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“Sister, is this really necessary?” Cardinal Copia anxiously looks at the ghoul in the centre of the circle and back to Sister Imperator, who is overseeing the preparations with sterile detachment. “Surely another summoning would be a better-“
“Leave the worrying to me, Cardi,” Sister says, flashing him the kind of smile used to placate whiny children. “We’ve been over this. This is the best way. Now. Are you ready?”
Copia’s gaze skitters to Dewdrop, naked and shaking, and he thinks ‘no’. No, he’s not ready for this. He’ll never be ready for this. It’s not right.
They’re all still smarting from Terzo’s death. There should be a grief period granted in which they can try and reshape the world around the hole he left in it, but instead they are here, with no mercies extended. Copia has never doubted the infernal father, but his doubts about Sister carrying out his will are growing with each passing day.
Dewdrop’s eyes are puffy from crying, bloodshot from a lack of sleep, but he stands with his chin lifted, meeting Copia’s gaze head on, defiant until the very end.
Copia doesn’t want to do this.
“Cardinal,” Sister hisses, sharper, and Copia knows that he has no choice. If he doesn’t do this, she’ll find someone else, someone who cares less, and he can’t allow that. If he can’t prevent it, he’ll be the one to do it, extending whatever grace and mercy he can. If it has to be done, it ought to be done with love, not with indifference.
“Si,” he nods, nervously tugs on his gloves, his hands sweating inside them. “Si, I’m ready.”
The ghoul next to him opens the heavy tomb he’s holding to the marked page. Copia has never met him, doesn’t know his name. Sister didn’t allow any of Dewdrop’s pack to be here, because it would be too distracting. Copia idly wonders if Dew knows this ghoul, even in passing, or if he’s surrounded by strangers. If he prefers it this way, only having anonymous faces witness his reshaping, or if he wishes for the anchor of a familiar face.
Copia exhales, his eyes fixed on the page without seeing any of it. It doesn’t matter. He’s committed it to memory in the endless nights since Sister told him of what is happen, when sleep had eluded him. In theory, he knows what he needs to do. In praxis, he doesn’t know what will happen. He’s certain it won’t be pretty.
He side-steps the ghoul, halting just outside the circle drawn on the stone floor. “Dewdrop, are you ready?”
Dew’s blue eyes stare back at him, and the tranquil lakes in them have frozen over and left glaciers. “Of course, your grace,” he spits, making Copia flinch. He wants to step closer, wants to pull Dew into his arms and wrap his heavy robes around him, shield him from the people in the room and the chill in the air and the horrors that are to come. But there is nothing he can do, nothing at all, the both of them marionettes on strings, which run together in Imperator’s hands.
He tries to convey all this to Dew, but the glaciers blink back at him, unmoved.
Copia exhales slowly and pulls his shoulders back. He can’t allow himself to show weakness in front of all of these watchful eyes. If Dewdrop can be strong, then so can he. He raises his hands and starts to chant, the candles in the room flickering, starting to pulse with bright light.
~
Copia had imagined all of this before. Had imagined it in a thousand different ways, but even the worst ones, ending with Dew’s body broken and lifeless, hadn’t come close to this. His nannies and teacher had called him an “imaginative child”, but no amount of imagination could conjure the horrors of an elemental transformation.
At first, Copia had held onto hope that it would be a bit of spellwork, some waving his hands around and voila, Dew would be transformed. A funny little magic show, where they could do a little ‘tah-dah’ at the end, take their bows and go get a drink.
That hope is snuffed out quickly, when Dew’s sharp inhale cuts through the stuffy air, followed by a dripping sound. Copia doesn’t stop his chanting, doesn’t falter because he mustn’t mess this up, but his gaze moves from the candle on the other side of the room to Dew, who’s shaking worse than before. Rivulets of water are running down his body, dripping to the floor and evaporating on the hot stone. Copia’s stomach does something unpleasant when he realises that Dew isn’t crying, because the amount of water coming from his eyes is not normal. It’s also coming from his nose and ears and gills, rivers gushing their way down his skin.
Dew’s chest heaves with the force of his breaths and his tail whips behind him through the air. The heat in the room is suffocating.
