Shall end here."

A laugh from Gyre, surprising even himself, followed by a cough, then another, then a shuddering gasp as he was forced to brace on his arms to keep from falling on his face. "I- I think, I got the... better end of that deal..."

Dust was drifting soundlessly from every part of his body now. He wasn't long for anything anymore.

He wouldn't even get to see Rantrum again, when he died... It wasn't fair...

Silence, again. He knew he was being watched. That was fine. It meant some part of his mage was still with him... Right? There, when he needed him most? It meant he wasn't alone.

Tears trickled down his cheek, falling to dust before they could even hit the ground in front of him. He watched the droplets, his vision blurring, sift to powdered white...

"Please. Let him go." More croak than whisper, he could barely recognize the voice as his own, but he knew those were his words. "I know he hurt you... But please. Please. Let my mage go? He..." The words trailed into a weak gasping, and his arms trembled, trying to still support him. He couldn't even speak anymore. He tried. To beg for Ramtrum, one last time. He couldn't.

"...You would forgive him his betrayal. Forgive him for selling your soul?"

Gyre couldn't see anymore, and his arms had given way, he didn't know when. He hadn't even felt the impact, was only aware of the cold obsidian at his cheek. His memories teased over the man. His laugh, his soft touch, so gentle with his tiny friend, his little mannerisms...

The sadness. He'd glimpsed so many times in his eyes.

The nightmare bitty manages to nod, the smallest motion. He's certain it costs him something. He's certain he feels something yet inside him just... crumble apart at the movement.

With his strength spent, it was happening so suddenly there was barely time to be afraid. Was it even his wounds, ending him? Or just that there was no magic he could access here, and he'd spent the last of his own trying to escape? Either way... It had happened so fast...

"...Trade your soul, for his."

What? He wanted to lift his head, he tried, and again it felt like something crumbled inside him. His soul... And the other, would let his mage's soul go free?

"Yield your soul," It repeated, something dark, and strangely solemn in it's words, "And your body. Give me freedom, and form once again. A binding, not only for now, not only until your last breath, but for all time, and I will meet you as equal, within it."

"Make no mistake. It will still mean the end of all you are. We will be two, joined as one, and each shall lose ourself to the other. But I will free your mage. And you shall secure my own freedom, forever more. Both enduring this way, for eternity."

"We will both end. And we will both endure. Now... Is it a bargain?"

Would Gyre trade his eternity away for his mage's? Surrender his identity? Everything he was? In a soulbeat. The barest nod, in answer, as he struggled to hold on just a little longer.

"...Then sign it. With your dust. And your corruption. Upon my cage."

Sign it? On his cage? Ha, that was- He would never make it that-

Oh. This was all his cage. Their cage.

"..." Gyre's fingers move against the smooth obsidian. Rantrum had made him practice this so many, many times, that even now...

It took so little, really. Such a small sigil. His hand falls still, the deed done. The apprentice of binding, binding himself, and too aware how binding it really is. He will agree to the demon's terms, free his mage...

...and then he'll drag the creature with him, straight to hell. He doesn't try to hide that small alteration, his own terms added. The creature would either accept them, or not.

Silence. Silence. It was clearly debating...

A sudden sound like splintering glass interrupts, and he hears the other curse quietly. Then...

Then...

Power. A swell of immense magic sparks within him, and he gasps, bolts of raw energy suffusing every last dwindling spark of magic he possesses. So much, so much... His magic sang with life and energy and awareness beyond anything he could have ever dreamed...

But. Something was wrong. He could feel it. It was-

His vision slowly returned, and he saw the hairline fractures that had caused the startling sound, fractures across what seemed to be reality itself, as shards of existence had begun giving way. So much for their prison. It had only been a matter of time before someone had gotten through, if what they wanted was inside. And it seemed the creature was right, it was why they'd come...

Even as he pushed himself to his feet, easily, effortlessly, something was forced through the opening, hitting the ground hard. A bitty, a dust, like the last, with the same black streaks pouring down both cheeks, but this one was a human type dust.

Despite the clear force of impact, his blades were in his hands before he was even done straightening, cold sharp gaze darting around. What he saw was a mass of darkness still entrapped in its cage-

And him. As he struck, Gyre caught him by the head with a tentacle- Tentacle, how had he missed that he had tentacles- and slammed him face first into the ground, hard enough to render him still.

Gyre didn't even look at him, gaze moving past the fallen one to the creature in it's cage. It twisted, anxiously trying to climb the glass, like it was desperate to reach him before he too could betray, and leave...

The bitty looked at his hand, and saw with his own eyelights what his sense had already told him. It was too much power for one whose innate magic level was far, far too small to hold it, and in the process of literally ripping him apart. Darkness almost seemed to waft from his body like smoke, as his body began actively disintegrating.

It was too late to change his mind. The binding was already in place. If he walked away, his body would crumble, and the creature would claim his soul, as it had so many before.

But he had no intention of walking away. Leaving the dust where he lay, Gyre walked the side of the secondary prison cell, resting his hand against it. It was so vivid, so clear to his what he needed to do. The magic parted to his touch, like it was nothing, and wasting new an instant, the demon thing inside spilled through, a sound of glee, of relief, of rage, of hate- and when it looked at Gyre, for an instant, in it's hesitation, he swore saw fear.

Then it launched itself, impacting with his chest. His socket widened in shock as it hit, immediately beginning to burrow into his corruption. Staggered back a step or two, this time he didn't fall, but he grabbed at the place, hands closing about the thing briefly-

It squelched through his fingers like trying to grab a handful of oil, the last of it vanishing inside him. He was horribly aware of it's movements inside his ribcage, of it summoning his soul, and beginning to curl around it...

The cracks in the walls of the prison began to spread, and there was a silhouette of someone beyond the opening, trying to wrest their way through. He watched the other with a hazy eyelight, and knew when they saw him, a corrupted nightmare bitty whose new magic was literally tearing his body apart, and they froze, realization only beginning to cross an expression he couldn't quite see when he finally felt the walls of his soul beginning to give way.

