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paris-geller-was-straightwashed · 6 months

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M*A*S*H 4077 & DND

guess who started their m*a*s*h rewatch around the same time they've gotten into d&d and now cannot stop thinking about the utter chaos and hyjinks of The Gang trying to play a campaign. it starts with none of them really super into fantasy roleplay, but they're all So Fucking Bored they might as well play to have something to do.

it started off imaging just what role they'd each play, but now I couldn't stop myself from imaging each person's race, class, AND, just for fun, the dice they'd use!

hawkeye: isn't that bothered about races, probably either an elf or just a human. class is paladin, relating the paladin's 'call for good' something like the oath doctors take to always help and heal patients, no matter what (and, let's be honest, probably feeds into his egotistical nature at being a naturally skilled surgeon, as if he was 'called'). cannot be Asked to care about ability scores (only to deeply regret it when he's nearly off'd the first battle) except for pouring most of his points into charisma. mostly likely of the party to Fuck his way out of a confrontation (no matter the other's gender #bihawkrights). spends most of the campaign messing around and forgetting what his spells are, but when the party hits a serious battle, is the first to throw himself in and use any spells to help his friends before himself. originally wasn't that interested in the game, but overtime becomes one of the ones who gets really into it, screaming across the board at ppl's bad roles and cheering & trying to pick ppl up in glee when they win. dice of choice:

(just the most wack-ass coloured dice I could find, metaphor for the inside of his brain (also this way he can tell if anyone tries to conceal any as theirs)).

radar: while interested in the fantasy stuff (being a comic reader), was a little intimidated with all the math & rules involved until hawkeye and bj convince him. part of me thinks he could be a halfling or dwarf, but then I think he might enjoy being a humanoid creature like a minotaur (farm boy) or a satyr bc of his love of animals. class is bard, where he carries/plays the drum. enjoys and gets really into the story, but is always flummoxed when it comes to the battles, asking what everyone else thinks his character should do (only for everyone to yell back several different answers). always needs a couple of seconds of mental math to add his modifier to dice rolls (me too radar) but when the party comes across a riddle or puzzle, is usually the first to figure it out. keeps trying to pick up small creatures to put them in his sack. is not allowed to talk while people make their roles bc of too many times where he's predicted the number before they can read the dice (the moment of hawkeye's saving role during a Big Bad battle was kind of ruined when radar elatedly jumped up at the nat20 before the dice even left hawk's hand). dice of choice:

(cute little puppers!)

margaret: at first is staunchly against it, calling it childs' play, but eventually is worn down by hawk & bj and is also so bored, she gives in. thought she might be an elf, but in the end chooses genasi, picking fire power. chooses the fighter class, leaving hawkeye to make a remark that gets a dice thrown at his head. doesn't really get super into the meta of the game or the story (often tells the dm to get on with it and cut to the action) but does love to play, where it overtime becomes a good outlet for anger ('the demon tries to approach you, margaret what do you-' 'I SLICE OFF HIS KNEECAPS WITH MY BATTLEAXE!'). is a good player until the roles don't go her way ('you only rolled a 10, so your attack doesn't hit-' 'SCREW YOU! KLINGER GIVE ME YOUR 18 ROLE!'). is pretending like she isn't having fun but everyone can see through her. dice of choice:

(these seemed the most like margaret, elegant but not too girly).

henry: is also peer-pressured into joining. picks barbarian class so he doesn't have to think about spells. tries to pick human bc all the other races were 'too complicated' but got told due to his class, he has to pick a more built character like an orc, so an orc he ends up being. but he's bad at it, often either trying to escape a battle or by being a peacemaker, trying to persuade the monster out of battle but with such a low charisma score, it usually ends up with him getting clonked over the head and margaret jumping in before he's killed. keeps trying to give his gold to poor peasants they meet along the way. doesn't understand any of the mechanics. rolls so many nat1's that nobody will switch dice with him anymore, thinking his are cursed. the game is often more stressful for him then not, but he enjoys the time with his friends. dice of choice:

(I dunno, for some reason when I think of henry I think of a dark orange/amber).

