The plan comes to them slowly. Through the bleak beginnings of their consciousness, residing in the very backside of their mind. Foolish, they think to themself. But safe. Right. Right, as much as everything hasn’t been. Right, with a sort of impossibility. They have been lost for so long. The reckoning came, within the depths of their sickness. The regret, stinging and sharp, pieces of glass embedded into their chest. A sort of mortal terror that had not yet gripped them; intense, powerful in a new sense of the word. They felt it in the weakness of their limbs, the faint beat of their heart. A new kind of longing. An emotion they could not possibly ignore.

The church is the reopening of the wound, sharpness in their side hardened. Their suspicions confirmed, a kind of deep-rooted evil taking place. Fear, fear of before and fear of all that will come next. A web of lies, the secrets coming undone. They’ve done this before, a certain familiarity, despite everything. Alone, then. Within Eden’s halls, creeping along and burying their nose within the contents of files. Atlas’s presence wasn’t at their side then, a sort of protective force. The Archives’ Master sits in the center of it all. Alone, like they had been — he had been. It had costed them everything to save him. They'd do it over again a hundred times more. Lying in the backseat, alone, sky washed yellow, it had all come to them. How much they were willing to risk, leaving this place for the final time. They would do it all again. 

“Are you ready?” They asked him, standing on the edge of the border. Illusions, silver and real, brushing against their skin, tickilish. Atlas looked to them then, wary, from where he stood. His eyes were deep in the darkness of night, glowing faintly. He looked soft. 

When they turn, it is he who follows, loyal and unsuspecting. 

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·

On the night they begged him to save them, the night they forced him to give everything up, the night everything changed. They saw it in his eyes then. The fear. A chill in the air, a glimpse at a past they could not comprehend, may not ever know themself. He came from a world outside of theirs. Someplace different, incomprehensible. He’s seen things they have not, felt a violence when they felt gentle hands, a comforting glance. Strange, to ever think of him, young. Vulnerable. They feel something akin to grief, to think of him then. Scared, how he is now. 

They wish he didn’t have to see them ask. A betrayal, of sorts. They know — they saw it upon his face. The silent plea he gave, a wish for something else, anything else. They were not just asking the boy, setting out an offer. It was something so much deeper, and he knew it too. He’s already sensitive. They knew, speaking it, that it would break him. In some way or another. The illusion of what had been shattered. 

They know they hurt him. They know it, above anything else. 

A ghostly touch, there until it is not. Atlas glides down the hallway, a tight persuit behind Alastair, and he does not look their way. His face is tucked, hidden, and in the soft glow emenating from the brief torchlight, Wren would not be able to describe the look upon his face either way. He can be so difficult to read. A closed book, their mom would say. Strange, to have her in their thoughts at all. She is so far gone now. Or maybe they are. They can’t tell anymore. 

The soft shuffling of feet against smooth tile is strangely eerie. The halls have gone quiet now, except for it. A silence, minus for the click of the soles of Alastair’s loafers in front, the creak and tilt of these aging, ancient walls. A creeping sense of paranoia, an itch in their back, as if they are being watched. They’d laughed Atlas off, shrugged at his suspicion, when he’d shared the same feeling with them. Walking the length of these halls, they cannot ignore it any more. The anxiety is everpresent. It may be, for as long as they live. Will they ever remember what it had felt like, before it all, when the idea of an attack was a distant thought, something unimaginable? They step shakily, rubbing at the inside of their palm in a self-soothing motion. What they wish for, more than anything else, is Atlas’s presence at their side, his arm around their shoulders. But there’s no chance of that now. He’s hurt: their fault. 

The exhaustion has begun to seep in, despite. They’re always tired now; the presence of the church seeming to sap the very little energy they have left to spare. Their head has started to pulse uncomfortably, a drumming beneath the skull. They need sleep. Real sleep, in a bed, away from the strife. Without the nightmares, the fear of an attack. The promise of safety, the promise of rest, would heal them more than anything else ever could. But that’s become besides the point. The call of the dungeon, of solid, hard proof, keeps them moving. They need this. 

