#writomic

In the days leading up to his tenth birthday, Edgar Allan eagerly would sit at his window all night. And in the mornings following, he would wake up with his head in his arms, leaning on the windowsill. Every night that passed, he felt a little more nervous.

The men of the Allan family had always gotten a curse, ever since they could remember. Around their tenth birthday, a raven would arrive at their window at night, and would help them and assist them in a variety of ways. But, when Edgar was born—long before he had been Edgar—his father and grandfather figured that the legacy would end there. Ever since the curses started appearing, no daughter had been born into the Allan family, and so the curse continued down the line.

But then Edgar arrived. And for his first nine years, it had been expected that nothing would come of it. But, the dresses started to chafe, and the long hair fill him with dread. After a stuttering, apologetic conversation with his father and grandfather, he had been taken for a haircut, and brought to get new clothes, and had poured over book upon book to look for a new name.

Edgar Allan was a bit on the nose, but he loved it, so his family chuckled but went along.

But then, it prompted the interesting question: would he get a curse?

He was an Allan son now, even if he hadn't been born as one. How did the curse work? It passed down through their family, but was it genetic or something more magical?

Edgar desperately wanted to believe that he would get a curse, but a part of him deep down was certain he would be disappointed. He was already a wreck compared to his family—he was anxious and nervous and always messed things up—so, surely, he would be the one who broke the tradition.

So by the window he sat, desperately hoping and pleading with some unknown power that a raven would appear at the window. Even when the windows changed with every new town they ended up in, his vigil remained consistent. And with every day that passed, bringing him closer to his birthday, his vigil became more and more desperate.

By the time it reached the day after his birthday, his whole body was tense. He had cried himself to sleep the night before, but his father reminded him—because of course he just assumed that his hopes were ruined, he was so stupid—that sometimes curses came after one's 10th birthday.

So, he remained. He would happily stay there as long as necessary for his raven to arrive. Because it wouldn't be right if he didn't get his raven. He wouldn't belong. He would be like a dog-earred page in a book—painfully obvious and utterly ruined.

Luckily—amazingly, delightfully, miraculously—Edgar was pulled from his spiraling thoughts by the sound of wings flapping. But they were new wings, unfamiliar wings; not the familiar sounds that had surrounded him throughout his childhood. He eagerly threw his book to the side, throwing open the window. He eagerly waited, grin ing brightly as a dark shape approached from the night.

Andrew wasn't sure how long he had been down here. He had bothered trying to keep track when he first arrived—so sure that his uncle would come and collect him within the day—and there hadn't been enough to go off of when he started to lose hope.

The room he was in bad no windows. The only light he was exposed to was the clicking, buzzing fluorescent light above him. It always remained on. So, that was no use. One might think: meals. However, the meals he was given were sparse, and rarely ever evenly spaced apart. And recently, he hadn't been getting any. The only indication that it had been several days at this point was how tired he was, and how hungry he was. It couldn't have been several weeks, because he was still alive. But he was starting to reach a point he would eat whatever he could get his teeth on.

He only hoped that Nigel was a decent man, despite his occupation.

As if his thoughts had summoned him, Andrew heard the door open behind him—he had never been given a chance to see outside the door, always tied to a chair facing away—and the tapping of Nigel's dress shoes approaching.

"Hello, Cadet," Nigel purred as he settled into the chair placed behind Andrew's. It was horribly unsettling, to have the man draped on some seat behind him without being able to see him. To know that he's there, but not know what he was going to do.

Andrew didn't say a word in response. If asked, he would claim it was a way of rebellion, but he knew deep down it wasn't that complicated. He just… didn't trust himself. Not to beg, not to cry, not to scream… the reasons were endless. He was just… weak, broken.

Nigel sighed, like he was dealing with an unruly child. "You never banter anymore, Cadet. It's honestly a little boring."

There was movement behind him, the sound of… something settling against a table he knew was behind him.

"Now, Cadet— Andrew. Can I call you Andrew?" He didn't wait for a response. "Andrew, I feel like I've been a rather poor host as of late. Have you been eating well?"

Andre refused to answer, but he squirmed slightly as he was reminded just how hungry he was.

"Well, I suppose I know the answer to that. I feel bad, for the poor treatment you've endured. So I thought I would come handle the issue myself, so as to ensure no one can claim I was ever a poor host. You understand, yes? It's all about reputation, really."

