#tale of

   Richter stared up at the damaged gate, and Ratatosk’s red eyes seemed to dig into his back. “One thousand years,” the summon spirit reminded him.

    Richter exhaled a laugh through his nose. He was still a researcher. He understood, deeply, how alien this creature must have been to say the words one thousand years— and mean them as comfort.

    It pissed him off, but some part of him was grudgingly touched. He wouldn't have the mental clarity for such emotion for long.

    It’s terribly ironic that Ratatosk managed to kill the one being that would have leapt into an arrangement like this with his entire heart. If their positions were reversed Aster would have plenty to say. He’d march backward, stone in hand— all foolish forgiveness and openhearted curiosity.

    You’ve really changed, haven’t you? he’d tease the spirit. That’s good. You were kind of the worst before but you were just scared, weren’t you? Of us. Of the world and being hurt. I’m glad we can work together, now. And for one thousand years, too! Time is probably the greatest mystery of all, so I guess I’ll see you on the other side!

    Richter blinked the image away.

    It didn’t matter. Aster was dead. Richter had been the one to survive, and he couldn’t forgive— couldn’t find it in him to unleash hopeful platitudes before he sacrificed himself. Not for his enemy, not even for Emil.

    Not so soon after failing. He’d said quite enough already— look where it got him.

    “I’m starting,” he announced simply, holding out the sacred stone. Shining mana innocently clung to the air around it. When he began casting it soaked into his skin as if pulled by a magnet.

    Ignite, he thought and clenched his fist.

    Heat scorched up his forearm as if he was holding it unprotected over a campfire. Flames spread over and under his skin, sharp stabs of pain making his body seize and jerk— trying desperately to soothe the blaze. Darkness pushed at the edges of Richter’s blurring vision.

    Something was pounding at the gate. Loud, horrible thumps. Fiendish shrieking pierced through Richter’s skull. Demons.

    Fuck you, he thought with deep, simple clarity. Fuck all of you for making me into this— for giving me the choice to have him back at the cost of everything we valued. Suffer and scream, you beasts.

    The inferno tearing him apart abruptly became a tool, a necessity. Slowly, weighed down by the limits of his own crumbling body, Richter forced himself upright. He took a trembling step toward the gate— toward the demons— determined to get as much searing mana in their monstrous faces as possible.

    I will never let you into this world.

    He screamed into the dark and tasted blood in his mouth. There was nothing to give but his hate— and he had plenty saved for this moment.

    The demons wailed.

    Richter couldn’t maintain it.

    He fell to a knee, hard, and clutched the stone tighter to his chest. Sweat dripped into his eyes and coated his back. Hot tears poured down his cheeks and turned to steam, sizzling against his skin. Basic instinct begged Richter to get away from whatever was destroying him from within. Run. Survive. Live. It couldn’t understand that this was his life now— that in one thousand years, he would know whether this was a mistake.

    The fire spread through his torso, legs, throat.

    Richter was gasping. His will never wavered, but his body was still mortal. It collapsed.

    Arms wrapped around his chest before he could hit the floor. There was shouting in his ear— he couldn’t make out the words. Snarls tore out of his mouth, animal, desperate. Something was healing him, keeping him alive, but failing to dull the pain. He pried open his eyes and saw a haze of blonde hair.

    One thought rose to the surface in the agony— stubbornly pressing against Richter’s boiling eyelids.

    Aster, forgive me. I wanted to do this for a world with you in it.

    Richter’s struggling quieted into silence as he lost consciousness. His limp body twitched and jerked occasionally as his mana continued to burn. Ratatosk held him tighter and forced the darkness around them to cool his overheating skin.

    After some time, the pounding on the gate ceased. The demons were repelled, at least for the time being.

    Ratatosk sat down, laying Richter’s head in his lap. He sighed, pressing a finger to the man’s sweat-slick forehead. Slowly, carefully, he pulled the excess mana from the stone out of his limp body.

    It was like touching a candle, Ratatosk hissed through his teeth, letting the enflamed mana transfer fully to his finger before putting it out with a wave of his hand. Richter’s unconscious body seemed to relax, somewhat.

    “There. That’s better, right?” Ratatosk said aloud. “Not perfect, but better.”

    He couldn’t take all of Richter’s mana yet— not without killing him. A basic supply was needed to survive, especially without proper food and water. Still, temporarily cutting Richter off from the stone would ease his suffering for a few moments.

    The man’s breathing was still uneven, his face flushed with heat and pain. He stirred, just slightly, and pressed his forehead into Ratatosk’s stomach.