potter: prolongs joining, thinking he's too old for it, but is also peer-pressured and eventually caves, thinking it'll be good for morale. chooses dwarf and for his class to be an old wizard. doesn't understand half the rules, spends most of the time muttering under his breath as he goes over the manual, radar (un)helpfully leaning in beside him to explain. but once he gets the hang of it is a good team member; is the only other person besides margaret to take the hints and puzzles seriously and without him (+her) the party would probably be making circles lost in some boundless woods somewhere. cheers his teammates on when they make a high roll or powerful move and only occasionally has outbursts ('well colonial sir, you need a 16 or higher to cast-' 'MULE FRITTERS! I said cast magic missile and that's an order!!!"). dice of choice:

(same thing - when I think of potter, I think a dark blue).

charles: the last of the group to get into it. completely refused and repeated that 'he was far too smart for that kids' stuff' and everyone was wasting their time. but when someone had to dip out of the campaign last minute to deal with a medical thing, charles was brought in as filler with the promise of a day's R&R. at first I thought high elf, but switched to dragonborne, of the noble variety of course. chooses sorcerer (blessed with some innate magic, as his ego prefers). constantly complains about the needless complexity of the rules and why bother having ability scores when it's the modifier that counts???? is always arguing with the dm on his rolls. uses up half of his turns to use mage hand to steal hawkeye's things or cast ray of sickness on him when he's being annoying - but, when it comes down to it, is one of the more strategic players and has gotten them out of many sticky situations. like margaret, is pretending he isn't having fun, but isn't immune to jumping up with the others over a saving nat20 role, at one time even excitedly picking up a confused radar. in the end, swallows his pride to shyly ask if he can join the party finally ('you know, it'll, uh..it will give me something to do during those boring intervals, and clearly this group needs all the brains it can get..' '..charles, you wanna come play with us?' 'well, if I must..'). dice of choice:

(the snootiest of dice, a pure gold colour).

mulcahy: also initially intimidated by the mechanics, but is happy to play a game with his friends. a possible half-elf or maybe a wise owlin. cleric, obviously. gets invested in the storyline, often applauding the dm's story or asking 'what happens next???" only to be told to wait till the next meet. one of the few who has actual healing spells and probably the only reason everyone didn't die in their first battle. a nerd who enjoys solving the puzzles. actually gets into the lore and one time had a deep, 2 hr conversation with radar & hawkeye about the disenfranchisement of some of the races and the hierarchy of the class/rule structure within the fantasy realm, and how it relates to theirs. the next day, radar came to his tent to show him a little sketch he did of his character in cleric robes, shrugging it off, but mulcahy loved it so much he pinned it up on his tent walls. dice of choice:

(inspired by one of my favourite mulcahy lines, when he's talking about missing holding services in real churches - 'I am rather fond of stained glass', which I always think of whenever I see stained windows. tried to pick the ones that emulated the colours best (also would've liked maybe a light, forest green colour; it just feels mulcahy-esque to me).

klinger: one of the first to join bc what else what he gunna do but sit in his tent, sewing up pantyhose? rogue class, of course, relating to the 'urchin' background. changeling race, so that way with his class he can hide at any moment, and also, as he says, 'can perfectly match his outfit no matter what he looks like!' tries to follow the storyline but doesn't have the attention span for it, half the time guessing the wrong answer to any clue or puzzle (will come and poke the dm awake in the middle of the night with his patrol gun, claiming to have figured it out). second after hawkeye to try and Fuck his way out of a situation. cannot do math to save his life, making margaret often rip his dice away from him to add it herself. will gang up with hawkeye to use his pickpocket skill on charles. resourceful enough to have tricked the villains multiple times and gotten away with it but will also roll to try and kick the villain in the nuts to see what happens. dice of choice:

(these just screamed klinger to me; I like the dark, 'masculine' colour contrasted with with the colourful flowers).