As Copia watches, the water turns rusty, like old blood, painting grotesque lines along Dew’s body. That’s when the screaming starts. Guttural, like nothing Copia has heard before, rattling through his bones and settling in all the vulnerable places.
Dew’s knees give out and hit the floor with an audible crack. He keels over and the black curtain of his hair obscures his face. A selfish part of Copia is glad for it. It’s enough that he witnesses how his body curls up, tries to protect itself from invisible, inescapable forces, while he retches. A blob of thick, black liquid lands on the floor. For a second, Dewdrop is still. Then, an even bigger shudder wrecks his body and more of the foul liquid follows.
It seems to go on for an eternity, the retching and the shaking and the dripping, the water turning darker and darker, until not a patch of Dew’s skin remains unmarred.
Copia keeps chanting.
Dew starts choking, his body twisting and his claws breaking as they scramble for purchase on the stone.
Copia’s heart is breaking. He keeps chanting.
Dew struggles for air, horrible gasps muffled by the liquid that must be blocking his throat and gills. His body trashes, then twitches as he suffocates.
Copia thinks the shards of his broken heart have speared his chest. He keeps chanting.
On the floor, Dew wheezes and his fingers weakly flex against the stone. Among the ghouls, he’s always been one of the smallest. But when there was yet another crash and a shout of ”Dewdrop!” echoing down the halls, Copia often thought that he made up for what he lacked in size with his big personality.
Now, he’s just small.
His back shakes as he struggles, and finally, with a slick gag, the black fluid dislodges from his throat. Dew heaves in big, gasping breaths of air. When he tilts his head back and the curtain of his hair parts, there are strings of black hanging from his lips. Against the dark smears on his skin, his eyes stand out eerily. Bled of all colour, they are an unseeing white.
Copia feels pinned down by their accusing gaze anyway, and the true horror of what they’re doing slams into him like a freight train. He keeps chanting.
Dew’s reprieve is brief. With the water burnt from his body, the flames take over. At first, he chirps in startled pain, like one would when accidentally touching a hot pan. The heat rises quickly, swallows him whole as flames explode, reaching hungrily for every battered inch of Dew’s body. He’s a ball of fire inside the circle and Copia can’t see him, but he can hear him. Screams and wails like he’s never heard before. Hopes to never hear again. Knows he’ll never forget.
When people burn, they fall unconsciousness at some point. Dew is not granted that mercy, his screams pressing against Copia’s ears and bouncing around his skull, drowning out the sound of his own voice. He keeps chanting.
Dew screams until his vocal cords give out, and the sounds after that are worse, chocked off and keening, filled with the despair of an army.
The incense doesn’t mask the smell of burning flesh any longer. There is bile rising in Copia’s throat. He swallows it down. He keeps chanting.
They’ve come this far, he can’t, will not mess it up now. Because that would be worse.
His mitre slips on his head, and sweat trickles down his spine. The room is unbearably hot, the fire burning ever brighter, consuming everything. Dew’s screams are shapeless, animalistic noises that break through the flames.
The air is dry and Copia’s voice keeps cracking. He’s thirsty, doesn’t want to imagine how Dew must feel. It seems ignorant, to bemoan a dry throat when in front of his eyes Dew is burning, is being broken down and bled of his essence, to be reshaped and remoulded into something that will please Sister Imperator’s whims.
He’s come to the last lines of the chant, and has to keep a tight reign on himself not to hurry through them. Copia wants for this to be over, he wants the screaming to stop, he wants, no, he needs to know that Dew is alright.
By the time he finishes, his voice is shaking. As soon as he has uttered the last word, there is a void in the room, a vacuum with all the air sucked out. For a moment, they are suspended in stillness, suspended in time, no sounds, no movement.
And then, with a plop the tension breaks, the air floods back into the room and the fire is snuffed out.
Copia only realises how bright it was when its absence spots dance in front of his vision. He blinks rapidly because he needs his sight back, he needs to see what has happened, needs to reassure himself that it went well, that he didn’t… he can’t finish the thought, because Dew has to live. There is no alternative his mind will comprehend.
The room swims back into focus, dim now with only the candelabras lighting it. It looks the same as before, which feels wrong. It should be different, after the monumental thing that happened inside of it.