    “Aster,” he whispered, voice scarcely more than a vocal breath.

    “Just me, sorry,” Ratatosk replied. The apology didn’t feel foreign on his tongue— he’d uttered them more times than he could count as Emil, but it did make something new pinch in his chest. “It’ll hurt less now, but the pain won’t stop completely as long as there’s still mana in you to burn. Just try to sleep, okay?”

    Richter’s eyelids fluttered. His green eyes were dull with pain, but there was passion there, too. Quiet anger.

    “You can’t hear me, can you?” Ratatosk realized, slowing down and enunciating clearly as he met Richter’s glare. “I’m saying you’re going to be fine. It’s not going to hurt like that the whole time. That’s just the worst of it when the demons are at the breach. Most of the time, it’ll ebb and flow. You’ll have periods of cognizance, like this.”

    Silence. Richter’s face contorted, eyebrows drawing together as he attempted to find words. Ratatosk mentally kicked himself for trying to explain so much when Richter was barely conscious.

    After a moment of struggling, Ratatosk reluctantly leaned closer to hear the man. “What? What is it?”

    “Don’t—touch me.”

    It felt like a slap.

    The anger from Richter wasn’t at the situation, but at Ratatosk specifically. Of course it was. Why did he expect differently?

    Fuck this, Ratatosk thought, temper flaring. His grip tightened on the fallen man’s shirt because it could. Because it was easy. Spiteful words flew to his tongue before he could think to stop them.

    “You’re really about to complain after all that? What I’m doing for you isn’t easy you know. I don’t have to dull your pain or keep you alive. I don’t even have to let you out. I can make you suffer as long as I want—”

    The hate in Richter’s eyes had never been more clear. This was the conviction that could change the heart of a Centurion. The conviction that believed it could face an angry summon spirit and come out alive.

    Ratatosk felt it physically, a sharp pull in his chest; his rage drained instantly. What the hell was he doing? He released Richter’s shirt with a growl and removed his head from his lap to lay it carefully on the hard floor.

    “Forget it,” he announced, turning around.

    He stared out into the void they both shared, and impulsively reached for Emil.

    Take over, he thought. Be gentle.

    Nothing happened.

    Somewhere in him, he knew that would be the case. He was Emil now. There was nowhere to go, to hide, to cool off when every part of him was here.

    Every choice that was Emil’s was Ratatosk’s, and vice-versa. There’d be no running for either of them.

    Feeling sick, Ratatosk bowed his head.

    I caused this. All of it.

    “I’m sorry,” he offered pathetically, knowing instantly that it wouldn’t be enough. Another stupid bandage on another stupid wound. “I promise I won’t make you suffer more than you have to for this. If you want to lay on the floor alone for a thousand years, that’s your call to make. I’m not going to fight you. I’d let you go now if I could, but I can’t rewire everything without someone keeping the demons at bay. Just now… I just— I was just…”

    Angry, stupid, inhuman.

    Ratatosk swallowed.

    “I’m really not trying to fight you,” He mumbled finally, pulling at his hair. “Not again. Not after what I did. Just…sorry, okay? I’m sorry. Do what you want, I’ll stay out of your way.”

    Richter didn’t reply, but he didn’t look away either. His gaze hurt.

    Ratatosk wasn’t sure what he was expecting.

    When Richter awoke, Emil’s scarf was under his head. He felt the soft fabric with his fingertips, and shut his eyes. He had no idea how much time had passed. Hours? Days? It was still too early to care about either.

    The spirit, true to his word, had not attempted another conversation.

    Unfortunately, Richter had questions.

    “You’re Emil as well, aren’t you?” He offered, finally, not even bothering to sit up. “Earlier your eyes were green.”

    “I guess I’m unconsciously still trying to physically differentiate us. We combined,” Ratatosk explained, opening a red eye. He looked nothing like Aster or Emil in this moment, meditating with his legs folded underneath him. Mana whisked around him confidently as he rearranged the world on a level Richter suspected he would never fully comprehend. “It’s not going well.”

    Richter sniffed, unimpressed. “I see.”

    “I don’t expect you to get it. I was myself a lot longer than I was Emil, so to you, I probably just look like Ratatosk now. But if you’re looking to coax Emil out or something— you don’t have to: I’m here. I just have the memories that made me Ratatosk to begin with. It’s confusing, sifting through them all. I really wish I knew what I was doing— I have such a temper now. I really am so sorry about earlier, Richter.”

