#emmspitecanis

Death took no more than a breath.

In one to the next, eyes slipping closed, Emmrich’s hand going limp in Lucanis’ grip. One moment, Emmrich was there, gazing up at him from their bed, the corners of his mouth quirked in a fragile, brave smile. The final words, “I’m not afraid, my dear Lucanis. I’m not alone,” spoken with such certainty, lingering in the air. Spite was silent.

Then — he was gone.

***

Spite made a promise. A contract. To Emmrich. To Lucanis.

So when Emmrich opened his eyes again, Spite was ready. Arms wrapped protectively around him, Emmrich's spirit like a bird between his fingers, flitting, fluttering wildly to a flicker of a heartbeat no longer needed.

Tiny. Smaller than Spite had ever seen him, used to watching Emmrich through his and Lucanis’ body, head raised to meet warm, kind eyes. But the Fade was a world of memory — shaped by feeling, molded by emotion — and Emmrich’s spirit paved the way, the scent of fear cloying in the air.

Blood. Bone. Bile. The vision of too young hands cupping too pale cheeks. A home turned to rubble around them. Dust and smoke. A cry somewhere from between his fingers and the impossible sprawling distance of consciousness and memory.

A nightmare. No different, he thought, from the ones Spite learnt to devour. Talons tearing dreams. Claws through cracks. Fangs digging into the pulse of whatever spirit dared to enter until they learnt who Emmrich and Lucanis belonged to.

Now, Spite snapped and snarled at the shades around them.

“Leave!” The words echoed, ricocheting on conjured streets and broken walls. “Mine!”