The hallway is dark and wide. Stretching beyond, the higher they ascend, belonging again with the rest of the living. They walk along it, moving with careful feet, only stopping when they have neared the end of it. Before them exists a large, wooden door, old in appearance; a thick oak slab that separates the study from the rest of the world. 

Alastair’s expression is pinched. Beads of sweat slip down his forehead, a sheen accumulating along his pale cheeks. He appears more ghostly now than he ever did down there, fingers fumbling with each other, clammy. “I don’t know if he’s in there,” he whispers, and it’s just barely audible. 

“I have illusions,” Wren whispers, “I can get us in and out, if we’re quiet.” 

They don’t know why they offer it up to him so easily. He could very well betray them after this. Run off to the priest, beg and plead with him, turn them in. He’s made his choice, afterall; he’s staying behind. He has no reason to do this for them, a sort of final kindness. He could have strung along a last trick, a lie in return, for all the trouble they’ve caused him. They may as well deserve it. For trusting him, for hurting him. Wren can’t help himself. Despite all the forces begging with them to leave this boy alone, they can’t. There’s something sad in his eyes. It’s all they need. 

Alastair doesn’t take their offer up. His eyes widen momentarily, disbelieving, and he shakes his head, a minute twitch. He swallows slowly, adams apple bobbing against his collar. There’s a resolute nervousness to him; he’s more afraid of this than they are. Muttering a soft prayer underneath his breath, he turns, resolve hardening. Jaw clenched, he turns the brass knob, the old wood creaking with his weight. 

The study is dark, and, thankfully, empty. Alastair is the first to dare step in, seemingly more anxious to stay put, along the hallway he does not belong in, than to break past the border. His shoes thud softly against the wooden floors, frame slouched forwards. He does not move further, even as Wren takes a tentative step inside, cringing at the telling creak that follows. The door comes shut behind them, and Alastair’s head does not turn. His eyes are glued straight ahead, towards the door the door across the room, looming and ancient. His hand shakes as he stretches to point. “Through there.”

Wren is frozen. There’s a certain finality to all of this, a promise of something real. They’re suddenly afraid to step any closer. They glance to the boy, their guide, nervously, gaze flicking from that door to his pale-cheeked face. It only seems to set in a further layer of resignation. 

Taking a pointed step back, Alastair shakes his head. “I won’t follow you.” 

“W-what?” They ask, nervous. There is nothing to hide their fear this time. “You’re not coming?”

Alastair’s face is pulled tight, a sickly hue to his features as he shakes his head, more adamant. “No. No, I can’t. Not again.” He swallows roughly, squeezing his eyes shut as if banishing the very thought. Never again. 

It is Atlas who comes to their aid. Surprising, considering it all. “You know the place best,” he speaks, low and steady. He’s leaned up against the door, arms crossed over his chest. Within the weak light of the office, the shadows obscure any view of his real expression — a glimpse into what he could be truly thinking. “You should lead.” 

His eyes are narrowed, still. Distrusting. 

Alastair flinches, as if afraid Atlas will reach out, force him down the length of the room, steely grip dipping into his shoulders. Back down there into the dungeon, back into his doom. His eyes flick to the closed door, blocked away from view, fear written upon his face. Shakily, he breathes out. “I don’t want to be down there long.” 

“I won’t be long.” Wren assures, hand slipping into their pocket. They fish out their phone, thick and shiny silver, gleaming beneath the dim light. A few pictures, and they’ll be out. Real, true proof, and they will never return within the depths of these halls again. Proof, and they can go home. Stepping forwards, chest puffed, they slide the door open, moving aside to allow Alastair to pass through. “Yell if anyone comes in,” they mutter over their shoulder.