bj: thought I missed him? well, I saved the best for last bc bj...is the dm! ha ha! no one really in particular stood out, but after thinking on it, he seems like the best fit. first, I was thinking of the episode 'the kids' where he gets really into the story he's telling, full of voices and sound affects and all. and secondly, our kindly mustacheo'd doctor loves Mind Games and pranks - what better way then stringing his friends along into one big, zigzag puzzle? bj loves nothing more then having his friends on the edge of their seats, only to pull out a bad guy the group thought they got rid of months ago, glee in his eyes watching them combust into screaming and table flipping. getting a thrill during off hours, hearing hawkeye & charles hastily whisper across bunks to each other on the campaign thinking he can't hear them, or getting shaken awake by margaret in the middle of the night, demanding answers. he spends hours planning out the campaigns in the tent (and finding new places to hide his papers from hawkeye), sometimes writing peg about it and occasionally - if the timing of the mail is right - using her suggestions she writes back. but mostly, bj just loves watching his friends have a good time - cheering each other on and hollering with each battle won, feeling proud of them for everything accomplished (when he doesn't have to babysit hawkeye & charles from casting spells on each other, trying to answer radar's 49th question on how rolls work, or keep margaret from solo fighting the demon fifteen levels above her). dice of choice:

(idk, these just feel 'bj hunnicutt' to me).

other camp members: - frank: was only let in Once after margaret begged hawk & bj, saying it was only fair. initially picked human bc 'they're clearly the purest and most civilized race!!' (causing eyerolls), quit thirty minutes in after being told he couldn't be a fighter 'cause they already had margaret and that he couldn't just 'set all his abilities to 20', calling them all nerds and angrily throwing a d20, only for it to bounce back on the tent beam and hit him in the eye. - some of the nurses have occasionally filled in, but otherwise don't play outside of margaret (most of their time was filled up with hawkeye using his character to flirt with theirs). one time nurse kellye filled in; she played a cute little halfling druid, and her and radar teamed up to help rescue all the forest animals, much to the groups chagrin. - zale & igor: permanently banned. both tried to eat the dice on a dare.

campaigns are held twice a month in the swamp, with drinks and stale pretzels to go around. use to sometimes go all night but after one too many nights of clambering arguments over each other's rolls, the whole camp banded together to force a curfew. while the game only exists within the swamp's quarters, they'll once and a while jokingly call each other by their character's names (and if you're margaret, one time accidentally using it to call hawkeye to surgery, which he now never lets her live down). during the last campaign of the story, radar pulls out another drawing he did - this time of everyone's characters, standing valiantly over the dragon they slayed. it now has a place of honour hung in the swamp.

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revelisms · 6 months

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Antichrist Copia theory has overtaken me yall. I was not expecting to crank out a full thing on this, but, uh...if you're looking for one big indulgent braindump on Terzo trying to unpack his feelings on this while Copia gets possessed by a demon, look no further?

Quick context setting—I'm still working out these headcanons a bit, but what I'm generally tinkering with here:

Everyone tied to the Emeritus bloodline has some degree of magical abilities, which were formally "awakened" in an oath-taking ceremony at a point in the boys' childhood. This is the Sight mentioned here (i.e., whatever is up with the white eye), and each of the brothers have a slightly different angle for it: Primo can see into the minds of living things, Secondo can see into the past, Terzo can see into the future, and Copia can see into the realm that bridges life and death—and is somewhat a literal bridge, himself, between those planes of reality.

The Exaltation ceremony is a formal handoff from each Papa to the next heir, in which their Sight is tapped to its greatest potential in preparation for becoming head of the church. This typically involves a delivery of rites, a magical blessing, and an opening of the Gate between worlds (which, in this context, is technically Hell itself).

Basically: mayhem ensues.

here we lie

4k words | Rating: M | Terzo-Centric | Antichrist Copia | CWs: Ritual magic, dark imagery, near-death experience, blood, language, existentialism, doomed fate, whump, anger issues, dysfunctional family dynamics, hurt/comfort. Also on AO3

The exaltation ceremony goes wrong.

By all accounts, it shouldn't have.

As with any long-standing traditions of the church, the ritual had been perfected to the scrape of dust one was allowed to wear on their boots—and, as such, had been prepared with the expected flurry of pomp and circumstance.

The esteemed Monsignor Emeritus, firstborn, blessed with the Sight, had cleansed the air thrice with dishes of althea and frankincense and bistort: enhancements for protection and divination.

Sister Mariella, well-familiar with the customs, had laid down the sigils for the Gate flawlessly: shadowed by the slow-prowled growlings and page-turned rites of Secondo Emeritus, Archbishop of the Eternal Light.

The ceremony, as was custom, was set to be led by the head of the church: their Exalted, sheened in black from neck to toe, the points of his clawed gloves glinting in the lowlight—for whom the Sight of premonition had seemed both a blessing and a curse, and never more so than now.