In the middle of the circle there is a body, lying prone like a broken doll someone threw away uncaringly.
Dew’s skin is charred, his horns black and crumbling, broken in places. His hair is burnt unevenly and falls in tangles around his face. He’s always taken such pride in it, cared for it so diligently, that the sight of it so ragged hurts Copia more than it should. Dew’s eyes are closed, bloody streaks dripping down his face from them. His chest is rising and falling. It’s slow, and it’s shallow, but he’s breathing, and Copia’s shoulders drop a fraction of an inch.
He takes a step forward.
“Copia.”
This time, he ignores Sister Imperator. He’s done as she asked, has gone against his instincts. She may not ask more things of him now.
Copia crosses the circle and kneels down next to the unconscious ghoul, his hand hovering uncertainly over a thin shoulder. “Dewdrop?”
There is no reaction. Copia’s heart hammers against his ribcage like a battering ram. All the adrenaline comes crashing down now. He does his best to ignore the shaking of his hands.
“Will you get his pack?” He addresses the ghoul next to him, who nods and hurries from the room.
Copia inhales, counts to ten, before he turns back to Dew and ever so softly places his hand on his shoulder.
“Dewdrop, caro, can you hear me?”
Dew whimpers, shies away from Copia’s touch. His eyelids flutter and with what looks monumental effort, he pries his eyes open. Beneath his heavy eyelids, Dew’s eyes resemble the anatomy of a flame, blue in the centre, swimming into bright orange and deep red around the rims.
Copia gives him a gentle smile that strains his soul, cups his cheek with a gloved hand and tries not to flinch away from the heat radiating from him, biting even through the leather.
“It is done, caro. You can rest now.”
Dew blinks time-laps slow.
“I’m sorry,” he adds more quietly, rubbing his thumb under Dew’s eye. Meant to be comforting, all it does is smear the blood.
“Fuck you.” It’s a whisper in the wind, Dew’s vocal cords fucked, but it echoes in Copia’s mind as loudly as Dew’s screams.
The flames are extinguished when Dew closes his eyes, his body sagging as he exhales in a whimper. By his side, his tail is twitching, like it wants to lash in agitation but can’t. There are awkward bends to it, and Copia thinks it might be broken, but keeps himself from looking too closely.
The sound of the door flying open and slamming against the wall cuts through the silence of the room.
“Dewey!” Aether’s voice is filled with the horrors Copia feels. He pulls back and leaves the pack to take over, watches as they crowd in around the newly-made fire ghoul. The ozone smell of quintessence fills the air as Aether and Omega look Dew over. Mountain hangs back, still like a tree, thorns growing wildly around his horns. Next to him, Swiss looks like he is ready to set the ministry on fire.
Rain hides behind them, peeking over Swiss’s shoulder with fearful eyes and shoulders bowed under misplaced guilt.
Sister Imperator and the other ghouls have already left. Dewdrop’s wellbeing is of no interest to her, and they won’t know if the ritual was truly successful, if Dewdrop will recover, until a few days have passed.
Copia hovers awkwardly. He wants nothing more than to join the pack, to apologise to them and to Dewdrop, to have Aether and Omega reassure him that Dew will be fine, once he’s washed and rested.
But a bath isn’t going to fix this, and right now there is no place among them for Copia.
So he does what he can and murmurs a blessing, asking Satan for his care, before he turns and leaves.
~
Sleep evades Copia that night. Dew’s screams echo in his ears, and the images of his broken body randomly flash before his eyes, making him short of breath again and again.
The morning dawns grey and listless. Copia goes through the motions of putting on his paint and vestments. He feeds his rats, finding some comfort in their unchanged chittering, before he sets off for the hospital wing, his stomach churning with nerves.
Flowers didn’t seem like an appropriate thing to bring, so Copia carries a bag of teacakes instead. He doesn’t like them much, finds them far too sweet, but he’s seen Dew wrestle Aether to the ground in a fight over the last one. It feels safe to assume he likes them.
He stops in front of the infirmary’s door for a second, counts to ten and tries to breathe evenly, before squaring his shoulders and opening the door.