...It should have hurt. But it didn't.

Gyre laughed with a voice that wasn't his own, and stepped down hard on the place he'd signed his name. New cracks formed beneath the impact, zigzagging across the shiny black glass almost musically...

He looked up, grinned widely at the figure just beyond sight, and flipped it off with both hands, just as the shattering pieces gave way. They fell, nightmare bitty, dust bitty, and demon...

From the corner of his vision he saw the fine latticework of red magic that followed their fall, and turned his head, following it to the dust bitty, limp and all but lifeless as they plummeted together. Gyre knew what it was in an instant, and that in an instant more it would snap as it reached it's limit, and the dust bitty would be dead before they hit... wherever they were falling.

Fury swelled within him, and without a second thought he reached out to severe it. This time though, he knew the spell, and the binding dissolved at his touch. He grinned in satisfaction, then laughed again at the cry of fury from somewhere above...

Then came the impact. And one last time, darkness came again.

---

[bellsofblueficlets]

Rebeginning

It was without question, the most amazing thing he'd ever seen. The room was cylindrical, vastly wide, at least a couple hundred yards, and several hundred yards high, with a single unbroken line of shelves that spiraled around and around the outer wall, all the way up. Several heavy tables were scattered through the room, all laden with thick tomes and stacked shears of paper, rolls of parchment, and a series of knives and lenses and paperweights throughout, as well as glowing weightless orbs of light that just seemed to drift about aimlessly.

They'd needed to enter through a trapdoor in the center of floor, perhaps placed there simply for the sake of this remarkable sight- Though Gyre wasn't sure how even a fraction of the books could be reached. Still, at least it looked impressive-

A heavy thud makes the nightmare bitty yelp, jumping, and tumbling from his perch, only to be caught by a deceptively quick pair of hands, and moved gently to the table. Embarrassed, Gyre straightens himself, trying not to look as sheepish as he feels. "Uh." He clears his throat, swivels his head to look around more, crosses his arms, and nods approvingly. That's what you were supposed to do in situations like this, right? It felt like what you were supposed to do. "I mean, that's- pretty amazing?" Yep, taking it in stride...

A snort from his new biggie is his answer, and a bemused shake of his head. "It's an inefficient pagentry," A general wave of his hand at the walls, "So much wasted space, an inconvenient entrance that requires a pointless detour- and for what? A show of informational wealth? Academic clout? It's a meaningless flexing if wealth and magic is what it is!"

Gyre is a bit taken back by all this, and just looks sort of confused. "Oh. I, thought this was your library."

"Oh, it is," His human assures, "That doesn't mean I can't recognize how ridiculous it is. This entire thing is an egotistical display," A grunt, as he slumps into one of the empty chairs, still looking around, "Designed by a pompous fool, who took too much stock in appearing grand." A shake of his head, "What a waste of effort that could have been spent on such greater things..."

"I... guess?" It looked pretty damn impressive to him, and he's still craning his head back, trying to take it all in. "Do you know who designed it, then?"

"...I did, of course." He chuckles, rapping his knuckles lightly on the thick wood, "Who else? This is my keep after all," Another vague gesture around, "I designed all of it. Every corner, every nook, every grand, pointless display- It was all me."

A sigh, slumping back in his seat- Only to be followed by another chuckle at his bitty's incredulous look. "Come, come now," He chides gently, smoothing his beard absently, before extending his hand, palm up, to the tiny one, "Let an old man acknowledge his foolish youth. I'm the one stuck with it, I have every right to grumble."

"Well... Can't you change it, then?" Gyre points out, rather reasonably he thinks.

"Ah, I could, I could-" A sigh, turning a wistful eye around the room, a tired ice blue. "It really would be such a hassle though. I mean, just think of all the effort, the noise- Rearranging all the books-" A faint smile could be made out beneath his general facial hair, a soft fondness around the edges. For all his grousing, it was clear that he still loved the place. "No, no. I believe I shall leave it. A testimont to the hubris of my youth, if nothing more-"

As far as biggie's went, Rantrum was an odd one, that was for sure. In looks, he was a stocky older fellow, human of course, dressed in clothes that had once born bright colors, but long, long since faded through age, who bore a somewhat bulbous nose, and whose eyebrows seem to have accomplished a life's goal to be the dominating feature on his face, and were second in this only to his very generous beard, both a terrible wiry steel and black mess that were more steel these days than black.

In behavior? He was a good natured, huffy and grumbling enigma, who seemed to enjoy leaving his new nightmare bitty guessing, and always carried the sense of being in a better mood than he professed to being in.

There was something warm about him, tired and gentle, and maybe, if he didn't know Gyre was looking, there was a sadness around his eyes as well. He'd tried to hide it as best he could, in the nearly three days that Gyre had been living in the keep so far, but such a heavy weight was hard to banish completely. The nightmare bitty knew it was too soon to ask though, so he didn't. He'd wait, and maybe eventually Rantrum would tell him. In the meantime-

"Three days, it took you to show me this?" If there was a certain degree of incredulity to his voice, well- Three days. To show him this.

...Not that the rest of the keep was unimpressive, per se, but it was... humble? He supposed? For the most part, at least. Cluttered and lived in, warm, smelling of wood smoke and dried herbs and old books, and inviting a thousand questions, but- This? This was a whole other animal, as Rantrum seemed likely to say.

The mage chorfled, there was really no other way to say it, a sound somewhere between a chuckle, a chortle, a snort and a huff, that brought to mind someone trying very hard not to laugh, because it was undignified, and sounding all the more undignified for the attempt. "My Gyre is a bookworm, I see..."

He reached for what seemed to all appearances a thick, dull ended toothpick, roughly half the length of a pencil, clamped the end of the thing between his teeth. He would now proceed, judging by Gyre's experience with the man thus far, to chew at it absently, sometimes rolling it from one corner of his mouth to the other with his tongue, and altogether not acknowledge what a strange looking practice it was, or explain it.