He was distracted, perhaps. Dehydrated, maybe. Dreading the moment he would stand at the door to the realm beyond—a threshold of time and space untethered—that would soon devour the faceless flesh-form of a ghoul cast back to the shadow (his One, his All, his own); a door he himself, in time, would one day find himself crossing, with body and soul split, head and neck cleaved, heart and mind shattered.

From the moment he'd slopped a spoon through the breakfast his secretary had slid on his desk that morning, he'd known, instinctually, that this damned thing could turn so haywire, if only because he'd been the one shackled with it.

His jittery magic, his restless brain, and Copia—

Well.

Copia has been anything but normal, from the day Sister carted him up the chapel steps.

Terzo knew he had magic—the likes of which few could fathom, even from his sticky-fingered child days. The night the little rat had taken his oaths, the air had sung with it: a strange buzz of sensation that felt like the sun had tipped off-center.

And now—

Now, the Gate is laid open beneath Terzo's hands, the unseen ink of his spell-marks glowing a blood-lilac fuchsia, bright enough to glare violently through his clothes, and the void of Hell itself screaming in its glory—and Copia is not imbued with the Dark One's majesty, as he should be—is no man, is not living, has flames for eyes and claws for teeth and wings like the undead and is screaming—

"Close it," Secondo snarls at him, a blurred tower of shadow and piercing white—

—and Terzo knew this.

Knew this boy-man-beast-hellspawn of Christ-Shadow Beholden always was.

He'd looked him in the eye—kneeled there in the cat's cradle of a pentagram scraped in chalk, hands fidgeting at his cassock—and gave a crook of his head: murled, Ready? like a tease, though some part of him had meant it as, You'll be alright, eh?

But unblessed saints and demons below, Copia isn't.

What writhes before him now is a creature that terrifies him to the bone—one that may not abandon his brother completely, should he fail at this any farther than he already has.

"Terzo." Primo, now: an urgent hiss at his shoulder. "Close the gate—"

"I know." His magic burns at his fingertips, sears through his blood. "That—thing hasn't released him—"

A thing with claws cradling Copia's head like ceramic a hairline from shattering, spitting a pained growl through his teeth.

The sacrament in Mariella's hand shakes. "Papa, what's...?"

"I don't know." The flamelight flickers unnaturally against the domed walls: a great breath that lapses to darkness, sparks back again. "Shit, I—I don't know."

"Terzo—"

"Close the gate—"

"Hell Satan—will you all shut up?!"

There are horns in Copia's hair, slick-red-gold between his grappling fingers.

His stomach is in his head. His brain in his feet.

Mariella swallows. She's always been a strong soul—far more than him, now: level-headed in a storm, vibrant in a fog; a presence that guides as much as it grounds.

"How long can you hold it for?" she whispers, firm and calm.

He pulls dry air into his lungs. "As long as I need to."

He steps forward, spellwork singing in his veins, and lets his hands unfurl. The air whips at his vestments, wailing with the bone-deep unease of voices old as Creation straining to be heard.

Somewhere in there is Copia's own. He'll drag it out by hand, if he has to.

"You imbecile!" Secondo is shouting, muffled behind the blurred opalescence of the Veil: a wall that glows off the circle Terzo crosses, consumes him with the prickling unease of a limb losing its circulation. "You can't reason with it!"

The flames warp again. A shadow like death bends over the walls.

Terzo's no stranger to the taste. His dreams have been riddled with the stench of it, from the day the Sight was force-gifted upon him. And like he had, then—a child with battered elbows and bruised knees; a not-man with awkward limbs and disdain for the old orders of this world; a Cardinal with paint on his teeth and a straightjacket of woolen expectations—he repents.

"I call on the spirits of the Then and the Below." A twitch strings through his fingers: with it, a flare of violet light. "To the Beings of those Beyond, the Eternal, I speak now, and speak only—" The pitch of his voice mangles, ragged with the corded growl of a beast: the underbelly all their half-human souls peel clean, when drowned deep enough in this waste. "In my Blood, see my will. In my Sight, my path—"

"What is he saying?" Mariella asks, her voice muffled as though through glass.

Primo calls a sharp warning: "Don't cross it—"

The air whistles with a faint singing of metal—and splits. It grapples at his clothes, twisting his hair with a gravitational pull unseen.