It’s always cool in the infirmary, the air heavy with quintessence, like a weighted blanket. Usually it is calming, but today it feels suffocating, as Copia moves to the only occupied bed in the corner, the flimsy curtain around it drawn to hide what lies beneath.
It’s another hurdle to overcome, another deep breath Copia has to take.
The curtain rattles in the rails when he pulls it to the side and steps into the secluded space.
Dewdrop lies surrounded by pillows and blankets, impossibly looking even smaller than usual among them. His skin has been cleaned and his tangled hair pulled away from his face into a messy bun. The rest of him is hidden beneath the blanket. Copia stares. It takes agonising seconds until he can make out the subtle rising of his chest.
Still breathing, still alive, despite the paleness of his skin and the bruises beneath his closed eyes.
Copia exhales and sits down in the chair by the bedside, shifting awkwardly. He’s a man of the clergy, he knows his bedside manners. But this is no random sister or brother he visits to offer words of comfort. This is Dewdrop, and Copia is the one to put him here.
“Hello, Dew,” he murmurs. Dew lies still. “You’re probably not feeling your best, so I brought you the teacakes you like.” He puts them on the nightstand next to the bed. There’s a plush Baphomet sitting on it, and Copia wonders who of the others brought it.
They sit in silence for a while after that. Copia wonders if he should reach out, should take Dew’s hand, because he vaguely remembers hearing that people can feel the presence of others in such states, but he’s too afraid of hurting Dew further.
“I’m sorry you got so terribly hurt,” he murmurs, folding his hands in his lap. “And I wish I could aid your recovery.” If only he could build Dew back up with another ritual, make whole what he had to tear down.
He sighs and lowers his head, murmurs a prayer, drawing on the tools at his disposal.
The stillness is interrupted by the curtain being drawn back. “Dewey, I got you some more ice packs- Cardinal.” Omega stops shorts when he sees Copia, the warmth instantly dropping from his voice. “What are you doing here?”
He’s not hostile, Omega is far too professional for that, but he sounds clinical, sterile, and it makes Copia squirm in his chair, makes him feel like he is in a space he doesn’t belong.
“I wanted to see how Dew is doing,” he replies truthfully.
Omega hums and skirts around him, pulling the blankets back a little and replacing the ice packs, his body angled to block Copia’s view. He doesn’t reply.
“So,” Copia drawls, clearing his throat awkwardly. “How…is he?” It feels like a stupid thing to ask, but he needs to know. He needs some sort of information.
Omega shrugs, avoids looking at Copia as he fusses with the pillows and blankets. “He’s alive,” he says. Then, as if he decides that Copia deserves the truth, he continues. “His skin is peeling because it’s so charred, he’s got broken ribs and a broken tail, his claws have been torn out and his horns are breaking off. His body temperature is high enough it gives cause for concern. From what we can tell, he’s been boilt from the inside out, but it looks like his organs are mostly fine. He’s passed out, and when he’s not, he screams.” Finally, Omega turns and levels his lavender gaze at Copia. The cardinal wishes he would go back to his avoidance, which was better than the snarling curl of Omega’s lips. “That’s how he is, your eminence.”
Copia swallows with difficulty. He knew it was bad, of course he knew, but having Dew’s hurt flung at him so plainly, is something else entirely.
Omega exhales through his nose, and the professional mask slips back into place.
“Well,” Copia says into the awkward silence, tugging at the collar of his shirt where it feels tighter than it did this morning. “I better get out of your way then.”
He gets to his feet, hesitates for a split second. A stupid part of him hopes that Omega’s shoulders will drop from their tense perch, and that he’ll tell Copia to stay. Tell him that it’s going to be alright. But he doesn’t, and with a last glance at Dew, frail and lifeless between the pillows, Copia leaves.
~
Copia tries to distract himself, puts his focus and efforts into the paperwork he usually despises. It gets his taxes done, but it doesn’t make him feel better. He returns to the infirmary in the evening. Before he even opens the door, he can hear screams from inside. High-pitched and drawn out, winding around his insides and squeezing them tight until his eyes are burning. He rests his forehead against the door. For a second, the noise stops, giving Copia space to breathe.
Then it picks back up, whimpering and desperate, and Copia can’t stand it. He turns and rushes back to his rooms, knows its selfish and cowardly, but doesn’t care. He’s always been a coward, after all.