Nor did he now, and Gyre didn't press it still. He had the feeling he'd find out in time, considering how many of the things he'd seen stashed through the keep so far.

Instead the nightmare bitty huffs, crossing his arms, and regards his new mage with a look of bafflement. He'd met with many mages while he was waiting to find his mage, and none had been like anything like this...

Not that that was exactly a bad thing. Just, unexpected. Then, most of the mages he'd met previously were also far younger.... The magic users didn't tend to wait until this later point in their life to choose to go looking for a familiar.

Of course if anyone asked Rantrum, he'd insist that he had in fact had one before, quite earnestly in fact, and had for the entire time he'd had the beast, but according to anyone and everyone else who had ever met the creature, it had been a housecat, and a rather unremarkable one at that. At least once now he'd heard it described as- At least going by it's usual vacant expression- Possessing all of three braincells, and using none of them.

Either way, despite his insistence otherwise, as far as the rest of the world was concerned? It had been a cat, and only a cat, nothing magical about it.

...Gyre didn't want to call his new mage a liar though, so he wasn't so sure. Not yet, anyway.

"Do you know why I chose you?" Rantrum asked him suddenly, pausing at the paperwork he'd begun rifling through without further note- Until now, anyway.

The nightmare bitty paused. Was this a trick question? It felt like it might be a trick question. As much as anything because he didn't know the answer himself, beyond, "To... be your familiar?" He prompts, waiting dutifully for an answer.

...He hadn't meant to sound so much like he was guessing, dammit. Especially not when it was something that had been made clear every step of the way.

"Ah, ah." The mage held up a pencil- Yes, just an ordinary pencil- Swinging the end of it in slow circle, like he was using the gesture to correct the other, "To be my familiar, and my apprentice."

Gyre stops from where he'd been peeling back a sheaf of paper, curious at the title of the book beneath it, and looks up in disbelief- And, maybe not a small amount of alarm. "I- I don't think that's allowed," He points out, his mouth suddenly dry. Oh, he more than 'didn't think that was allowed,' he knew full well it wasn't, and knew too that it was a point that mage-kind as a whole had very strong feelings about.

Rantrum only grunts, shaking his head. "Yes, well, I'm far beyond the point where I'm able to care," He denies, pulling down one of the books from a nearby pile, and beginning to flip through it, "You have a good soul Gyre, a sharp mind, and after all, an innate connection to magic that I never had."

"...I think that's why it's not allowed." Monster magic was for monsters they would say, bitty magic was for bitties, and mage magic was for mages-

That was to say, for humans. And they tended to press that point rather... severely, at times.

The old mage just shrugs, leaning forward onto his elbows, and largely ignoring the book he was currently looming over. "There are many things we're not supposed to do, regarding magic," He denies, with the blunt certainty of one who'd seen this proven true many times over the course of his lifetime, "I think you'll learn with time Gyre, that very few of them matter."

"...Oh." Oh. Yes, this was all he managed to say, just 'Oh.'

Fantastic, beautiful, well done... He ignored his internal self mockery, just thinking this through for several long seconds, before turning more fully to look up at the mage. "...This isn't a trick?"

Rantrum lifts his eyes, blinks, and notes with an unsettling seriousness, "It would be a poor trick, since I suspect you know where it would end, if it were."

The nightmare bitty can't help the small chill that this sends down his spine. Yeah, he knew. He swallows against the sudden, non existent lump he feels in his throat. This is ridiculous. He shouldn't even be considering this.

Gyre hesitates, swallows, and lifts his head, looking around the room. This was not what he'd signed on for. He... got to stay either way, right?

...Rantrum is watching him. And when he notices that he's noticed, watching, the mage sighs, sitting back in his chair, and getting that look again, that briefly weary, weighted one.

"You must understand, before you agree, what you're getting into," He begins slowly, in what seems to be a carefully rehearsed speech, "You agreed to be my familiar under... Not the most forthright of circumstance. I should have made certain that yiu knew from the beginning what sort of mage i am, but, well-" A shrug, half averting his gaze, "When I said I wanted you, you didn't wait for explanations, you just said yes. Looked aboit ready to bubble over from excitement..."

"...are nightmare bitty not chosen often, to be familiars?" He was definitely changing the subject, or at least delaying it. "I'd be a bit surprised to hear it, honestly. I'd have thought the preconceptions that once plagued discussions concerning your type were far less common these days."

"Eh," Gyre shrugged, climbing onto one of the books, and flopping down onto it. "It wasn't that nightmare bitties were seen as unfavorable familiar, just... not favorable ones." He looks up at his biggie- his mage. "Just about everyone who showed up had a specific bitty type in mind before they got there. Dreams, of course. Baby blues." He leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head to rest on. "Papyrus bitties too. You know, cute and cheerful sorts."

"Others wanted a type more known for 'smart,' like science sans, alphys, or swap undynes." He pauses, before admitting, "Water based mage types usually prefer undynes of one type or another, can't blame them there."

"...If someone did come looking for a nightmare," He sighs, closing his sockets briefly, "Let's just say I wasn't 'nightmare enough' for them."

"Ah. They were looking for a corrupted nightmare, I take it?" There's a curious, gentle sympathy to the way he asks this...

A quiet huff, still subdued. "That, or I wasn't intimidating enough. Wasn't spooky enough, or mischief enough. Which I guess amount to the same thing." A sigh. "One young mage even came looking for an ink bitty. They tried to tell her there weren't any ink familiars available- Technically there weren't, the only one there was on heavy probation after being returned three times, and getting caught painting-" A light clearing of his throat, "Questiobable art, concerning a few of the staff members."

"She found out there was an ink bitty, and decided to wait for him, and despite lots of griping, he was finally given another chance. Everyone was sure he'd be back within a week again- But they made it to their year evaluation, and had a bond strong enough that I think it set a few people back. She's gonna be a fucking awesome mage one day-"

And. Maybe he'd been a little jealous...

"Either way." A shrug. "No. Not really much demand for my type." Or maybe, just not much demand for him...