There was movement in Andrew's peripherals, and he flinched, but the shape—a hand, he realized—didn't move from where it was being proffered.

He was holding something small in his fingers. It took a moment to recognize it for what it was: food. Some small bite of breaded chicken, from the looks of it. A morsel, really, but just the sight of it made Andrew start to salivate.

"I understand you're a bit… tied up right now," Nigel joked. His words, though they once would have pissed Andrew off, now started to fade to the background in the presence of what to him was holy ambrosia. "So I thought I would help a little bit."

The hand moved the piece of food closer to his mouth, and held it out just far enough that he would have to actively choose to reach out and take it.

"Come now, Cadet. Aren't you hungry?"

Andrew took a breath, then decided that his health was more important than his pride. There was no good way to take the food, so he tried his best to grab it at the very edges with his teeth. However, as he tried, Nigel pulled it back.

Andrew was ashamed to say that a very faint whine forced itself out of his throat.

"Really, Cadet? Do I disgust you that much?"

Andrew huffed, desperately eyeing the food being kept just out of reach. He licked his lips, but Nigel didn't make any move to return it.

"I would appreciate an apology, Andrew."

"…I'm sorry…"

He could hear Nigel grinning.

"Thank you, Andrew."

He moved it back, and Andrew dove for it immediately. With careful, slow motions, he grabbed the bite of food with his tongue and pulled it back. He savored the taste of it as he forced himself to chew.

"That's a good boy, Cadet."

Andrew bristled, but he didn't say anything, lest Nigel take away the food he has brought.

The second bite was held out shortly after he had swallowed. Andrew, who had gotten the hang of what to expect now, eagerly waited for it to be brought close, and pulled it into his mouth. He noted the strange taste and couldn't help but morbidly wonder if it came from having not eaten in so long or from eating it from Nigel's fingers.

The more he ate, the more he realized that both were incorrect. It started, of course, with just the odd taste, but the more he ate—each gently placed on his tongue—the more he started to feel… strange.

It was like his body wasn't quite his own. His head became filled with cotton, but everything felt so nice, at the same time. He knew he should feel more concerned, but all he wanted to do was lean closer to Nigel's hand and the waiting morsel of food.

Andrew had grown up in a house with a cat. The small creature had been something that haunted the house most days. It tended to stay away, only approaching when it best suited its own purposes. When Andrew was young, he was certain that the poor thing had hated him. But, his mother had sat him down with a small bag of catnip treats, and they had just waited. It had taken a bit, but eventually, the nervous cat had approached.

Andrew's mother placed a treat in his hand and told him to stay very still. It was hard, when he was so small, but he did his best and it bore fruit. The cat approached very slowly, and eventually started eating the treat from his hand. When it was gone, his mother replaced it with a new one. Soon, the cat was purring.

"You just need to let her get comfortable around you."

Andrew pulled himself from his thoughts as a new piece of food was placed by his mouth. He was able to force the cotton in his head away just long enough to slur out, "Wha… What's in this? I feel… funny…"

Nigel just hushed him and pressed the bite against his lips, encouraging him to pull it into his mouth.

"Don't worry, Cadet. Just a little thing to help you relax."

Adaine recognized that she had fallen behind in her studies, even if she would argue it wasn't really her fault. Still, it wouldn't look good to be so behind after just her first year. If she were still living with her parents, they would be making snide, passive aggressive comments any time they saw her. She wasn't anymore, though.

Now, she was staying in Jawbone and Tracker's apartment, and she knew that it was harder with three than with two. She wanted to prove that their choice was worthwhile.

It was three days after the Prompocalypse, and despite her body still being battered and her energy expended, she found it hard to slip into trance. Any time she tried, she would just remember the stack of work waiting for her, and turn to do more of it instead of resting.

She would get meals every so often, but more than not, Tracker or Jawbone would drop it off by the room they had given her. Lately, she had been so deep in her work, she had been forgetting to grab it.

She was still so deep in her work, to the point she almost missed the knock on the door. She did notice it, though, and it startled her. Partially because she was unused to it. Her family would have just walked in. Her father was of the opinion that if you were innocent, you should have nothing to hide. Thus, privacy was a rarely given privilege.

"Oh—! Uh, yes…?"

Jawbone's rumbling voice came from behind the door.

"Hey there, kiddo. Just wanted to check in. You, uh… you didn't have your breakfast, kid."

She paused. He raised an important question. She hadn't eaten breakfast, had she? In fact, did she have dinner the night before?