He breathes in chalk dust, sighs out knives.

Beneath Copia's shivering limbs ripples the black expanse of the Gate: an aether so endless one couldn't capture its history in a millennia: a presence so indefinable that even Primo, with years of such history under his belt, can only stare through the blur, voiceless and rigid at the sight of it.

With twitching claws and lightless eyes and Hell beneath his feet, Terzo beckons.

"Bare yourself to me."

The room shivers. The walls shriek. The flames stagger, flutter, wheeze again—and snuff out, completely.

In the pitch, it is only the Eternal, and the glow within his veins, and the white of his eye, and Copia's beast-man-beast-man-fanged grin with a split lip—

A Being that takes the air of the room by the throat, and speaks in a voice that thunders.

"It is time."

Terzo feels its presence slithering up his legs. The weight of its All on his lungs.

He keeps his hands steady, his intent clear, even for the exertion that leaves his arms quivering.

"Not here," he grits back, a strange echo in the ringed light that encases them. "Not now."

A hand that is not Copia's, is scaled and rotted and red, slaps to the stones. "When?" The shriek hits his ears like a thunderstrike. A chill is crawling under his veins: a heaviness that isn't right, is this thing more than his own blood. "When?"

Primo's magic is wafting through the air—some swift-casted attempt at a ward around them, far too late now. The scent of it itches on Terzo's tongue: dragon's blood, rose-ash, frigid at his back. His own aura swats it off like a gnat, too distracted to let it in, to think.

Fuck, he needs to think.

A stage—

The Being wails.

His downfall—this one's own Ascension—

Ice knifes into his ankle.

A stage and heat and lights and purple-bleeding-black and blood on his throat—a syringe in his brother's own hands, a demon masqueraded—his Unnamed's voice gristling in his ear, Be still be still be still now—

Mariella squeezes a talisman in her palm, smoking sweetly with the taste of Secondo's own protection charm.

"Papa," she calls out: her voice a muddy, drowned thing.

His lashes flutter open, heavy as lead.

"Coward!" the Being retches. Hellfire blisters against its silhouette, a nebulic haze. "Tell them of your death. Of Our purpose. Where We were sewn. You know it—"

Mariella holds the stone out to him, guided through the surging current of Primo's ward. The air wrestles like a gale through her sleeve.

"You know it!"

His claws catch at her palm—not his gloves, but his own, thick and black as talons. The talisman burns a sunspot-bloom through his marrow, bright as a thousand stars.

"Thirteen months." His speech is one he doesn't recognize: child and entity and Bloodline infinite. "On a black dais, surrounded by your flock." The talisman melts like a balm into his skin: an unseen shield that ripples with half-lit iridescence. The chill biting into his skin flinches. "You will know it," Terzo grits on, "and now is not it."

He thinks he hears Copia's voice through the fray. He can't be sure.

"And then?" snarls the Being.

Not a being. Not a thing.

No—this is Lucifer-incarnate.

An orchestration.

"It won't be finished, then." The shell of magic around them snaps like embers in a flame, a jolt wrestling up his arm. So much time. So much weighed down—and he weighs it down, still, his breath shuddering. "You'll have years to go—"

"And then?"

Scraped nails, dead eyes, bloodied horns, Copia—

Secondo's gloved palm tears through the gleam, squeezes like a noose around his bicep. "I won't say it again, you fuck," he spits, the words warped and crackling. "You're going to get him killed—"

He can't shake him off quickly enough.

"Close it!"

Copia's eyes. Copia's soul, trapped in the All. Right there—

His magic flares like a supernova, spears through that gate and holds: a cosmic blast that shouts his throat raw, knocks Secondo nearly off his feet, leaves him lightheaded and with blood on his teeth—but he has him—

"Thirteen months' time," the Being roars, "and you'll be taken with it."

Terzo hisses, his claws scraping at his brother's skin.

"So is the Rule."

The Gate grapples at his silks.

Copia's gloved fingers shake, snatching desperately at his arms. His own voice breaks through the loom. "Terz—"

"I've got you," Terzo spats. Sweat sticks at his neck.

The fibers of his magic are fraying at the edges.

Red eyes glare up at him. "Do you accept it?"

The portal whines.

"To the day it is marked, you'll have it. As it is written." His claws slip on Copia's sleeve. "As it always was."