~
Sleep eludes him once again that night, finds him roaming his room before he settles down in the rickety chair by the window with his rosary. The beads are smooth under his fingers, well worn. He doesn’t have to think about murmuring his prayers, the beads gliding through his fingers in a practiced motion. It helps a little to turn the volume of his thoughts down.
What has he gotten himself into? He never asked for this, never wanted this. And yet, here he is, in a position that others would kill for.
He drops his hands into his lap with a huffed laugh. What would Terzo say to all of this? He was so much better at these things, always had been. The smallest of them all, and yet always the one in the lead. It had been that way since they were children, when Copia had come to the ministry and Terzo had grabbed his hand and started dragging him along. Terzo had walked fearless through the world, and Copia had followed in his shadow. Terzo had asked and Primo and Secundo had made it happen, the world shaping and bending to Terzo’s will. He’d met his match in Sister Imperator, but her only way of defeating him had been to cheat. Neither of them had ever thought that death was in the cards.
“I wonder what you’d say, fratello,” Copia mumbles, looking out of his window at the ministry grounds cast in shadows and moonlight. Terzo would probably huff and shake his head at him. “You’re playing with the big boys now, C,” he’d say. Copia would tell him that he never wanted that, and Terzo’s smile would turn wry.
“We rarely find ourselves in positions we asked for. But we deal with it. You can’t be a coward now, you have to be a leader. You’re all they’ve got.”
Copia sighs, the beads of the rosary clacking together as he rolls them around his fingers. He keeps looking out the window, watching as the dark of night gives way to the mists of morning. Then, he gets dressed, and paints over his cowardice with white and black.
~
There are no screams when he arrives at the infirmary, which makes it easier to go in. The second he does, he can her muffled whimpering. He misses a step as the noises punch him in the heart, but he keeps going, pushes forward. He won’t be a coward, not when he has no reason to complain, but Dew has every reason to scream.
The blinds on the windows are drawn, the only light coming from a few candles lit in the far corners of the room. Omega is standing by Dew’s bed, humming a soft tune as he adjust pillows and blankets.
“Good morning,” Copia says, glad his voice comes out mostly even. Omega’s humming cuts off and he glances at Copia over his shoulder.
“Cardinal,” he inclines his head before he turns back to Dew and places a cooling mask over his eyes, the kind Copia had seen Terzo use after too long nights.
Omega sees Copia’s raised eyebrows, and his grudge seems to have softened, because he volunteers “His eyes hurt.”
Copia nods as he takes a seat. He had stupidly assumed that Dew’s eyes had simply changed colour, but obviously there was a lot more to it.
“Call if he needs anything,” Omega murmurs as he finishes up, gently cupping Dew’s cheek in one of his large hands before he leaves.
For a moment, Copia sits still. Then he inhales deeply and scoots the chair forward. “Hello, Dewdrop,” he murmurs.
Dew whimpers softly, which is more of a reply than last time.
Copia struggles for something to say. It seems crude to ask Dew how he is doing. Usually he would start a conversation about something meaningless, but this is not a sister suffering from the flu, in need of some distraction. What happened is far too large to ignore in favour of talking about the weather.
“Do you want more ice?” He asks eventually.
Dew’s chest lifts and lowers with his laboured breaths. “N-o. H-hurts,” he rasps, his voice sounding like he’s swallowed shards. “C-can’t see.” There’s panic in there, and Copia firmly tries to hold his own terror at bay.
He reaches out, tentatively folds Dew’s hand between his own. His skin is clammy and hot. His hand feels frail, bird-boned.
“That sounds terrible, but it will get better, amico. We’re all here for you,” he says, hoping to give Dew some reassurance. Dew sniffles, tears tracking down his skin from under the eye mask, evaporating quickly on his heated skin.
Copia bows his head, Dew’s hand still held between his, and lowly starts to pray. The cadence and rhythm of it seem to help a little. Dew settles down, whimpering occasionally as he shifts. Copia prays until he’s hoarse, and Omega comes to replace the ice pack.
“Mountain’s shift at the greenhouse will be over soon,” he says, and Copia recognises the dismissal. Someone of the pack will be preferable to him, and he can’t say that part of him isn’t relieved when he gets to leave the heavy twilight of the infirmary behind.