    It was confusing. Ratatosk’s voice alone fluctuated between mild and harsh, eyes flashing red to green, back to red— disparate parts, jammed together.

    “Enough apologizing,” Richter snapped, then softened at Emil’s flinch. “At least you’re actually saying what’s on your mind now. You’re certainly more free with your language.”

    Ratatosk-Emil, smiled back, a hair sheepish.

    “Oh, yeah. It’s actually sort of a habit? I sure spoke roughly for a long time. That’s what I’m more used to, but if it makes you more comfortable I bet I can try to word things like Emil would— like this! You think that would make everything easier on you?”

    Emil was definitely in there; Richter was exhausted already.

    “If this is truly you, you shouldn’t bother,” Richter advised through the forming headache. “I’d rather have you be honest and infuriating than pretend to feel guilty and lie.”

    Ratatosk’s shoulders sank, but there was something like relief on his face.

    “You make a point. My guilt isn’t pretend though. There may have been a reason for my actions,, but I do know they were still very wrong. I hope you know that. I don’t want to be your enemy, Richter, even though I know you have every reason to hate me. I just want…I just want to fix this.”

    “Some things can’t be fixed.”

    Ratatosk flinched, then immediately glared. He was like a spoiled kid, ready to strike out the moment he failed to get his way. This was who Richter had hated all this time? The same spirit that had killed Aster so ruthlessly and wore his face without hesitation?

    “Getting ready to lash out?” Richter observed, coldly. “And you talk of repair…”

    Frustration quickly replaced the open rage on Ratatosk’s face. “I’m not lashing out! Look, I…understand. I just…hate it. Hate this. Dammit, sorry. I don’t know what to say!”

    “You should hate this, not apologize. It’s far too late for that,” Richter said, intending to leave it there and let him hurt for what he did— but Ratatosk’s eyes were a steady green again. Wide and familiar, and Richter suddenly wasn’t seeing Emil at all. He felt sick. “Must you maintain that form?”

    “Sorry,” Emil repeated, too fast. Richter shut his eyes, fists clenching.

    “Is that a yes or a no?”

    “It’s a— a…yes. Yes, it’s a yes, unfortunately. I could make myself a new body but that would take more time, and I really don’t want to keep you here longer than I have to.”

    “Do it,” Richter said, without hesitation. “I don’t care how long it takes, just stop using him like that.”

    Emil swallowed, but stood his ground. “No, Richter. He’s dead; I’m not using him. And I know the last thing he would have wanted was for you to be in this hell longer than you should. So no. I’m not wasting time like that, even if it would make you more comfortable. I’m sor—”

    “Forget it.” Richter turned on his side, hating that Emil was right, in this moment, about what Aster would have wanted.

    Green eyes carved into his back.

    Time passed, one day into the next. The knocking would resume, and Richter would light himself again, only collapsing once the threat was dealt with. He always lasted longer than he was meant to, and stood tall against forces that could destroy him with a wave of their hand.

    It was a humbling sight.

    Mortal creatures were so fragile. Capable of impossible acts of heroism and cruelty— often simultaneously.

    Ratatosk was a being of mana, born of energy, not blood. He did not have a heart.

    This body did, however, and it beat. It ached.

    Richter hated him— that much was obvious— but still, residual feelings from Ratatosk’s time as Emil boiled under his skin.

    Richter’s impossible will threatened to change Ratatosk completely, as it had Aqua before him.

    It was not the first time— Mithos had once approached Ratatosk with ideals. Determination had blazed in a body too small to fit it all. He had earned his respect— his want. Ratatosk had been pulled in, drawn to the impossible strength of a mortal, and it had led him exactly where it had led all the other summon spirits.

    Then there was Marta. Adoring and open, with a steadfast belief in him and the world. Cheerful, bright, and now living out her life as she should have from the start, without his interference.

    Ratatosk was not meant to want. He was not meant to know mortals, touch mortals, see mortals.

    Every healing touch, every moment of pulling the candle-hot thread of mana from Richter’s forehead as he slept, grew something that had no place growing inside the Lord of Monsters.

    It was a sickening thing, wanting what had destroyed you once, what swore revenge on you, and yet Ratatosk had no idea how to stop it. It was a part of him, this desire, as much as everything else.

    One thousand years was too long, and yet not remotely long enough to have his fill.

    He hated himself.

    Richter didn’t ask how much time had passed. He didn’t want to know.

    He was familiar with work being his only motivation to stay alive. He was born in a lab basement, and had, before Aster, resigned himself to dying there. He still woke up every morning.