Then Rantrum had shown up. He was a much older mage than normally came looking to be paired, and one well established, with no previous history of having had a familiar of any kind. Well, again, he'd insisted he had a cat familiar, but the claim wasn't given much credit.

Despite this, and despite arriving without an appointment, he'd had enough clout, reputation, and connection, that the placement group really couldn't afford turning him away without it biting them in the ass, so his repeated insistence to meet the prospective bitties then, and not another day, was eventually accepted with a few resigned sighs.

Yet Rantrum had barely laid eyes on Gyre when he'd clapped his hands together lightly, beamed, and said those words that Gyre knew in his soul he would never forget. "Yes, you! You're just the one I'm looking for, I'm certain of it!"

The confusion he'd felt then, after so many rejections, looking across at this mop of a scruffy older mage who looked so absolutely delighted to see him...

When the staff had tried to protest, to insist on an interview, on protocol, and proper procedure, Gyre had just looked up at them, pointed to Rantrum, and said, without the smallest waver of doubt edging his tone, "Him. He's the one I want."

Maybe he'd imagined the brief surprise in his new mage's eyes, but the man had banished it quickly, beamed, and given them a look of 'well, are you still going to argue it?'

They had not.

That'd been five days ago, one day to gather hus meager things and sign paperwork, one to travel- And the last three? Here. In this... confusing place, with this confusing mage that he already very much thought of as 'his.'

Throughout this, Rantrum had been silent, watching his new familiar with a puckered brow, and a hard to read gaze. He tapped on the table, thoughtfully, rolled his chewing stick to the other side of his mouth, and leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly. And still, he watches Gyre. "I am a mage of binding, my little friend," He admits at last, a weighted significance to the way he said this, "Ours is the magic that can bind souls, or create seals, or barriers. Magic that can protects, heal... and imprison, and we can do all of these in equal measure."

Oh. That... That had probably been an important thing to know before he'd agreed to this, huh? Gyre sits up slowly, watching him. "Like the mages who sealed the monsters underground." Everyone knew the story, and knew in fact that the mages from their own timeline had been enlisted multiple times to do this for other universes as well, if rumors were true-

"Like those, yes," Rantrum agrees, more serious for now, "And if you agree to be my apprentice, that magic is all I can teach you. That which seals, which binds, and which-"

Gyre interrupts, shaking his head, and not letting him go any further. "I- I don't. Think I want to know magic like that." His non existent stomach currently felt like it was somewhere around his feet... Maybe even like he was currently standing on it.

Rantrum goes briefly quiet, pursing his lips around the thing clamped between them, then just nods, drawing it free, and dropping it into a cup. "That's fair," He assures, his voice lacking any of the expected irritation or disappointment, "I won't force you. It's a heavy role, I know that as much as anybody- And more than most, I would say."

Admittedly, the nightmare bitty was a little taken aback that his mage wasn't trying to press it more than this. He just? Said no? And Rantrum accepted it?

Not exactly what he would have expected of a mage of binding... But then, neither was Rantrum, was he?

Come to think of it, what had he expected? It's a question he's honestly never thought to ask before, and asking himself now, he realizes that he doesn't have an answer. It was easy to paint such mages as villains, whether motivated by money, power- fear-

He couldn't see Rantrum doing something like... That. So, maybe he was wrong?

Gyre looks down at his hands, frowning as he runs his thumb lightly across the back of his hand, lingering briefly on every bone. It didn't get much further from a human mage than a skeleton bitty. So why him? "So if I don't want to learn binding magic, you won't teach me any magic?" He wants to make sure he has this right...

Rantrum just shrugs. "That's all I can teach you. It's what I was taught, what I possess the knowledge for, and what I know well enough to one day pass on." A sigh, tapping the table with one finger again, as he adds with soft reluctance, "Even if it's not to you."

Again. Just. Why? There had to be young mages who would be eager to take the role, right? There had to be a catch. Something he wasn't seeing.

Gyre hesitated giving his answer again. Probably visibly. He looked around the room, at the walls of books, at the pretty, floating orbs... At Rantrum. He, wasn't bad? Right? Something this beautiful couldn't have been made by someone bad... could it?

He rubs the back of his neck, thinking this through. Rantrum wasn't bad. He'll... go with that idea anyway. So, that meant the magic wasn't bad either, right? Not innately. Maybe-

Could a mage of binding learn to break bindings too?

"...What do you use it for?" That should probably be his first question, right? That was the important one, after all.

"Ah," A sigh, combing his fingers absently through his beard. "For protections, mostly. Sealing cursed items, dangerous magics..."

"Not people?" Gyre presses, watching him. This was what he needed to know.

Rantrum takes the chew stick from his mouth, clicks his tongue, and turns his gaze up at the walls of books. "Sometimes people." He admits, turning the stick between his fingers. "There are more situations than you may realize, where binding magic is involved."

Gyre's soul sinks. "Oh." Quietly, leaning over his knees. That hadn't been what he wanted to hear.

The mage fixes him with a sympathetic look, sighs, and sets his chew stick aside, and his arms on the table, resting against them. "I know how it sounds," He assures, his tone once more patient, "But such magic is not nearly so straight forward. Let's take for example- I'm certain you're familiar with the concept of soul bonds?"

...What? Oh! Yes! Gyre perks up, looking back to his mage expectantly.

There's a satisfied sound from Rantrum, who nods, straightening again. "Well. There you go. That's not a place where you'd think binding magic could be useful, is it? Yet one of those things I'm able to do with my magic is help strengthen those soul bonds that have become badly damaged, before they can weaken to the point where one or both involved might die."

"Or alternately," He add, with soft significance, and a furrow of those massive brows, "To dissolve those which have become poison, often without harm to either."

Gyre's sockets widen, surprised and more than a bit horrified. "That can happen?" Soul bonds were- They were-!

There's a long, thoughtful look from his mage, and a certain sadness to his eyes, glimpsed briefly, though Rantrum mumbles only, "You're very young, aren't you, Gyre?" As if it's only now that he's realizing this.