"Oh, right. Yes, of course. I'll come have some in a second."

"Actually, uh…" Jawbone cleared his throat. "You're a little past lunch, Adaine. Why don't you come out, and I can make you up a late lunch?"

She frowned, looking down at the theoretical spell casting essay she was currently taking a chunk out of.

"I… I really should finish up this work, first."

She was waiting for him to leave, but she didn't hear the sound of footsteps. Unlike her parents, Jawbone was loud in his movements, and much easier to track through the much smaller home.

"Adaine, kiddo… do you mind if I come in?"

No matter how many times he insisted it was okay to say no to requests, she still struggled with it. As such, she murmured and affirmative and Jawbone pushed into the room. The werewolf stood leaning against the doorframe, looking over her with a discerning and concerned gaze.

"Adaine…" He sighed. "When did you last sleep?"

"Elves don't sleep," she murmured, as if it were a valid argument against his question.

"Trance. You know what I mean. Have you rested since you last came out?"

She didn't give him an answer, glancing down at the papers on her desk, but that was answer enough.

"Adaine… what are you doing to yourself?"

"I just… I need to catch up. I fell so behind with everything to do with Kalvaxus, and I need to make sure I'm doing well in school."

The school's new counselor sat down on Adaine's bed and looked at her.

"Why do you need to?"

"Well, it's important to do well in school. Why else?"

"Well, I just… you're a smart kid, Adaine. Real smart. Even if you're behind, you're gonna catch up in a matter of time. Why bother trying to push through it all now?"

Adaine could feel that he already had an assumption. As much as she hated to admit it, she needed to set him right about whatever ridiculous idea he had concocted.

"I— I need to be on top of things, or otherwise I'm a drain on you and your kindness. With my parents gone, I need to try even harder to make sure that my being here is worthwhile."

Adaine thought it was rather well thought out, but Jawbone looked at her like he looked at Kristen. Which was ridiculous. Kristen needed his kindness. She was going through a serious upheaval and lost a family that she had relied on for so many years. Adaine had always been independent. She was simply proving her worth. She didn't need Jawbone's care and attention, simply a place to live.

"Adaine, that's not… Kiddo, you're always welcome here, whether you're doing well in school or not." He paused, then seemed to change the subject abruptly. "Are your meds at a good dosage, kid? Cause we can see about getting them upped."

She blinked. "I— yes, my meds are working well. I don't see… I don't see what that has to do with the conversation."

Jawbone sighed. He looked like he was debating something, then just reached out and took Adaine's hand.

"Kiddo, just know that I'm here for you. And that… one day, you will understand what that has to do with this conversation."

He moved back to the door.

"Now, c'mon. You're still havin' lunch. Then you're gonna take a nap. Got it?"

The stain on their hands lingered in the corner of their vision as they tapped their pen absently at the journal on their desk. Despite the intention to write, nothing was coming. Instead, the haunting visage of the Bond Mark lurked.

Where once, the sky blue splotch had felt like gentle hands easing tense and aching muscles, it not sizzled and burned. It felt right at home amongst the alchemical burns that littered the skin of their arms.

Because that was what it was: a scar. The remnants of a wound that refused to heal, but weren't quite in a state to fester and necrotize. Just when Aris thought they could ignore it, it would rear its ugly head and remind them of their failures.

They felt a sharp crack as the pen in their hand broke due to a particularly sharp jab at the journal, spilling ink all over the pages, the desk, and their own person.

"Shit!"

Aris leaped up and—wings fluttering wildly—tried to stem the worst of the ink. The journal was a lost cause now, and they just closed it to try and prevent the ink from seeping free. It went into a basket to be dealt with later, as well as a variety of the papers and other knickknacks scattered around the desk. Maybe some of them could be salvaged, but most would be disposed of.

They sighed as they started to shed their clothing, now stained and dark. Most of their body had luckily been missed, but their hands were soaked in the deep black ink.

With the offending garments off, Aris moved to the small sink in their kitchen. The faucet was turned on and they started to scrub away at their skin. Even as the ink slowly faded away—leaving a faint stain in the creases and small spaces of their fingers and nails—they kept scrubbing. Their arm was halfway into the sink, as they struggled to force the pale blue mark off their body. But it was no ink. So long as Kieran saw fit, it would not leave them.

Finally, when their skin was raw and red, they forced themself away. There was cleaning to be done. They slipped on their alchemy gloves to prevent more mess and got to work. It was a soothing distraction, and they found the familiar shape and color of the glove a much more welcome sight than their bare skin.