The Being grins. "And so it will be."

It spits his brother out.

His hold on the Gate snaps like a wire—and shatters the well of magic, with it. The howl torrents through the room with a cello's blare, and whips to a bee-winged nothingness.

With the loss of it, gravity lurches in his gut. He cracks to his knees, catches himself on the stones just enough—gloves still intact, not torn through, only clawed with gold—and heaves blood.

"Papa!"

And his brother. His damned demon brother: rubber-legged, staggering, Copia gasps like a man near-drowned.

Unscathed, somehow—Satan willing.

Primo is across the room, in an instant. "Copia. Unblessed beneath, are you alright?"

"Ye-Yes, yes, I—shit." Primo catches him, his gloves slipping at his sleeves. Unsteadily, he veers back on his feet. "What...what happened?"

It's too dark. Too quiet. Too loud.

Terzo swallows down bile; chokes on blood and phlegm. Mariella's habit swims in his vision.

"Papa," she hushes, clear as crystal now. "Papa, look at me."

Secondo, halfway between them: "Is it gone?"

Her fingers skim through the sweat-dripped mess of his paints: press cooly at his temple.

"Is it gone?"

"Yes," she breathes.

Hazily, lashes flicking, Terzo tips out of her touch. He chokes on his words, the first try; rasps them, the second. "Where's the rat?"

"He's here," Primo answers him. "He's fine."

There's a clumping of boots, a rustling of silks, Mariella scurrying from the floor.

"What in Hell's name were you thinking." Secondo's hand jerks at his sleeve, wrestles him half-blind back into his bones. "You could have doomed us all. We never—never—speak to the Unnamed without wards in place. You know that—"

"Brother," Copia croaks.

Secondo rips his head over his shoulder. "You shut your mouth. I haven't even gotten to you." With a firm grip, his hand slips under Terzo's arm, helps him slowly to his feet. "Get up," he huffs. "Come on. Are you alright?"

"I'm—fuck. Fine. I'm fine."

His elder brother scowls down at him. "Good. And you better stay that way, because I have half a goddamned mind to put a fist through your teeth—"

"Dino," Primo snarls, "This is helping nothing." Years of practice in such misguided events has left him rationed, calm: a quiet glance turned to the pale-faced attendant behind him, who stands shell-shocked, having seen unwantedly the darker veins of their Order—and ones their customs would soon have him forget. "Jean," Primo says, waiting for his eyes to drop. "We will need a medic. Say nothing to the All-Father."

Secondo scoffs. "Oh, yes—Nihil will have this one's ass, when he hears of this—"

"Saints—ignore him, young one. A medic, and Priestess Diana. Quick as you can."

The boy nods and takes off through the hall's doors, stumbling up the stairs in his haste.

In his absence, the room holds a collective breath, the eyes of the siblings still in attendance fixed like rabbits on the four men clustered in the center of the room.

"We're alright," Primo says to them all, in a tone that is more order than reassurance.

It couldn't be more of a reach.

Terzo wheezes a snarl, a laugh. "Alright." The stones sting beneath his feet: five paces that drive him out of Secondo's iron grip, steer him straight into the path of Copia's saucer-wide blinking: eyes blue and white and younger than they should ever seem, in a face that has grown so weathered, as all of them have.

And he knew.

He lifts a clawed finger, his breath too slow. "I knew."

Primo, sharp as steel: "Do not take this out on him—"

He couldn't give a shit.

He almost killed him.

The bastard wasn't living.

"What are you, mh?" Terzo licks his lips, tastes the bitter metal of blood. He lifts a shaky hand. "No, no—what did she make you?" He smears the leather against his mouth, the heat of his stare unwavering, a knife-edge sliced from shoes to frazzled fringe. "That—that Aether just within you, eh? Always that, under there?"

Copia shakes. "I didn't," he blunders.

"This is why she brought you, isn't it? Satan, of course—"

Secondo wrestles for his elbow, a steadying squeeze. "Terzo—"

"You saw it—!"

His brother's eyes simmer: one black in the lowlight, the other white as a moonbeam. "I saw you."

His bites his nails through his glove. Rattles in a breath.