    The reality of it was this: he genuinely liked research. The papers he’d written had been his only method of connection to an outside world that had been conditioned to hate him. Summon Spirits had seemed as real to him as the cruel and frustrating humans that flitted in and out of the lab. They were even more sympathetic, sometimes— Summon Spirits were largely alone, too, after all.

    As a child, he’d lay awake in bed and wonder what it would be like to befriend one—  form a pact. He’d ask it to tear open the fabric of the world so that there would be room for someone like him.

    It didn’t play out that way. Aster waltzed into his life with bizarre new ideas, bolder than anything Richter could have planned for. Hope took root where only isolation had lived before, and Ratatosk had stolen all of that away in a matter of seconds.

    Now, life was work again. Richter lit himself up at every knock at the gate. Waking, lighting, collapsing— a repeating cycle. It was different work, but just as isolating, just as painful.

    He never considered himself the type of person who needed others. When he was with Aster, everyone else had felt like excess noise. Without Aster, they were all just a means to an end to get him back.

    It took him until now to realize he liked them. He missed Aqua’s chatter; her loyalty and constant compliments. He missed the everyday sounds of life: the sound of a page turning in a book, or a cup of coffee being set on a wood table.

    The Ginnungagap was silent when there were no demons. Just the quiet whoosh of mana flowing through Ratatosk as he meditated.

    Richter sat up, leaning on his axe, and allowed himself to stare at the one other being he shared this space with.

    The Spirit had obediently followed Richter’s request from that first day: they did not touch. Whenever Richter’s body eventually gave out from exertion, he hit the ground hard. He’d pass out not long after, but always woke healed.

    “Need something?” Ratatosk asked, eyes flashing green. Richter flinched and looked away, disgusted. It had to be intentional. Somehow the spirit knew which appearance appealed to him more.

    “When I am unconscious, how much healing do I require?” he asked, still grimacing.

    “Don’t tell me that’s starting to bother you now,” Ratatosk said, frustrated. “I barely heal you. Sometimes the stress ruptures something, but most of the time I just end up giving you enough mana to mend your bruises from fainting. Believe me, I’m leaving you alone as much as I can, just like you wanted.”

    Richter hated the disappointment that coursed through him. He didn’t want Ratatosk to touch him. Ratatosk was the last being in the world he wanted to experience any sort of contact with— but he was starting to forget what it felt like. Casual brushes, the warmth of a hand on his shoulder… Memories outside the Ginnungagap seemed to haze and blur, while the memories within only strengthened. Each moment was more intense and torturous than the last: a punishment Richter knew he deserved.

    “Why did you catch me, that first time?” He found himself asking.

    “It just looked like it hurt. I don’t like seeing you hurt any more than you like hurting. You might not have seen me that way, but I still…” Ratatosk hesitated. “I think of you as a friend, Richter.”

    Richter swallowed, faded memories rising to the surface. “I told you once, I never hated Emil.”

    “We both know that isn’t the problem here.”

    Richter’s stomach churned.

    The years were starting to weigh on Richter. Physically, he was fine; the constant restructuring of his mana flow had slowed his aging enough that he would be able to live out the majority of his life normally even after leaving this place. But mentally…Ratatosk wasn’t sure.

    Richter’s commitment to keeping the demons at bay hadn’t wavered once— the moment there was a knock, the man was on his feet, glaring eyes bright and painfully magnetic. The problem was after. There wasn’t much to explore in their corner of the Ginnungagap, but Richter used to at least stretch his legs or practice with his weapons after being healed. Now he simply turned on his side and slept. He slept often, and poorly, mumbling names Ratatosk didn’t dare get close enough to listen for.

    Ratatosk snapped and canceled his spell. The mana around him stopped flowing— this would definitely set them back a couple of days, but interference was required.

    The absence of the wind woke Richter, and he sat up quickly, hand on his axe. At least his reflexes hadn’t dulled.

    “You’re not casting,” Richter accused. “Why?”

    Ratatosk lied through his teeth. “I have to take breaks too sometimes, you know— though not half as often as you. You’re sleeping too much. It’s not good for you.”

    “You’re lecturing me?”

    He sounded pissed. Ratatosk felt part of himself chip off and wither. He crossed his arms, doubling down. The Lord of Monsters did not waver.

    “I’m entertaining you. You’re bored, right? That’s why you’re sleeping. What do you want to do? I don’t have a lot of time to spare so just…tell me what you want and I’ll make it happen.”

    Richter somehow managed to look even more pissed than before. “I want to sleep.”