On the first day of his capture, he had been unsettled and waiting. Surely, any minute now, his uncle would force his way into the building and take Andrew home. The second day… well, things happen! He probably had to get permission first. Plan what to do. The third has him wavering, but he tried to hold strong. Patience, Andrew, he thought. After all, Rome wasn't built in a day. Or two.

Then four, then five. By the sixth day—his third without food—he was begging to waver. Was his uncle coming for him? Or had he deemed Andrew a waste of time? A failure, unworthy of coming back for.

Nigel didn't help. The man was a constant, haunting presence, even when he wasn't there. His simpering voice slipped into Andrew's head at the briefest sign of doubt.

As if the Devil, even the mere thought of him seemed to summon the man. He wandered into the room and clicked on the TV set Andrew knew was behind him, but couldn't see. The news played, and there wasn't a single mention of him at all. The most interesting story was about a local festival later this month.

(It was a nice reminder. Some days, in the dark of the room, it was easy to think that months had passed with him stuck there.)

"Tell me, Cadet… how does it feel, to be less than a footnote in the local news cycle?"

Andrew tried to straighten his back and set his jaw. He didn't deign him with a response. That just seemed to make Nigel laugh, though.

"Come now, Cadet…" Nigel's voice slowed, tracing over every syllable of Andrew's title—one he had held so proudly before, as he chased after his Uncle in every facet of life. "Do you really think they're coming for you?"

He had to, was the thing. Andrew had to believe that his uncle was coming for him, because if he didn't? If he didn't, what point would there be to anything? He would be stuck in this room, with Nigel, and no hope of ever escaping. At that point, how was it better than—

Andrew cut himself off from that train of thought. He couldn't think that way. Of course his uncle was coming to get him. His Uncle Sam would never let him down like that!

Fallon lived up north, deep in the Savaview mountains. Most of the year, it was cold and snowy, leaving him and Aris to bundle up to fight off the chill. But, every so often, a warm spell would arrive and melt the ice, leaving the small pond by their cabin the perfect temperature for swimming.

The summer after Aris moved in with him, Fallon decided they would enjoy spending time at the pond, giving him the time to tend to the weeds beginning to spread through his crops. He had sent (), his most loyal hound, to settle in the shade of the nearby tree and keep an eye on the kid, just for his own sake of mind, while he settled down in the dirt and tended to his potatoes.

And it had gone well, for a while. He had been making good progress before Kere had started barking and howling, drawing Fallon's attention. He gripped the hoe beside him and stood, racing for the pond. Worst case scenarios flashed through his mind. Had someone found them? Was it some wild animal?

As he broke into the clearing, his eyes scanned for a threat, but found none. Kere was stood at the bank of the pond, barking out at something within. It was splashing and flailing, making Fallon wonder if something has moved into the pond without him realizing.

He dove into the water, ready to fight off whatever had grabbed the kid. Instead, though, he simply found the kid struggling against their own wings. The downy feathers had taken on water weight and was dragging them down.

He pushed himself forward and grabbed the child in his arms. He dragged them both back to the shore and settled Aris on the shore. Their wings would be covered in dirt, but he was more focused with the fact that they weren't breathing.

He threw himself against their chest, trying to force the water out. His hands desperately pressed against them, trying to force the water out and air in. After a few, nerve-wracking moments, Aris gasped with desperate air starvation.

"Fallon…?"

He pulled them closer, cradling them in his arms. "Hey… hey, what happened? Did something get you?"

Aris shook their head, face screwed up and nervous.

"…No…"

Fallon frowned. "What happened?"

"I… I got too far. I got stuck…"

"How—? How does that happen? There's no real tide here to pull you away."

Aris's face screwed up, flush from choking, but also a hint of embarrassment and anger.

"I can't… I can't swim."

Fallon blinked, the words processing in his head. He felt fear and frustration welling up inside him.

"What were you thinking, going into the water if you couldn't swim!"

Aris shrunk down. "I— I didn't meet to go so far out! I just… didn't notice. And then my wings got wet and I couldn't get back up!"

Fallon couldn't help but frown. He didn't understand how a kid Aris's age didn't know how to swim. But then… the dark, horrible thought broke through.