The nightmare bitty frowns, straightening up to his full height- Well, the full height he can reach without standing, anyway- And huffs. "I'm two," He points out, looking annoyed, "Almost three. That's well past fully grown for a bitty."

A soft snort, as Rantrum echoes his words, looking bemused. "'Well past. Yes, I suppose. But you'll look back on those words very differently one day, you know. And I'm curious what you'll think then." He drums his fingers against the table, shaking his head. "But that isn't what I mean. Being grown doesn't mean you aren't young, my Gyre. Two years is all but an instant in the span of time you'll one day live."

The retort rising on his tongue dies with those words. 'My Gyre.'

'My Gyre.'

Suddenly he doesn't feel like arguing the point anymore. Those words feel like... Everything.

When has he ever been anyone's before? When had anyone ever made that claim? He was wild born, first generation, an existence shaped by those tidepools of magic that form in the worlds, coalescing until they become something new.

A brand new life, with no parents to welcome him.

A nightmare, brought to existence without his dream.

A familiar in training, waiting to be chosen. Waiting to be wanted. Waiting to finally, finally know where he belonged.

'...My Gyre.'

"Bitties don't always live long lives." It was all he could think to say, a quiet underlying his words that couldn't be put down to volume alone. In theory, since bitties didn't age any further once adult, they could live forever. But in practice? Their lives were often mercilessly brief.

Rantrum lifts his gaze, that unspoken significance not lost on him. "You will."

The certainty in Rantrum's words took Gyre aback. It sounded like a promise. Or maybe something else. He only knew that something in the way he said it offered no room for doubt, and something in the intensity of that clear blue gaze made Gyre realize he believed him.

...Still. "How do you know?"

And like that, the mask of certainty falls away. Or, maybe it wasn't the certainty that was the mask at all. Either way, Rantrum blinks, draws back with a thoughtful expression, as if to consider the question more carefully, then shrugs. "Does it matter?

Gyre just sort of... stares, in disbelief, at this answer. "Yeah," His tone is somehow both flat and exasperated at all once, like he can't believe he even has to answer that. "It does. It matters how you know. Fucking obviously."

A sigh, the mage reaching for his chewing stick again, and falling short, before just leaning back in the chair so far that it threatens to tip under his weight. "That's a shame, then. Because those aren't secrets I can tell just anyone." He gestures carelessly with one hand, "I mean, perhaps an apprentice, certainly. With time. Should they prove they're worthy."

"But that," He levels his gaze at Gyre, pointedly, "Is a great deal of commitment just for the sake of finding an answer you may not like.

Okay. He had a point. "I guess," He huffs, reluctantly.

Still, a long life. That wasn't an assurance many bitties got. Hell, it wasn't an assurance that many anyone got. He weighs this, finally pressing again. "You're, sure?"

"I am." Rantrum nods, looking quite solemn, sage like...

Then he reaches for his chewstick again, misjudges the distance, and knocks it to the ground with a small clatter as it rolls under the table. The mage stares for a moment at the spot where it disappeared, muttering, "Well. Fuck."

Oh, yes. Greatly sage like. Gyre can't quite suppress the sound of amusement, and his mage eyes him in a much put upon way, before sighing, and- simply drawing out another, ignoring the one now clearly lost forever.

Admittedly, it's hard to see him as some great terrifying freedom stealing soul binding mage when he seems so... him. Gyre wonders for the first time though, if that isn't kind of the point. The nightmare bitty climbs back off the book, grimacing at the sheer amount of dust he'd picked up, now covering his clothes and hands. How had he managed not to notice that?

...Right. Distractions.

Gyre tries absently to brush some of the dust off himself, as Rantrum pretends not to be waiting on his answer. Still though, he hesitates. "Do you know if I'll agree to being your apprentice?" He asks at last, determined to learn at least a little more before deciding.

"Eh, Perhaps." Rantrum hums, in that same deliberately evasive way that he'd asked Gyre if it mattered how he knew that he'd live a long life. "But it doesn't matter."

This time, Gyre just watches him flatly, waiting for the rest of it, and eventually the mage nods, sighing, but giving in to the nightmare bitty's demands. "Very well then, I'll explain what I can."

"You see, the nature of the magics I know are ones which are driven and shaped by two very powerful opposing forces- Fate, and choice. The first of course, often being nothing without the second."

"Uh huh." He's taking all of this with a grain of salt, definitely. "So... its only fate if i choose it?"

"Essentially, yes."

Gyre huffs, not bothering to hide his disappointment. "That's not fate then." He mutters. At least it gave him his answer, but... admittedly, he'd been hoping for a different one.

He should've known better.

"Hm. Isn't it." The mage muses aloud, as though weighing this possibility for the very first time. Somehow. For a moment, he just sort of stares at nothing, then shakes pushing himself to a feet with a grunt. "Very well, if you're certain. Come along then," He offers his hand, palm up, along with a small smile for his new bitty, "There's still more to see, and you still need proper quarters. I believe I know a place you'd like though."

That was it? Gyre hesitates, giving him a long, uncertain look, before finally nodding, wordlessly, and climbing onto his hand. The mage helps settle him onto his own rather wide shoulder, and the nightmare bitty settles himself, taking hold of the man's high collar, ready to move on as his mage once again approaches the curious trapdoor, tugs it open with a small grunt, and begins his descent down the odd, old ladder beneath. It was short, not much more than his own height, just enough to let him reach a stairwell that spiraled down, seeming to exist for no other purpose but this.

The whole keep thus far had been like this, if maybe not quite to this extreme. Winding, seemingly aimless, and almost impossible to navigate if you didn't already know where you were going... Which of course, was why it wasn't aimless at all.

Rantrum heads down the stairs, with torches blooming to life as the mage approachs, and just as quickly flickering out again once he'd passed.

Gyre already knew where the stairwell led, but still watched, taking note here and there of little things in his surroundings. Not that there was much to see, admittedly. It was honesgly a bit strange, how heavily ornamented and extravagant some rooms were, while others-

-like the kitchen they descend into, emerging from the pantry of all places, is almost overly dull, and had clearly gone unused for a very long time. Much of it had even fallen into disrepair...