Alastair is slow descending. His hands tremble at his sides and he breathes unsteadily, glancing back towards Wren every few seconds as if he’s afraid they have abandoned him. Surprised, to see they haven’t. Wren is similarly grim. The initial excitement has long worn off now. All they feel is a slow dread, gripping them with the cold. Something sick has begun to settle, their paranoia turned into something real. Feet sliding along the stairs, they settle along the floor, a dead chill seeping into their shoes, coming with the first shock. Electricity seems to brim within the air. 

The smell is what hits them first. All at once, an overwhelming stench that burns their nostrils, disorienting and painful and wrong, in a way they can’t describe. It’s putrid, overriding their senses, bringing with it the taste of death. They blink, slow, confused, their eyes beginning to adjust. A newer sense of horror envelops them then, paralyzing in their limbs. They very suddenly wish they had not left Atlas all the way up there, them down here, alone. His hand within theirs would do much more to fight against the fear, a comforting presence at their side. The air is thin, strangely humid within the depths of the basement. They stutter against their breath, their rapidly thrumming heartbeat threatening to burst right out of their chest. The hand that grips their phone shakes with such an intensity they fear they’ll drop it. 

“Alastair?” They whisper. 

Human mass splayed out before them. Rotting, gross. They are frozen, staring at it, at the crude symbols painted along the walls, the floor. The boy beside them does not offer a response; when they turn, they see he has his hands over his face, trembling worse than they ever could. The feel of their gaze on his form draws out a desperate whine from him, almost involuntarily. Please, he mouths. 

A block in their mind, they turn. Approach the decaying mess in front of them, feet sliding along the wet, sticky cement. The stench grows thicker, so much they have to lift their shirt to cover their face, squint against stinging eyes. Not real, they think, somewhere distant, bile resting just at the edge of their throat. Just a photo. Not real.

Wren’s phone shutters as they snap away at their camera. The flash blinks along in the dark, disturbing the quiet of the scene. Something about this entire act feels wrong; sinful, in its own right. Imposing on something not meant for their mortal eyes, better kept secret. Their chest rises and falls unsteadily, eyes narrowed carefully as they step nearer. They try to force the shake out of their hand. They need these pictures to be clear. 

The descreated remains are dark and haunting, within the illumination of their phone light. Wren cannot bare to look any closer. Afraid of what they’ll see, if they do. Afraid of what will reveal itself. Still alive. 

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·

After it all, they’re quiet. Pale-faced, returning with the knowledge of something cursed. Atlas appears uneasy as they make it past the last step, wood creaking. He rushes to them as if he thought for a moment they wouldn’t return at all. “We can go now,” they whisper, careful not to raise their voice anymore. To say anything at all after what they just discovered comes to them as almost illicit. Something wrong. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

They see the relief written upon his face. A breath, sighed gently. Hands reaching up to touch their hair, push it out of their cheeks. A sudden sense of normalcy. 

“Don’t come back again.” Alastair speaks, and they don’t expect it. They had almost forgotten he was here. So quiet, no more than something distant within the loud buzzing inside their mind. He stands still near the entrance, back turned on them. As if afraid if he looks away, the rotting flesh will rise, crawl along the walls and come for him. Entangle up in his limbs, force him back down within the depths. To lie, rotting with the dead. “I can’t promise your safety if you do.”

“We won’t,” they promise. Their eyes are downcast, Atlas’s hands resting along their shoulders. The touch is almost too much — and still not enough. They blink rapidly to force the shake from out of their voice, the perspiration from their eyes. Their bottom lip still trembles. “As soon as we’re out we’ll get as far away as possible. I don’t want to bring you any more harm than we’ve already caused.” They say, voice hoarse. Despite everything, the horrors that still have splayed themself along the back of their mind, they really do mean it this time. They’re sorry. They always will be, they think. 

“Thank you,” Alastair is the one to lead them out. Walking slow, opening the study door with a quick peek to the outside. Relief, on his features, as it reveals nothing, nobody. Ghost town, Wren thinks. This is something forbidden. They should not be out at all. The rest of the church knew better, asleep within their barracks. If only Wren had been so wise. Perhaps if they had, they would not have made it here at all. 