Aris's mother wouldn't have known how to teach her changeling child to swim around wings, and their father traveled often to buy supplies and sell their crafts. Would he have even had a chance to teach them before now? And it's not like he could anymore. He was…

Fallon pulled Aris closer. "It's okay, I'm sorry. We'll… we'll figure out a way to teach you. I'm just glad you're okay."

Everything was dark; not in the way that a room without light was, but in the way an all consuming void was. Hesper's body shook, though she wasn't sure whether it was fear or cold that caused it. Regardless, her eyes tried to scan the nothingness to no avail. She could hear distant voices, but their words were lost to her. At the end of the day, it didn't really matter. They never talked to her, anyway.

"Well, you're hardly worth it, are you?"

The researchers never talked to them. Other things, however, did.

"Shut up," they murmured.

"Why?" She felt its form—not quite physical, but present—curl around her. "Why should I listen to anything you have to say? The experiment. The mutt."

Hesper's tail lashed as they spun, trying to track the immaterial presence.

"Shut up!"

A feeling of air brushing against her shoulder, and she lashed out at it. She felt something crush under her hands and she grinned with sharp, predatory teeth.

"I do love our little games, pet."

As the spirit spoke those words, they felt the world rush at them all at once. Eyes opened and air filled their lungs, but the feeling of something in their grip didn't fade like the void had.

A test squeeze resulted in a quiet whimper to her side. She glanced over and felt the pit of her stomach drop. Oh, Fates…

They hand ripped away like it was burned, and they curled in on themself. They tried to make themself smaller and less threatening. Their tail curled around their legs.

"I— I'm sorry! I didn't… didn't mean to…"

The words felt numb on their tongue. She didn't deserve Aris's forgiveness. She could have hurt them!

Aris rolled their wrist with a faint grimace. But, they didn't run away, or hit them. Instead, Aris settled down beside Hesper's borrowed bed.

"It's alright, Hesper. I'm alright, and you're alright. It was just a nightmare."

Vio's memory had always been… strange. She was built in the image of another, and had matching memories of a sort. They were strange, cobbled together things; mixing Viola's perspective with Virnan's recollection of events. But there had always been the lingering phantom of Viola. Yet, never as literal as it had become in recent days.

The revelation that Viola had been hard, but what was even harder were the sudden bursts of memories she knew were not hers, yet felt so real. They had started simple enough: memories of books she had never read, flashes of horrifying events that had never happened, feelings she had never felt towards people she both knew and had never met.

But then the more insidious ones began to emerge. The traumas she never went through, but now haunted her. The fear and anger she had never experienced, but now ached deep in her core. She just wanted it to stop.

Vio tried her best to push them away, but there was only so much she could do to fight against her own body, her own mind. Throwing herself into her work helped, but sometimes, it just left her more vulnerable.

In the druid camp, Vio knelt down beside the door, trying to figure out a way to open it. When Kasamir offered his Knock spell, she glared at him—mostly playfully, with just a bit of bite for not mentioning it earlier—and moved aside for him to cast it. Then, she swung the door open carefully.

Her body reacted before she could think. She was stumbling back from the room, which to the untrained observer was just a dark room. But she could see it.

Her vision blurred, shifting rapidly between two realities she couldn't discern from each other.

A room full of roiling insects, buzzing with decay and rot. A hidden camp full of magicless druids in a frozen hellscape.

A severed hand, calloused with years of musical experience, resting on a bed. Buzzing flies circling it. It had been there a while, waiting for her.

Vio didn't need to breathe, but some latent instinct drove her to the point of hyperventilation. Her chest heaved with every shaking breath she took. She could hear Kasamir's concerned voice and Sera's murmuring—feel the delightful, warm presence of Annie beside her—but none of it registered. She was still thrown between times, between identities.

One second, she was Vio, a warforged adventurer desperate to escape who she was made to be. The other, she was Viola, a young artist trying to avoid the shadow of her past. They were so similar, and yet so different.

And Vio hated her.

She had already had very complicated feelings about Viola before all of this, back when the woman just haunted her in a metaphorical sense. But now… she was haunted in a literal sense by the woman's spirit.

As the visions started to clear and she was left staring at the dark doorway of the cabin, Vio glanced around her at the gathered crowd. Sera was confused, Kasamir was worried, and Annie… Annie was knelt at her side, waiting for her to return. It was hardly the first time this had happened, though Vio had never properly explained. She knew she would need to, but she just… couldn't bring herself to, yet.

She took a quick breath and pushed herself up.

"I'm… I'm alright."