#10;

It takes all of his willpower to stop it. Lark sets his blood alight, turning Belos' own power against him, harnessing the fury as his own. His left hand spears the right wrist, thumb's talon plunging into the tendons and muscles below his accursed sigil. The pressure forces his hand open, and Flapjack escapes unharmed.

"Thank you," he thinks to no one even as he grapples to keep control of his body. Belos wrestles him relentlessly, and Lark knows he's fighting a losing battle. 

He just needs to keep control long enough to grab the vial, to toss it away, to get it out of Belos' reach…

Seeing it sink below the water, he recognizes his own salvation. Belos doesn't even realize that he plays right into Lark's desperate plan, as the boy relents and allows Belos to dive in after the blood.

The moment he submerges, Lark makes an effort to breathe deeply. He can’t be sure that he does, given that both his body and mind are already aching and exhausted, but by Titan, does he try. 

At least this way, he can take Belos out with him. He can feel the weakening Emperor’s hatred melt into nothingness as his rage does the same. If he had any control left over his muscles, he would smile, but everything goes numb at the same pace his vision darkens. The moonlight reflected on the surface seems miles away before it disappears entirely.

“Thank you,” again, is his last thought in the black emptiness. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking, but it feels right.

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Lark.

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Lark.

Suddenly, he’s conscious. Awake, but still numb, staring up at a hazy pink sky. Dawn? But that could only mean he failed.

He shoots up, eyes darting around. The cemetery is out of focus, and void of his companions. Void of all beings, he believes, until he picks out silhouettes on the very fringes of the island; at least a dozen, perhaps two. These figures, blurry as they are, he recognizes from dreams. 

His first thought is terror.

Then a bright, golden warmth, the first thing he’s felt since diving, approaches, and all his fear is gone. He knows instantly that no harm will come to him here, and his hands reach out to form a perch for the source of his comfort.

“Flapjack,” he breathes with equal confusion and relief, “you’re alright.”

There is a painful silence. Amongst the overwhelming joy and love, he can feel Flapjack’s sadness; he would even if it wasn’t etched on the little bird’s brow.

I’m sorry.

“What do you mean, you’re sorry?" Lark's voice breaks. "I was supposed to protect you. I never wanted him to hurt another Palisman, and – I could've killed you. ”

Flapjack nuzzles his head against Lark’s trembling fingers, quieting him.

None of this is your fault, witchlet. I chose to find you.

Lark wants to argue that, but can’t. If this is the last bit of time he gets to spend with his soulmate, he can’t waste it with frustration. 

“You shouldn't stay here. You need to go back,” he pleads just above a whisper. His vision blurs once more, tears welling up as Flap hangs his head and closes his eyes.

You should go. I can take you back, and keep you alive for a time.

Realization dawns on Lark after a moment, and he cries out in horror.

“Flap, no! I can’t do that! I can’t do what he did – hurt you, trap you, just so I get to live a life I – I never deserved in the first place!”

The image of his own limbs flickers and dims under Lark’s gaze; what little vitality remains in him is fading. 

Flapjack gazes up at him, steady and calm and sad, as he begins to emit a familiar bright green mist.

Lark cradles the bird to his chest in a panic.

“Please don’t go,” he begs. “Don’t leave me.”

The Palisman presses himself gently to his witch’s still heart.

We will go together, one way or the other. I will never leave you, or force you in the direction you do not wish to go. All I ask is that you trust me. Trust that I will be happy and safe, not caged, here. Trust that there is a better life waiting for you, full of wonder and knowledge and fulfillment, of such joy you’ve yet to know, of family and friends who will love and cherish you. Will you trust me?

For a few seconds, all Lark can do is sob. He feels sap weep through his fingers as Flapjack gives more of his spirit, and reaches with one hand to desperately wipe at his eyes.

“Of course I trust you, Flap. More than anyone. I trust you.”

Thank you. Relief washes over Flapjack, and through to Lark. This is now more than just a shared feeling, but also a glowing golden light. You’ll see me again. I love you, my little Lark. I will always love you.

Lark squeezes his eyes shut in silent tears, unable to watch as the light fades. By the time he opens them again, his hands are cupped around the colorless, lifeless carving of a bird. 

He stares off amongst the graves once more, not knowing how to feel. The numbness is returning, and the world is fading fast.

Remaining on the lawn is only one figure, one he knows more intimately than any of the others, that from which they were all derived. Lark has been terrified of that spirit since he first gazed upon his portrait. But before his vision fails once more, he could swear he sees the man smile at him.

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When feeling returns to him, it is all at once. He feels a horrible ache from head to toe, but also the lack of Belos, a small wooden weight, and the presence of a staggering warmth in his chest.

There are half a dozen gazes on him, all concerned and horrified and sad. It’s almost comforting, how awkward it is, and how normal a feeling that awkwardness is for him. It brings a shaky smile to his face.