    “Something else,” Ratatosk said, and Richter grabbed him by the shirt, yanking him close.

    The motion was so rough and sudden, everything in Ratatosk seemed to hang suspended. Breath failed to enter his borrowed body.

    “I do not want your entertainment, spirit. I want to be left alone.”

    He shoved him back hard. Ratatosk stumbled uncharacteristically. His face felt hot. His heart beat too quickly, like it was Emil’s, like it was his own. Breath returned, but remained unsteady.

    “Okay,” Ratatosk said, arms around himself. Anger filled every corner of his body. Anger, lust, longing. He hated this. He was just trying to help. “Okay. Sorry I offered.”

    Richter’s fist clenched.

    More time. Impossible to follow. Everything hurt. Pain ebbed and flowed, but Richter had long since lost sight of a time before every inch of his body felt like it was roasting.

    He couldn’t even sleep now. When he shut his eyes, his thoughts wandered to how it felt to curl his fingers in Ratatosk’s shirt and feel the heat of Aster’s skin against his hand.

    “Do Summon Spirits dream?” He found himself asking, facing Ratatosk. It was an old question, scrawled on the side of his childhood notebook.

    “Not like humans. When we’re in a core state, we experience memories, sort of. I’m not sure if they’re our own or something borrowed— likely a combination of both.”

    His eyes were still green. Richter tried to find anger, but only found further weakness.

    “After Aster, did you see anything? Any memory of his?”

    Ratatosk didn’t speak at first. He uncrossed his legs, and the mana around him seemed to still. Everything felt eerily, unsettlingly quiet. “Would you like it, if I had?”

    “Yes.”

    ‘Why?”

    “It would be something new about him. Something I didn’t know. Those memories are…few.” The answer came easier than Richter had expected. He liked to talk about Aster— how had he forgotten?

    Ratatosk scratched his head. “Let me think about it then. My memory from that time is...hazy.”

    Richter didn’t argue when he came and sat beside him. In fact, he made some room.

    “Aster would be thrilled by the idea— the possibility of communicating his memories beyond the grave.”

    “Even if he was communicating through his killer?”

    Richter grimaced, rubbing his forehead in an old, frustrated habit. “Especially then. I told you, he had a few screws loose.”

    “You loved him, didn’t you?” The Spirit asked. The question didn’t cut into Richter, so much as slowly seep into his skin like the mana from the sacred stone.

    He ignited. A barking laugh worked its way out of his throat. It felt like he hadn’t laughed in a hundred years; it felt like he’d never laugh again.

    “Richter!?” Ratatosk— although he really looked closer to Emil now— seemed visibly concerned.

    Richter couldn’t find it in him to care. He reached out to cup Aster’s cheek, feeling another human being for the first time in years. “I wasn’t aware I was being subtle about it.”

    Emil licked his lips; Richter watched.

    “What about him, did he love you?”

    “As a friend. Beyond that, I’ll never know. He didn’t either. I never said the words out loud— at least not when he could hear me.”

    “You can say them to me if you want.”

    “No,” Richter said, simply. “You killed him.”

    He could see exactly how the words passed through Emil. Some wretched tangle of guilt, hurt, and longing settled on his face. He deserved it, but Richter didn’t lower his hand. He continued to stroke through Emil’s hair— continued to soothe the boy, the Spirit, even though he had killed the one person in the world that seemed to matter.

    “And you look just like him.”

    Emil leaned into his hand. “I’m sorry.”

    “I don’t want an apology.”

    “What do you want?”

    Red eyes. Richter felt his blood boil, gentle touch quickly turning rough as he gripped Aster’s hair and pulled hard enough to earn a hiss of pain. It’d been so long, even painful contact made everything in Richter stand on end.

    “I want him back,” Richter growled. “I want you dead. I want my plan to have worked. I want to be—”

    It happened all at once. Richter’s back hit the ground with a thud. Ratatosk pinned him down, forehead against his.

    “What, Richter? Dead? Burning yourself alive for the good of a world that doesn’t give half a shit about you!? What the fuck is the point of that?”

    “What’s the point of anything if he’s not here!?” Richter yelled, and felt something hard hit him in the face. He’d been slapped. Green eyes stared down at him, equally wide.

    “I’m…sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why I did that.”

    Richter was breathless. Everything hurt. He closed his eyes and felt something warm and wet on his face. When he opened them again, Emil was crying.

