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thimble and her two nickels aka sundered house abominations crafted as a weapon against the world but grew to have a life outside of that in part because of her
yknow i think it's really funny that wick (the celestial) is getting told he's a monster and internalizing that and being afraid of his powers, meanwhile occtis (the undead) is just really fascinated by his condition and wants to do fun little experiments on himself
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"You carry the soul of a sinner god. How do you plead?"
Prologue
They meet in a gala. It's a vapid excuse to flaunt wealth, like every other party amongst nobility. No one speaks with any substance and the dances are more regimented than an army's march.
They attend at the behest of their family, stuffed into suitably fine attire. They are too ignorant to truly grasp the point of all the glamor and gladhanding. But they behave all the same.
Then, their eyes meet from across the expansive, polished ballroom. Through the whirl of skirts and coattails, somehow, their gazes lock onto each other, as if pulled by some cosmic magnetic force.
That boy has something you want. The thought rings inside them, clear as church bells. That boy has something you need.
All at once, both boys understood a full clarity of purpose. They equip themselves accordingly then stride towards each other, two polarized ends helplessly attracted to their opposite.
"Wicander, where are you going with that knife?"
"Occtis, did you just grab one of my potions?"
Wicander blinks at the worried face of his mother. The knife slips from his grasp, bouncing across the marbled floor. It's a steak knife from one of the tables, honed to a dangerous shine. Wicander has no idea when he grabbed it.
Occtis flinches at the sharp rebuke from his cousin. The glass bottle sits heavy and vulgar in his tiny palms. Given Docet's affinity for scorpions, there's a high chance that he's holding poison. Occtis has no idea how he stole such a thing from his older, smarter, attentive cousin.
Iris escorts Wicander to an empty parlor. She waves off the entire incident as Wicander being overwhelmed by the party. The Halovars rarely allow their youngest members to partake in such excess frivolity. It matters little that Wicander is nearing nineteen not nine.
Occtis is nine and a half. He doesn't know if Docet is more concerned about the theft or the nonsensical reason for the theft. Docet doesn't ask a single, curious question. Docet simply drags Occtis to the carriage where he is forced to remain for the whole evening.
It suits Occtis well, in truth. The ballroom was very loud and crowded. The carriage is quiet if a bit chilly in the autumn evening. He thinks back to that moment when he first saw the other boy. It's barely been fifteen minutes since he first laid eyes on him. But already, he's starting to forget the way a single purpose overwrote all his thoughts.
Wicander remembers this all too clearly. In the privacy and dim light of a rarely used parlor, he could recall the urge that suffused his every synapse. He's been warned about the sort of urges experienced by adolescent boys his age. By now, he's well-practiced at managing such indiscretions. But this had been different.
He had felt nothing. His pulse did not rise. His cheeks did not flush. There was no shortness of breath. There had been urgency but not intensity. He simply had to reach the boy. It was as inevitable as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west.
Seated by the window, his gaze travels across the courtyard, alighting on a particular carriage. That one, something whispers in him. He's there. Wicander has never been more afraid in his life.
Occtis has never been more curious in his life, which is a feat in and of itself. He's been described as quite a curious boy by his tutors, with the way he devours his studies. He wants to know, to understand, to dissect. He likes to lay things out on a table, rooting through ligaments of logic, interrogating the marrow of every explanation. He tends to exhaust his tutors.
Yet, nothing before compares to the here and now. His curiousity threatens to eclipse himself. He wants to go back inside and find the boy. Docet would surely punish him worse for such blatant disobedience. The thought just barely restrains him.
Neither Occtis nor Wicander have ever experienced anything like that moment when their eyes met. They simply knew, with cold clarity. They know this even now, even as memories of the moment start to blur and fade. The stony certainty remains.
One of them has to die. Ideally, one would die by the other's hand. But this must be done by whatever means necessary.
Wicander closes the curtains, squeezing his eyes shut as he recites verse after verse after verse. Occtis stares at the ornate manor, focusing on a single window within his sight, staring until he can no longer stay awake.