He didn't know why he couldn't dismiss it, but the words echoed in his thoughts, refusing to be ignored. 'Isn't it.' He tightens his grip on the mage's collar, paying increasingly less attention to his surroundings, and more and more to that... absolute non answer.

"It can't be," Gyre denies, the words abruptly cutting through the silence. "Fate, I mean. Fate is something that people have no power to change. That's what makes it Fate." His frustration might be showing through in his tone, just a little.

If Rantrum is surprised by the outburst, he doesn't show it, though his answer does sound semi amused. "Said that way, you make fate sound a bit like a binding."

This takes the nightmare bitty back a bit, and Gyre pauses, frowning as he reflects on them. A binding. That actually sort of made sense. Sort of. "So is that what fate is, then? A binding?"

The mage starts to answer, then pauses, seeming to think better of it. At last, answering only with a quiet, "Perhaps," still continuing on through more corridors. He's in no apparent hurry, despite seeming to have a clear destination in mind.

"And the magic you know is one of bindings." Gyre clarifies, this time pressing the point.

"Yes. Yes, It is." The mage agrees, "There are many aspects to such magics of course, but that is what it comes down to, in the end. Binding."

"Making them... and breaking them?"

Rantrum seems to have reached his destination. Or at least a door. Either way, he stops to retrieve a key ring from his belt, flipping through them absently until he finds the right one. Only then does he answer. "Yes. And yes." He fits the key, turning it with a solid click, "After all, only a fool practices magic they're unable to undo. Can you imagine the utter catastrophe that would be? If every seal, bond, or barrier, cast however poorly or frivolously, were simply permanent?"

A huff, and a mutter, more under his breath, as he swings the door open. "Even more people would be after our heads than there already are."

Definitely taking note of that last bit, then...

Once they've stepped through the doorway, Gyre is caught off guard to find himself not in a room, but on a balcony. A surprisingly high balcony, in fact, considering he'd assumed they were at least close to ground level. The past few days, and the keep's various twists and turns, must have thrown him off even more than he'd realized.

He wondered absently how long it would take before he started being able to find his way around on his own...

The balcony is rather small, leaving not much room. Aside from a railing- and some wax drippings left here and there on said railing, despite the noteable lack of candles- there was really only room for the mage himself, and not much else.

Like the balcony itself, the view was... lacking. Lacking is the word he'd use. Of course the haze didn't help much, obscuring all but the outlines of... Whatever was down there.

But. It was down there all right. Waaaay down there.

He scoots back as Rantrum leans against the balcony, despite it seeming solid. If the mage notices, he doesn't say anything. For a long time, both are silent, watching as the sky slowly lightens to a hazy gold, and slowly begins to burn away some of the mist below, revealing... swamp, mostly. Boggy, wet, and weedy.

He's not sure if he's disappointed, but it's not exactly the reveal he was expecting.

...Actually, he's not sure he even knows what he's expecting anymore.

He watches the sun continue to rise for a while, until all but that very last of the fog is burned away, until every bit of the dreary, swampy bog that stretched out both below and before was more or less revealed, before noting with a faintly wry humor, "That's a lousy view."

A soft snort, humor maybe. "Yes. Yes it is." A hrumph follows this, his oversized brows knitting slightly as he mulls over his next words.

"You don't need to be my apprentice," He says at last, his words decided, "You needn't even be my familiar if you've changed your mind. You are welcome to stay, but remarkable as it may seem, I will not bind you to it, or any fate you do not chose."

"Someone like me knows the cost of binding a soul," He adds with a sigh, an unspoken weight to the words as he gazes out at the lackluster view before them, "Believe me."

Gyre too, turns this over in his mind. It could easily be assumed that he didn't see the warning signs, directly in front of him, the way he didn't immediately dismiss the suggestion of 'apprenticeship.' But no, he saw. Rantrum carried a weight that his initial manner has disguised, and it was at least suggested to Gyre that this was a risk of the magic he weilded- The magic he was offering to teach. At the same time, what Rantrum seemed to be suggesting...

"Does, that mean you can change Fate?" The nightmare asks slowly, still carefully gauging the mage's responses.

"Perhaps," The mage grunts softly, combing his fingers slowly through his wiry beard. Clarifying, after a moment more, "Sometimes."

Right. "Okay," Gyre presses again, "When?"

If he could have seen the mage's expression, he might have seen a twitch of amusement at the corner of Rantrum's smile. "When it's choice that decides it, of course."

Gyre looks out over the swamp, turning this over in his mind. What was choice? What was the illusion of choice?

"What will I choose?" He asks finally.

Rantrum grunts, as ever all but impossible to read. "You haven't decided yet."

Right. Of course. Maybe he'd understand it better going forward? Maybe he wouldn't. But he has a lot to think about. "Do I have time to decide?" ...a lot, to think about.

Rantrum slowly straightens from where he leans against the railing, regarding the bitty on his shoulder with a raised brow. "It's not as though I intend to revoke the offer- Not without very good reason, at least." He takes the chewing stick from his teeth, and flicks it into empty space with a grunt. "This is your home now."

It seems to fall forever, before vanishing from sight, and Gyre spends a few seconds watching it. "Even if I refuse?" He asks, quietly.

"Yes," There's a softness to Rantrum's words now, as he offers soft pets, stroking Gyre's cheek with one crooked finger, "Of course. You are welcome here. Whether as my friend, my familiar, or my apprentice, that much remains true."

As Gyre leans into the pets, closing his eyes as he enjoys the simple pleasure, he misses the small sadness, touching his mage's gaze. "This is my home, my little nightmare. And I promise you, in my home, wherever it may be? You will always be welcome."

----

His head hurt. He couldn't remember why, but the world was filled with the sounds of things breaking, shouts, and what might just be explosions. What's more, he seemed caught, his small body pressed beneath a leathery something, slick and strange sticky, which somehow cushioned his body beneath as well.