His heart doesn’t feel lighter, the weight of Dewdrop’s change like an anchor around it, but the buzzing in his mind has been quietened down a little bit by the way Dew’s breathing had been shallow but steady by the time Copia left.
~
Dew spends weeks in the infirmary as his body stitches itself back together. He’s sensitive to the light, almost blind for a week, and it takes even longer for his broken bones to heal and the fever gripping him to break.
Copia visits him in the mornings. It’s a routine established by chance, not at all by the fact that he is apprehensive about running into the rest of Dew’s pack. The one time he’d seen Swiss in the halls, the ghoul had snarled at him, bearing his sharp teeth in a manner that held none of his usual theatrics, but all the reminders of the fact he was a creature of hell. Copia had hurried on quickly.
Dew becomes a little more conscious with each visit, but remains withdrawn. He doesn’t actively banish Copia from his bedside, and for the moment that is all Copia can ask for.
The chains of the anchor around his heart loosen a little after a few weeks, when it becomes clear that Dew is going to live. Sister is pleased with the way things are progressing, and when Sister is pleased, life at the ministry is a little easier for everyone.
And then, one day, Copia arrives at the infirmary to find Dew’s bed empty, the sheets stripped and the plushies gone from the bedside table.
For a second, his heartbeat trips and the anchor tightens painfully.
Omega shuffles into the room with fresh sheets in his arms. He glances at Copia, nods in acknowledgement. While his disposition hasn’t warmed up, he seems to have begrudgingly accepted that Copia is trying.
“Dew’s been moved back to his rooms. Aether can take care of him there,” he says as he starts putting fresh sheets on the bed.
“Ah, bene. Grazie, Omega,” Copia says, taking a deep breath as his heartbeat calms.
He stops by the kitchens on the way to the band ghouls’ wing, picking up some more of the teacakes and hoping that an offering of sweets will make him more welcome. His hands sweat inside his gloves and he brushes some lint from the the collar of his vestments, straightens them before he knocks on the door.
As he waits, his blood rushes loud as a waterfall in his ears. He finds it difficult to swallow against the tightness in his chest. Copia really hopes it isn’t Swiss who’ll come and answer the door.
His relief when Mountain’s towering form is revealed behind the door is short-lived. Mountain is a calm, friendly ghoul, with warm eyes like rays of sunshine in spring. When his gaze meets Copia’s, the sunshine turns to summer thunder.
“Cardinal.” The greeting is like a rockslide under which Copia struggles to hold his smile.
“Mountain. It is good to see you. I wanted to see how Dew is doing.”
Mountain’s face might as well be carved from stone.
“He’s not taking visitors,” Mountain replies.
There’s a noise behind him, and Swiss’ voice carries over. “Who’s it, Mounty?”
Mountain replies in guttural ghoulish. Copia doesn’t need to speak it to know it isn’t anything favourable.
The door closes in his face, his hand feebly hanging in the air.
“I brought teacakes,” he tells the closed door.
Walking back to his quarters, Copia finally understands what ‘walk of shame’ means, because no shuffle through the corridors in early morning light after a night of fun, had ever felt this shameful.
~
Copia tries visiting Dew two more times, before he gives up. The first time, Aether opens the door and, in a manner similar to Omega’s, tells Copia politely that Dew is sleeping and it is ‘not a good time’. The second time, Rain opens the door. He shuffles his feet and won’t meet Copia’s eyes, and Copia almost feels bad to put the freshly summoned ghoul in such a position.
“I’m… sorry,” Rain says, worrying his bottom lip with his fangs as his eyes quickly dart to Copia, before settling on the floor. Behind him, his tail lashes in agitation. “Dew’s, uh….not here,” Rain rushes to say, before he shuts the door.
After that, Copia gives up trying, quickly redirects his thoughts when he starts to wonder how in hell Imperator thinks he can tour with a pack of ghouls who hate him for breaking one of their own.
His sleep is frequently interrupted by memories of fire and screams and accusing eyes, and his days are devoted to work, in a bid to ignore the guilt twisted around his insides.