"Calm down, the both of you," Primo says coldly, a hand still on Copia's shoulder. "It was reckless—but you managed. We are all still in one piece." He steps between them, pointedly, studying Terzo's face like a leech. "Your Sight will be strained for weeks, after that. You did not have the power to even attempt that on your own."

Terzo snuffs. "A good thing one of us sorry shits did."

Behind the sharp slope of Primo's shoulder, Copia shivers, eyes downturned. "I—"

"Don't." He drags a gloved hand through his hair. Shaking—still shaking? Outraged—always. Horrified, still. "You're good," he tells his brother, tells himself. "It is all good. You're alright. Okay."

Primo's eyes stare through him, see a bitten-lipped boy with a bandage on his cheek.

Terzo turns away. "Okay," he hushes again, and walks, past Secondo's stone-still glare, Mariella's worried frown, and walks, and walks, and walks—

"You are not running away, now—"

"Dino. Leave it. Copia, do not linger on that, alright? Don't listen to it. You know how he is. It is not your fault—"

"But what—what was that? What happened—?"

—up the gnarled stairwells, out the maze of lower halls, stumbling over the grasses, and sits like a stone on the side-entry's steps. Like a ghost.

Sits for an age.

He must—because, by then, the medics have come, and the stench of that room has been dragged open, and Mariella's whispers are drifting across the corridor's arches—after he's ripped off his gloves, dug his fingers through his hair, tried to breathe and not think—and he expects her.

He expects her fear, her pity.

Not Copia.

The fool's boots scuff on the stairs.

"Is it, eh..." His brother muddles over a breath. "Alright if I—?"

Terzo doesn't have the mind to fight it—not with sweat still cold at his back. He swats his palm, some attempt at allowance, kneading his other fingers over his brow.

Copia slumps down to the steps. Just stays there, in awkward, insufferable silence.

Finally: "Shit—it's chilly today, isn't it?"

Terzo leers through his fringe. "Going to talk about the birds, next?"

"I'm just saying."

"Just saying. Yes—and you'll be singing, after." He combs back the half-tamed waves of his hair, hangs his hand across his knee. "Old chamber smells like a cesspool."

Copia manages a smile, the thistles of his mustache wrinkling. "Bleh. Nasty place. I've always hated it, down there."

"All the more reason to, now, huh?" Terzo forces a sneer of his own, glaring away. He sniffs. Pits his tongue against his teeth.

For a beat, his brother says nothing. Then, his gloved fingers squeaking over each other: "I'm alright."

Terzo chuffs, furrowing his brows. "Barely."

He can feel the rat's eyes on him. It makes his skin crawl. "Primo...told me. What it—well." Copia frowns at his boots, at the graveled path beyond. "Did you mean it?" he hushes, lifting his eyes. "That you've...seen it, before?"

Terzo bites the inside of his lip. "Seen lots of things."

"But—that. It's—I've always thought...er...felt that, maybe, she'd..."

"Sister?"

"Mother, yes—"

"Your mother."

Copia's shoulders twitch.

"I—sorry," Terzo mumbles, shifting his fingers over his thumb. "I know it's not..."

His fault, his intention—his anything, right?

But it is. Isn't.

Should be.

He flexes his hand, pitters his fingertips together. Looks away. "Anyway."

A breeze rustles cooly through the shrubbery that flanks the stairs: a feathered hush along the pines that tower over the grounds.

"Anyway," Copia repeats, shifting his tongue around his mouth. "It's just...you, eh...you have seen it, before," he says again, watching the air ripple through the leaves, "haven't you?"

Terzo glances at him. Sister's sloped nose. A paintbrush-smattering of freckles. The white of his eye, fixed on the swaying branches. Lanky little thing, as he's always been. The mirror to his own placelessness, own purposelessness, own forced mantle he never asked to have thrown upon him—but craved, clawed for, claimed, nonetheless.

"Told you, little thing," he says, tipping his heel off the stones. "Seen lots of things."

"But I know. I've always...felt it, I just haven't—" Copia fumbles, lacing his fingers. "Had the words, I guess."

"Rare thing, for you."

"Shut up."

"Heh—even rarer for me, eh?"

"Ugh."

They breathe in unison, the air thick with it: hope, despair, magic, emptiness.

"When it...when that...thing took over me, did it...say anything to you?"

Terzo's mouth ticks.

Thirteen months. Poison in his neck. His body tossed through the gaping maws of the realm beyond.