As he bids them farewell, Alastair appears consumed by his own melancholy. His eyes are distant as he musters up a weak smile, hand shaking from where it rests against the door knob. “I wish you luck.”

Wren nods, grabbing Atlas’s hand. When he doesn’t resist, the relief is instaneous. Something right, admist it all. His hand in theirs, warmth emanating against their skin. How it is meant to be. “We’ll leave you then. Thank you for your help. I won’t forget it.” 

A finality to their words, realizations hitting them all at once. This will be goodbye. Nothing left for them now, besides whatever they have left within the wreckage. No one to save, no one who would ever come willingly. Plan crumbling to dust beneath their fingertips, leaving an empty sort of doubt. The knowledge that they carry does nothing to soothe them. Another burden, heavy along both of their shoulders. The weight of tragedy, burning a hole through their heart. The church has not brought them the rest they hoped for. Something rotting has been left in return. 

They step back into the hall. Back into the presence of god. 

Alastair wavers at the door. “It was not… entirely unpleasant to meet you.” He grimaces, fidgeting with his fingers. Nervous, even now. Watching with those wide eyes, legs shaking. Not moving, from where he has planted himself, crossed just in between the border of the study and the hallway. Stuck, it seems. “Despite the circumstances.”

Wren smiles, ducking their head. “See you around, Alastair.” 

They cannot help themself. They’re wistful. They could not save him, they could not do much to make a change. They had meant to — they really had. They thought, perhaps foolishly, there would be a way. The spot where their phone rests in their pocket burns white-hot marks against their skin. What they had come for, all this way. Something they had only ever hoped of being able to see. The aftermath fills them with nothing but deep regret. It isn’t just their anger that holds them now. That hope, slim, brought only possible with Atlas, the existence of a friendship they never could have imagined themself. They had thought, thought to themself that maybe…

“Wait—”

Alastair’s hand is outstretched, eyes wide. He holds it suspended, in the air, only inches from their skin, from the promise of real, physical touch. Their eyes on him now, he seems hesitant about it all, to move further. Break past his self-contained border. 

“If I left,” Alastair’s voice shakes as he says it, as if the very notion is almost too dangerous to acknowledge. He shrinks back slightly, his hands clasping together over his abdomen, fidgeting with his fingers nervously. Something wet and shiny gleams within his mismatched eyes. So deperate, so hopeful, within the orange light that surrounds him. A last wish. “Where would we go?” 

The shattering of something brittle. Wren stumbles back, nearly lost for an answer. Everything wrong that has not been been right, that they felt never could be right. The chance of something they can fix. It almost proves to be all too much. 

“I have a van. Parked a couple blocks away.” They answer, voice clear. They wince as Atlas’s grip in theirs tightens, painful, crushing at their fingers. A threat, maybe, or a silent plea. They ignore it either way. Sorries can come later, though they can no longer think to even reassure him. The boy that stands in front of them, hesitating, is all too important. They smile at him, a little breathless. “We could go anywhere you want to.” 

“You don’t… have a plan?” 

Alastair’s brows are furrowed, his lips pressed into a crooked line as he wrinkles his nose. That fear again, in his eyes, along with something else — that superior judgement. The expression he wears now is a mirror to Atlas, strange upon anyone but him. It only seems to set their decision in further. There is no turning back now, though they don’t think they ever did have a choice to. Their fate is set in stone. 

Wren flushes a bit. They almost feel defensive. “Do you want in or not?” 

That seems to get to him. Taking an urgent step closer, his eyes widened, large as saucers. “Please. I’ll go. Take me with you.” 

“You’re sure?”

He cringes. “Yes.”

He stands taller now, reaching his full height. Jaw clenched, something definite in his expression. Something sad, too. “But they’ll follow me. I need to make sure they won’t.”

── ⟡ ˙

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A big thanks to @ohagany for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