When there is no more work to be done, his feet often carry him to Primo’s garden. It’s well-maintained still by the ghouls who served under him, a legacy and a sanctuary.
Copia likes sitting on a shady bench and looking at the flowers, until their shapes blur into swirls of colours while he counts his breaths.
This afternoon, his counting is interrupted by the crunch of gravel. Copia blinks the world back into focus and finds a ghoul on crutches stumbling along the path. The clothes he wears dwarf him, emphasise the painful thinness of him. His straw-like hair is pulled back into a careless bun, tangled around horns that look black and flaky. Beneath his mismatched red and blue eyes, the skin looks bruised.
Copia inhales sharply when his brain connects the ghoul in front of him to Dew, who’s always been skinny but never frail, who had blue eyes and long black hair that he took great pride in. Who ran and jumped, and didn’t drag his feet painfully over gravel, while his hands held crutches in a white-knuckled grip.
At his gasp, Dew stops and looks up, his eyes meeting Copia’s, burning into him with their red intensity.
Copia swallows hard and gets to his feet, wondering when his legs turned into jello. “Dewdrop.”
It’s not the first time he’s seen him since the transformation, but it’s the first time he’s seen him conscious, not swaddled in blankets and pillows and cooling pads.
It takes a second, but then Dew inclines his head. “Cardinal.”
He stands still, but tremors are running through his body, as if it is collapsing in under its own weight.
“Please…please sit,” Copia gestures to the bench he just vacated.
Dew looks hesitant, like he wants to decline, but the trembling gets worse. “Sure. For a moment.” The stubborn set of his jaw at least is familiar. Copia stands by, not sure if he should help or not, as he watches Dew’s painful progress forward, feeling once again an awkward intruder.
He releases a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding when Dew finally and gracelessly plops down on the bench, throwing the crutches to the ground next to him with an annoyed huff that has steam coming out of his nose.
“Sit down or fuck off, your awkward hovering makes me nervous.”
At least Dew’s brashness hasn’t changed. That’s something Copia can work with.
He sits down, briefly frets about finding just the right amount of distance - not too little, so that Dew feels his private space is invaded, not too much, or it’ll appear like Copia fears being close.
“It is…good to see you out and about,” he says into the silence, grateful that he can look straight ahead at the flowers.
Next to him, Dew huffs. He radiates warmth that Copia wants to lean into to chase away the chill in his bones. “’s good to be outside,” he admits, following the statement with a kick to the crutches. “Even if I gotta use these fucking things.”
“Hm,” Copia replies, wishing he had his rosary as he twists his fingers together. “It is perhaps a crude question but…how are you?”
Next to him, Dew shifts and from the corner of his eyes Copia can see him shrugging. “Dunno. Better, I guess,” Dew sighs. “But better still means like shit.”
Copia keeps his eyes fixed on the flowers. “I’m grateful you’re better nonetheless,” he says. “And… for what it is worth, I am truly sorry about the part I played in this. It was…never my wish to see you so hurt.” It is the most he can say, even in a deserted garden. Sister Imperator has her ears and eyes in many places.
Silence hangs between them for so long that Copia is almost certain Dew is going to throw his words back in his face. But then the ghoul shifts, pats down the front of his sweatpants in a habitual move, before he groans in annoyance. “I’d kill for a smoke. But no ‘you’re not allowed cigarettes at this stage of your recovery, Dewdrop. They’re harmful for you, Dewdrop’,” he mutters, his impression of Aether eerily on point.
“Look, Cardinal. I don’t want your apologies or your pity, or any of that shit. Stuff happened we both didn’t want. Members of the clergy suggested reasons for me doing it, and I’m sure they had some suggestions for you as well.” It’s amazing how Dew can make the word “suggestion” sound like a threat. “We’re all pieces in some fucked up game of chess. Shit’s bound to happen.”
Copia’s lungs expand in a way they haven’t been able to in a while.
“Thank you,” he murmurs and inclines his head.
“Don’t fucking thank me,” Dew spits. “I’m gonna make you pay for so many treats on tour to make it up to me. And I want the bed in the back lounge.”
Copia finds himself smiling as he turns to look at Dew. “Anything you want.”