Despite the fact that the weight made it harder to breathe, Gyre made no attempt yet to free himself. It was a small place after all, a hiding place, and that was a good place for such a small creature to be when the world was falling down around them.

Them. He blinks, his thoughts suddenly on his mage. Rantrum could take care of this, right? He could-

Gyre wasn't sure. The mage was strong, but his wasn't combat magic, and he wasn't young. Time had taken its toll on the human, as it always did.

Realizing he can't wait to find out, he begins trying to squirm loose of whatever it is that's pinned him, determined to find his mage. His friend. Squirming, twisting, despite the stabbing pain in his head, he manages to twist onto his back, curl his knees to his chest.

With every ounce of strength he has, he uses his legs to lift the strange, soft weight off him...

He's certain he feels something splinter, as the pain in his head suddenly grows sharper, the world tilting and spinnung madly for an instant. It tries to go black again, but thoughts of his friend out there, sonewhere-

There's shouting, he realizes belatedly. Has been this whole time. Is it help? Attackers?

He doesn't know, but he remains silent as he works his way free, slowly but surely. Just in case.

Finally he squirms free of what had held him, and as he tries to push to his feet, his world tilts again, dangerously, sending him toppling. He's horribly aware of his head impacting something and that horrible splintering again, this time accompanied by the feel of something giving way, and the taste of dust on his tongue.

The world goes dark. Maybe for a minute, maybe for ten. It's hard to say. It's long enough for the shouts to move away. Even as he struggles back to consciousness, he listens. Or tries. The world is strange, distant. Echoed.

It's a herculean effort to open just one socket, but for the life of him, he can't open the other. How he manages to push himself to his feet he wouldn't later be able to say, but he does, standing there, wobbling unsteadily. He tries to take a step forward-

Somewhat predictably, he falls, but this time manages to catch himself, if painfully. His head hurts. His body hurts. And something inside him, something inside him feels like it's been clawed away, leaving a raw, aching wound. He pushes himself to his feet again, somehow, and even manages a small few steps before finding something in his path to lean against.

Coughing. How long has he been coughing? He can't tell where he is. What is he leaning against... A book? Is he in the library?

His only intention, as he turns again, is to try and see where he was. To get his bearings, so he has a better idea what to do next. So he can find his way to his mage, to Rantrum-

He doesn't need to. The nightmare bitty stares in horrified recognition at the mass that had pinned him, only moments before. Bits of cloth. Bristly eyesbrows. So much blood. Rantrum...

Still. Unmoving.

Rantrum had looked so tired today. So tired. Managing a small, sad smile now and then, but nothing more. He'd been so quiet, too. He got that way sometimes, rarely, but he did. Petting Gyre had always helped, before, so the nightmare bitty made certain to make himself available for this.

Today, if anything, it had only seemed to make the pain in his eyes run deeper, though he'd reached out each time, accepting his apprentice's wordless requests.

The last few instants, before the noise, before the chaos, suddenly reply through his mind with horrible clarity. There'd been a sound from outside. Visitors were unusual, so Gyre had turned in surprise to listen. He'd started to turn back, to ask Rantrum if he was expecting anyone, when the world had exploded in violence against sound.

Gyre remembered his mage's hands, closing about him without a word. Remembered a sense of falling, and impact...

And now Rantrum was dead, a piece of one of his shelves lying atop his still form. His wonderful, beautiful shelves that reached so high, had broken, and crushed him.

He'd scooped Gyre up as it started to fall, and protected him with his own body. It had been the last thing he'd done.

Gyre stares, that ache in his chest growing steadily worse, until it was pure agony. There was a bond, between mage and familiar, that ran deeper than magic, that ran soul deep in truth...

Nothing, nothing he'd ever known could have prepared him for the pain of that bond being broken. He would later vaguely remember stumbling forward, falling against his mage, and sobbing. He would remember the pain in his head growing worse, but in a way that felt like something that didn't matter anymore.

The world fell apart around him, and smoke grew slowly thicker in the air, and it didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

His mage was dead...

Just. Let him die with him...

----

[bellsofblueficlets]

Second Epilogue

There were no words that could ever truly do justice to it- It was a holy place, lush and verdant, ancient beyond time, and beautiful beyond measure, the place where every child's memory of springtime was born, where every story of elven glades and faery groves had sprung forth into mortal legends, painted one leaf and flower at a time-

But all those words could try relaying the beauty of this place to a soul who'd never seen it, and it couldn't begin to let someone understand what it meant to stand where he was standing, or what it was like, breathing in the heady perfumes and primordial magics of this place.

There was one word above all else though, that stood out to Cade as one he would use later, trying to describe all the... everything here.

Alive. More alive than anything he'd ever felt before. But, it was her garden, wasn't it? How could he expect anything else?

At the same time, there was no mistaking that something terrible had happened here. The garden was still scarred from it, places in the ground which, even overgrown with healing green, still betrayed the damage done.

It was healing, yes, and would continue to heal, but some small part of Cade wondered if something with damage that dug so very, very deep, could ever hope to fully heal.

As much other wonder as there might be in this place though, as much magic, as much beauty, as much life? It was, in all of these, nothing compared to it's goddess.

Soft white fur. Laughter like bells. She watched him gently from her place, resting against an especially magnificent oak, for all that it bore the most visible scar, almost like a blade had cut deeply into it's wooden flesh-

Almost involuntarily, Cade's gaze shifts to the Reaper, standing no small distance away, watching all of this with a lazy grin, his scythe carried casually over his shoulder. In almost every way, he could have been Solace's twin... and Cade supposed, technically, that he was.

Yet looking at him now? The science sans saw nothing of his mate in the Reaper.

As for Life? She was... beautiful. White fur? She wasn't merely white, she glowed white, like a cumulus cloud lit by the sun, or the first snow of winter as it meets the dawn, or a single perfect lily shaped from the moon's own light. Her eyes were pools of molten gold, of sunlight poured from the warmth of summer, and she was just... there. Radiating life. Radiating resilience and a sort of primordial beauty that seemed like it should be terrifying.