He stares at the points of his boots, still speckled with his own spit and blood, and scuffs his thumb at it.

"Eh...not clearly. Hard to make out, in the muck of it."

"None of it came through?"

Terzo tilts his chin on his shoulder, fixing him with a narrowed look. "It wasn't you, Coppie," he says. "Just...forget what I said, before. Old temper of mine, rearing its shitting head again."

"But what if—"

"It wasn't." Terzo plants his palm on his brother's knee, chipped black on his nails, and squeezes. "It wasn't," he murmurs again.

Copia stutters. "Well, even if it wasn't—it—it felt like I was..."

"Delirious?" He perks one brow, fox-grinned in his usual reach for deflection, distraction. "Dead, even?"

"Whole."

The smile wanes.

For a breath, he tries to hunt for that beast beneath his brother's skin—the way he so often does in the steamed glass of his own mirrors, and so easily sees it in them: the spire-teeth, the winged limbs, the eyes half-living.

He finds only a quivery little boy, tucked in the cage of a man's body. The same one who spent years, against all odds—against his own stupid, spiteful jealousy—clinging like a barnacle to his side.

He slides his hand away. "The Sight does it to all of us, little rat. Strips away the Veil." He picks at his thumb, the gravel hazing to a fine blur, and swallows: white stone crisping to clarity, again. "Catch an Emeritus in the right light—even a clueless one can see the Fallen in them."

Copia frowns.

Maybe it's not a comfort. All the more proof that he isn't one of them, as he has so often feared.

The Other, above all else.

"But what if I am?" he says quietly. "Whatever that...thing was? Will, eh...will something happen, if that's true?"

Terzo lifts his eyes to the sky—grayish with cloud-cover, damp with the chilled humidity of a storm along the way, something to wash this whole mess clean—and lies through his teeth.

"Happen?" he snides. "What is this—Armageddon, itself? You worry worse than Nonna, Coppie." He wrinkles his brows at him, his smile thin, his paints half-smeared off his face. "And even if you were—would it be so bad? All of us are hardly human, eh? Perhaps you are just farther along the evolutionariness—the truest Creature of the Night, of us all." His eyes widen, teasingly. "I mean—psh! I will have my fangs, no? And the pincher, his wolf-pelt, and Primo will, eh...Hell, what would the old goat be?"

Copia rolls his eyes, leaning into the cradle of his elbows. "A zombie?"

"Feh—the Nihilist is the rotting corpse, surely."

His brother rolls into a snicker. "Sea creature?"

"Agh—not the lagoon man! We will insult the dear river's integrity, with such things—no, no." Terzo sniffs, feigns smearing away his paints instead of the heat itching at his eye, and smiles wryly again. "Let's be realistic, here—the old gardenia will be the enchanted plant that traps one's bones for the witches, yes?"

Copia wheezes on another laugh.

Saints, he hates that laugh. Godawful sound, a mimicry of his own: a snort and a tea kettle and a giggle all in one.

The brightest sunbeam of any.

"He has to be the, er—the witch, right?" Copia wonders, giving him a teasing glance.

Terzo flashes his teeth. "Now, if that is the category—I will rule above them all, no?"

And his brother laughs again.

Their little brother, little demon, little star. The highest heir of them all, doomed to a path he should have never been put on—as all of them are, in their own ways. Always have been; always will be.

Terzo ignores Primo's shadow in the corridor, flanked by Mariella's quiet eyes. Ignores the hawkish leer of Secondo's folded-armed scowling, waiting to deflect the plague that will no doubt burst into the halls, once news of it all has reached the ears of their Highest.

At least for this moment, he can pretend.

Flit away what is yet to come, like a bottle tossed to the sea—Nihil, Sister, this brother tressed in silks and jewels for a price he hadn't the slightest knowledge would be paid—and goad another laugh out of him, and another.

Relish in the denial that this is all that ever was. Ever could be.

Copia: blushing, teary-eyed but toothy, knocking his shoulder into his—unable to do anything but choke at the idiotic scenarios he conjures for the four of them, in all their monsterly glory. As distracted as he deserves to be, after that wretched thing. The memory of it all forgotten, if for a moment.

And that's enough, Terzo thinks, the cool tang of rain on the gales.

For now, maybe, that's enough.

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