“Dangerous promise to make, Cardinal,” Dew huffs, but his eyes look like dancing flames, the corners crinkled with amusement.
“Dew! The fuck you doing out here?” There’s a heavy set of boots pounding along the gravel and Swiss’ form comes into view. He misses a step when he spots Copia, and although he’s still a few metres away, Copia can hear the growl he emits.
Next to him, Dew sighs with the world-weariness reserved for people much older than him. “Swisstopher, calm yourself. The Cardinal and I were having a perfectly nice chat.”
Swiss glares at Copia before he moves to pick up the crutches. “You shouldn’t be out here by yourself. One of us would’ve-“
“Come along and smothered me even more, I know,” Dew mutters. “Besides, I’m not by myself.”
“He can hardly be trusted,” Swiss replies as he helps Dew to his feet.
“Bet you Imperator gave him as much choice about this as me, so save your anger for someone who deserves it,” Dew says as he adjusts his grip on the crutches. Copia feels like he is more and more indebted to the ghoul by the second.
Swiss looks between Dew and Copia, and while he doesn’t acknowledge Dew’s words, his posture relaxes.
“Let’s get you back before Aether sends the Ghoulettes after you.”
Dew shudders at the thought and takes a step forward. “Hey Cardinal, you should drop by with more teacakes sometime. Turns out being an invalid means I don’t have to share them.”
Copia breathes a disbelieving laugh, his fingers curling around the edge of the bench to keep him from floating away in his new lightness, when the weight on his shoulders falls away.
“Si, I’ll be sure to stop by.”
~
It is a strange thing, how the world keeps turning, unperturbed, after things happen that should’ve tilted it on its axis. After being knocked off the path by fire, life slowly but surely gets back on track, settles into its well-worn groves and pathways.
The pre-tour machine starts running and swallows Copia whole, bouncing him from dress rehearsals to stage rehearsals, like a little ship lost in a storm at sea. He capsized spectacularly during the first band rehearsal, nervous about attempting to fill the larger than life legacy Terzo has left him, nervous about facing the ghouls, nervous about how Dewdrop will be faring.
The ghouls are guarded, probably called back from their hunt for his blood by Dewdrop. He takes to the guitar like moths to a flame, and although he has to sit down halfway through the rehearsal, he’s brilliant, blinding like the sun as he coaxes sweet and terrible notes alike from the instrument.
It’s Copia who misses his cues, who stumbles and forgets lyrics.
By the time they call it quits he’s a wreck, the wild waters of the ocean tossing his thoughts around. When Dewdrop passes, he pats his shoulder and gives him a sharp smile. “Maybe try some chamomile tea.”
Copia does.
Slowly, things get better. Eventually, rehearsals even become fun.
By the time they hit the road, they’re a well-oiled machine.
They play their hearts out every night.
The crowds love them.
Imperator is pleased.
And yet, the early hours of the morning often find Copia sitting in the tiny kitchenette of the bus, caught in that strange space between a show and reality, where he is wearing sweatpants but his ears are still ringing with the roaring of the crowd.
He’ll sit and drink his chamomile tea as the ghouls say their good-nights, friendly, but never fully unguarded. His part in Dewdrop’s pain has frayed the ties that connect them and they don’t trust the stability of it. It will take time to rebuild that trust.
Most of all, he’ll be watching Dew, who has good days, bad days and really bad days. While his body has mostly recovered from the transformation, he still goes through flare ups that leave him in crippling pain. The healers at the ministry have found no remedy for it. Sometimes the bouts of it are mild, headaches and stiffness that he stretches out. And sometimes they are devastating, joint and muscle pains that have him gasping and shaking his way through the night.
On those nights, Swiss sings to him, low and comforting. If his temperature is fluctuating out of control, Rain holds him, tries to cool him down. If touch doesn’t make him flinch, they’ll gather for a pile in the back lounge, the ghoulettes holding Dew against soft bodies, while Swiss picks a funny movie for background noise. Aether sits and pour over textbooks, the frustration about his inability to help like sparks of electricity in the air around him. Mountain brews endless cups of teas, rolls joints from his special stash.
And Copia sits and watches.
Knowing that all this suffering is his fault.
Wondering if it was worth it.
Certain he’ll never absolve himself from the guilt.