But, that smile. It washed over his soul like... love... and left him trembling in her wake. Not from fear, exactly, though he was afraid, it just-

He felt. Like so little before her. Life was something more than he could ever be, greater in ways that his mind still couldn't even comprehend than it should ever be possible...

And his Solace, had loved her.

And looking at him now? The way he leaned comfortably against her side, and smiled up at her, with a warmth usually reserved for Cade himself... The little science sans knew, he still did. And always would.

...He was nothing beside her.

Before these thoughts have the chance to lead him too far into despair, Solace looks over at him, smiling at first, then pausing as he reads his little mate's expression. His brow furrows briefly, and he leans in, saying something to Life that Cade can't hear, and she nods, turning back to the little science sans, and extending her hand, palm up, and open, to lie against the soil, in invitation.

Cade. Takes a step. And then immediately regrets it, casting a guilty look at Solace, unsure if this reaction to his beloved Life would be seen as disrespectful...

Instead, his mate's expression is worried... guilty. He starts to step away from Life, to head to his little mate to comfort him, and Cade's soul is suddenly heavy. He knew his love had missed her so much, all this time... And yet here he was, leaving her side. For him.

"I'm-" He starts to whisper apology, as Solace takes his hand, and his other hand cups the little science sans' cheek, but any attempts at sorry are cut short by the kiss pressed to his mouth, familiar, and tender, and good. Wings wrap around him, silken, wonderful things, and then the kiss is ending, and Solace is looking down at him with a smile-

Suddenly, he can't remember why he thought for even a moment that his mate might see him as less, just because he stood again beside his goddess.

Tension melts away, and Solace nuzzles him. The other Reaper snorts, only to be cast a chastising look by Life, leaving him resort to a much put upon sigh instead. All good humoredly, of course- Probably.

Solace ignores him, waiting a few seconds longer to make sure his little mate is okay, before turning to look up at the goddess, then back at Cade. "It's up to you," He assures, letting Cade decide what to do next. He wouldn't be upset with his little mate if he wasn't ready to meet the goddess. But the offer was made.

The little science sans hesitates, then turns his gaze to look at her again. Solace might be disappointed if he didn't, but he wouldn't be upset with him. But. If he did it? He had a feeling he would get to see his lover, even with his dark magic, light up like the sun.

Slowly, he let's go of Solace, and approaches her. He shaking, but his fixes his gaze on his brilliant golden one, and keeps going. His soul had stood in Death's hand. What did he have to fear from Life?

...Everything. Absolutely everything.

Just the same, he doesn't slow, and doesn't stop, until he reaches her hand. He's so small that he'd need to rest his hands against her palm to pull himself up enough to climb onto it, so that's what he does.

He's not prepared for how soft she is, or how warm. She had the same softness to her fur that Solace had to his wings, but-

Then she starts to lift him.

The swell of panic hits him in a wave, and he sinks to his knees, shaking too hard to keep his feet, and she goes still. Breathe, he can't breathe-!

And then Solace is there, lighting beside him, and scooping his little mate into his arms, wrapping his wings about, and kissing his face softly. Tender whispers promise him, "It's okay, sweet soul. I'm proud of you for trying. But that's enough, we can-

Cade grits his teeth, and shakes his head, pulling Solace's arms around him more tightly. "Hold me." He denies, stubborn. Solace's grip tightens, but Cade shakes his head again. "No, hold me."

Understanding dawns on Solace's features, and he nods, scooping his little mate up without another word, and sitting down then and there in the goddess' hand- hands, now- Cade in his lap, with the Reaper's arms around him.

It take a few minutes, held like this, but slowly, Cade is able to regain his composure. His trembling eases, his breathing steadies, and finally, finally, he looks up at Life, the pair if them held gently in her hands.

Cade sneaks a glance at the other Reaper, half expecting amusement at him being so easily terrified- He sees nothing like this, only a look of softness as he watches his Tory being so patient and careful with the scared bitty. Cade himself may as well not even be there, just one reason out of countless others to give Death an excuse to watch Life, in something like worship himself.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Cade," The goddess greets him, all warm smiles and sweet, dulcet tones. "Sans has been telling me about you. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious about the brave little bitty who lent so much to salving the wound left deep within Death's own heart. And now, more, you've brought him home to us."

The little science sans is... admittedly somewhat mesmerized by her, until this last. His soul sinks, and confusion colors his expression. "What? What did I do?"

"You gave Sans- Solace- the motivation he required to change his place in eternity," Life explains, her tone ever patient, ever soft. "By yielding half his magic to you, he has yielded his role as Death forever. Now he is his own deity, unique and new... just as you are."

As? He? Is? Cade turns those words over in his mind. If he's a god- demi god- then, demi god of what? Was there anything that a bitty demi god could even be useful for?

Probably not, but it didn't really matter. He had his mate, he had his studies, he had his patients and his practice, and he wouldn't give up any of it just to be a demi god of whatever token thing existed for one like him.

He didn't need to be a god. He knew who he was. He was Cade, and it was enough.

----

After the pair had headed off for a different reunion with Solace's brother, Life sat there with a secretive little smile, looking endlessly pleased. Finally, it was too much for Reaper's curiosity, and he lifted one brow, sitting up straighter from the stone he leaned against. "A'right. Spill it."

His Tory just smiled, and shook her head. "I believe his world has just gained a patron. And healer like him, with such a compassionate soul? Will make a very good demi god."

Death just looked at her for an extended moment, pretty sure there was more she wasn't saying, but finally shrugged, and accepted it, leaning back to close his eyes and steal a nap.

And Tory just smiled.

There had been so much magic, flowing between the two of them, so much love, so much pure and genuine intent to be together, so much longing for life, that it was almost inevitable, wasn't it, that this was exactly what had happened? She'd felt it, still so new, so small, but unmistakable.

Cade would help to heal his timeline. In his own way, he would bring hope, and life, and light back to his world...

...And bring new life, into it.

----