Bean had spent so much time hiding what he was that he had almost forgotten—Ender wasn’t human either.
It was easy to forget. Ender looked human, moved like one, breathed like one. But there were moments—small, fleeting—when Bean could tell. The way Ender’s presence felt heavier than it should, like the air bent around him. The way his eyes seemed to hold too much, like they weren’t just seeing but understanding on a level that no human should. The way he never quite flinched at things that should have startled him, as if he already knew they were coming.
Now, standing there, exposed in his own form, Bean tilted his head.
"You asked to see me," he said, voice low. "So let me see you."
Ender’s lips parted slightly, something flickering behind his shifting expression. Hesitation. But he had asked this of Bean—had trusted him with the truth. Could he do the same?
The change wasn’t immediate, not like Bean’s. It wasn’t a shift so much as a reveal, like something unseen had simply been pulled into focus.
His skin darkened—not just in color, but in depth, taking on a texture almost like stone, though it moved as fluidly as flesh. His body stretched, subtly elongating, his frame growing denser, heavier. His hair darkened too, shifting through deep shades like shadows moving under moonlight. But his eyes—his eyes were the most striking of all. No longer just blue, but something deeper, swirling like the vastness of space itself.
Bean stared.
Ender let out a slow breath, steady but careful, watching for Bean’s reaction the same way Bean had watched him.
A small smirk tugged at the corner of Bean’s lips. "Well. That explains a lot."
Ender blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Ender wasn’t something that fit into human definitions. He had been human once—at least, he thought he had. But somewhere along the way, something had changed. Or maybe something had always been different, waiting beneath the surface, only revealing itself when there was no one left to tell him otherwise.
His true form was dense, heavier than it should have been. His skin, dark like stone, absorbed light instead of reflecting it, like he was pulling the world into himself. His hair wasn’t really hair at all, but something shifting between solid and liquid, the color of shadows cast at twilight.
And his eyes—his eyes were endless. Not just blue, not just human, but vast, swirling like galaxies caught in motion, holding something ancient, something unknowable.
He didn’t know what he was. Maybe he never had. Maybe he had been made, like Bean.
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