    “Someone…Someone with a will like yours isn’t supposed to accept dying. I know what I did was wrong, so why are you the one being punished for it? Why do both of us have to…”

    His eyes turned red. This was Ratatosk, Emil, everything between. His true self.

    “The world is cruel and you can’t trust anyone in it. Mortals disappoint you, humans destroy everything— everything precious I’ve made they’ve taken and broken—” he practically spat the words, then hesitated. His voice softened. “But you were kind to me, Richter, when you had no reason to be. You were kind to me when I didn’t even know who I was and I—I wish I was him. I wish I was someone you didn’t hate. Someone you wanted, who could give you a reason to keep going, but I’m just—”

    Richter kissed him. His fingers tangled in familiar blonde hair. Soft lips, slack with shock, opened for him easily.

    You are someone I want, he thought, greedily pulling the man over him and tracing the lines of a body he’d dreamt of more times than he could keep track of. You are, and you aren’t.

    Slowly, the Spirit melted to him. He lay flat over Richter, hands crawling over his chest, pulling under his clothes as he kissed him back more harshly than Aster ever would have. Richter grunted and broke away, turning his face. It felt criminal to reject the touch while every atom in his body ached for it desperately, but he had to.

    “This isn’t...”

    Why?

    Richter couldn’t continue, couldn’t think properly. He was hard, that much was undeniable. His mana was still alight in a steady, unrelenting burn. Everywhere Ratatosk touched grew cool and eased the pain. He weakened.

    It was more intimate than before. It felt like Ratatosk was directly inside him, slowly snuffing out each flame at the source. Richter groaned, breathless. Shame and arousal tangled in the base of his stomach.

    “What are you— doing?”

    “Everything I can,” the Spirit whispered urgently, lips ghosting over his. “Let me help. Look, I don’t care who you picture if this helps you. Please, just let me give you some relief, for once.”

    Richter pulled him back in, and Aster’s mouth found his neck, sucking the skin there. For a moment, Richter lost sight of everything else. He was in one of the dorms at Sybak, above ground, and Aster was surprising him as usual. His body arched, and for a moment, Aster held him.

    The image didn’t last. Ratatosk was slower than Aster would have been, less exploratory, but still curious. Richter found himself moaning anyway, hating himself. It didn’t matter as long as someone was here. As long as he wasn’t burning alone. For once, he didn’t want to research— he just wanted to feel.

    “Your body’s too hot, Richter,” Ratatosk repeated, continuing to layer kisses over his chest. They eased the fire under his skin and replaced it with something new. “Richter.”

    Impulse took over, and he was pulling at Aster’s hair again, yanking Ratatosk off him only to roll over and reverse their positions. He kissed the boy, Spirit, ghost as hard as he could— let his hands work off the fastenings of his shirt and glide over soft skin.

    Green eyes dark with lust stared up at him, and Richter let himself fall hard into another mistake.

    Maybe this one wouldn’t cost him a thousand years.

    Ratatosk knew their hasty fumbling had added a few days onto their time together.

    This would end like everything always did with mortals: in either betrayal or death.

    Spirits didn’t die— not like humans. There was no promise of an end, or darkness, or silence. Even after a core was destroyed, the mana from the event would just return to the world to reform later.

    The only true death was in parts of the self: in beliefs, trust, or hope. Mortality stuck to everything it touched. To trust a mortal, to care for one, always meant encouraging at least one of the few deaths a spirit could experience.

    Yet it happened again and again, despite Ratatosk’s best efforts. If his time as Emil had taught him anything, it was that kindness led to death, too— at least for his old self. Still, there were worse ways to become someone new. He was trying to continue that newborn kindness, find out where it led.

    It led to guilt. Guilt was new. It wasn’t a death, but something about it felt decidedly more harmful and permanent.

    Richter mumbled Aster’s name in his sleep, and Ratatosk closed his eyes, pretending not to hear.

    He would carry this forever, wouldn’t he?

    Richter put his clothes back on in the silence of the void.

    He picked up his axe and held it over Ratatosk’s “sleeping” form. He angled the blade over his throat. It would be easy. It would be simple.

    It wasn’t. His hand trembled.

    “Do you still want to?” Ratatosk asked, unmoving.

    Red eyes stared directly into Richter’s. Aster’s skin was still a little flushed. Richter had tasted every inch of it— begged into its corners. Ratatosk had let him, closed a hand around him, and cradled his head.

    It was horrible. Humiliating. Everything Richter wanted.

    He tossed the axe aside just in time to catch a knock at the gate and familiar screeching.

    Richter took a step forward.

    “Ask me later.”