Shael gives Mei a confused look before the curse settles in and her arms hang limply at her side. Without protest, the young dark elf does whatever Mei asks of her much in the same way the drake puts up not fuss. For now.

The clock was ticking. They needed to get out there quickly and get as far as they could before their control over the two weakened.

Zarius reaches up and grabs a hold of Mei’s hand as he pulls himself onto the back of the drake. He settles down behind the changeling, clearing his throat. “I am fine.”^[1]

With everyone on its back, the drake lifts off into the air and flies across the open plains. Zarius looks over Mei’s shoulder and notes that some of her clothing has left her skin exposed to the sunlight. He pulls off his cloak and reaches around Mei’s shoulders to secure it then flips the hood up over her head so she’s fully covered from the sunlight.

“Would be nice if the sun would set faster.” He tucks a bit of Mei’s white hair back into the cloak’s hood. “This was a mess of a situation. I am sorry to have put you in a complicated position. I should have known things would not be so simple. Feels like nothing is simple these days.”

He pulls back from Mei and coughs into his hand again. Keeping his control over the drake was wearing on him as much as Mei’s control on its rider has on her.

It is a while before they manage to find a safe place to land, a small abandoned homestead out on the grassy plains next to a dried out river. At this point, the sun is low enough to touch the horizon and the sky begins to darken. The drake is exhausted from flying with so many passengers for so long and lands with a heavy thud, nearly collapsing under its own weight onto the ground.

Zarius braces himself and gets off, patting the creature on the side. The drake blinks away the docile demeanor it had, finally breaking free from the fellblood’s influence. It snarls and snaps at him which makes him jump back to a safe distance. It snarls and lays down its head in the grass, too tired to put up much of a fuss.

“Well, that at least tired it right out.” He looks at Mei and the rider. “We should be able to rest here for a bit, figure out what our next move is.” He gestures for them to follow into the worn farmhouse.

The interior of the house is dark and dusty. Zarius pushes open the door which creaks on its hinges before scouring the living room for anything useful. He drags over a chair into the center of the room and digs around in his bag for a rope. He looks up at Mei and the rider when they enter the room and tosses the rope to Mei.

"I presume you know how to tie a knot or two."

---

[1] Smooth Talking

Mei grasps Zarius’ hand and helps to pull him up; she looks back at him as he settles onto the back of the drake behind her, pale eyes narrowing slightly when he emphasizes that he’s fine. Her brows furrow subtly, lips pursed in response; and although the question of, ‘Would you tell me if you weren’t?’ lingers at the tip of her tongue, Mei nods instead— choosing to trust his judgement in the moment.

Movement of the drake intending to take off beneath them causes her to turn away; focusing instead on finding somewhere to hold as it stretches out its wings, and lifts off into the sky.

Of course, no sooner have they left the safety of the shadows does she feel a stinging sensation against the uncovered portions of her skin. It’s a slow, burning feeling; a surface ache that will gradually grow worse the longer she’s exposed to it until it finally becomes bone-deep. Her reaction is subtle: shoulders tightening, fingertips curling, bracing herself to deal with it throughout the ride—

—when it starts to fade.

Zarius’ touch, though, is still unexpected; and his reaching around makes her bristle slightly just before she relaxes with the recognition of what’s happening. The cloak clasps around her collarbone without too much fuss; and as Zarius tosses the hood up over her head, she gratefully adjusts the loose shoulders to fall over her arms, covering the damaged riders’ suit from the light of the sun above. An involuntary shudder passes over her; whether from exhaustion; or the relief of not having to bear the burden of the sun during the ride.

“Thanks.” She sighs, her voice coming across as quiet in the howl of the wind; she glances back at Zarius, the red in her eyes highlighted by the shadow cast by the hood of his cloak. She parts her lips to speak, but finds her voice caught in her throat; it’s a simple gesture, one which Mei does not fight, but its familiarity catches her by surprise. “Pfft… you’re telling me,” she sighs, clearing her throat mid-chuckle as she follows the ghost of Zarius’ touch by brushing the same lock of hair behind an ear.

Her tone falls while she turns her eyes away for a moment; watching the golden, verdant blur of the plains below, before looking back at Zarius. The golden glow of the sun highlights the charcoal tones of his skin and glints off gilded jewelry; she gazes at him for a moment before offering him a tired, but somewhat impish smile. “Well, it would’ve been a lot worse if I hadn’t had someone to rely on; complicated, maybe… but hey, I came with you. It could’ve been much worse. I owe you one.”

Zarius’ cough draws her attention when he pulls away, leaving a chill in the space he had once occupied. She leans forwards on the drake, her shadowed gaze concerned; but she doesn’t question him any further about it. She clutches the inner edges of Zarius’ cloak, and draws them closer to her chest as she turns away— her motion bringing forth a soft chuckle when she feels a familiar weight on the back of the cloak wiggle.

---

“How, uh… how long do you think it’s going to be like that?” Mei physically waives away the anxiety that pulses through her when the drake snaps at Zarius; she circles around the massive creature to reach him. “I mean, we flew a fuckin’ long way, but when it catches its breath? Oh boy.” She breathes an exhausted sigh, side-eyeing the massive beast, before escorting herself and the rider towards the worn farmhouse after the fellblood.

Charlotte, having occupied the back of Zarius' cloak this whole time, happily remains latched to her back.

She steps inside with a slight drag in her steps; maintaining the curse on the rider while they had flown was no easy task; and frankly, she’s eager to simply collect herself. She tests some of the floorboards, listening to the creak and groan of the farmhouse; and then, the screech of the legs of a chair as Zarius drags a chair into the center of the room.

She watches him idly for a moment, reaching out to catch the rope as it’s tossed to her.

“I mean…” Mei runs her hands across the length of the rope, snapping it and creating a sharp crack as she does so. “… I’ve had to tie up a few men in my time.” Before Mei allows the curse to fall, she escorts the rider to the chair and pins her arms behind her; tying her wrists together with a fairly well-constructed handcuff knot.

Mei lets the curse fall as she tightens the rope one last time; and as she releases the rider ^{(1. Curse of the Hag - End)}, the rope falls from her hands.

The change is swift and subtle, barely recognizable in the shadows of the old warehouse, but Caedes presses his palm over his eyes with a steady breath; the whiplash of his senses returning to him forcing him out of his own transformation.

Zarius shrugs. He wasn't too familiar with creatures of the draconic persuasion. Hell, he could barely figure out what was going on with his crazy cat half the time.

"Hopefully at a least long enough for us to convince its rider not to have it eat us."

He scoffs a bit at her comment as he watches her tie the dark elf's wrists behind her back. "Only a few? Must be a pretty exclusive list." 

Though tempting to bring up the webbing situation from the warehouse, he thinks better of it. Where they currently stand with one another still doesn't feel very sturdy, and he does not want to push the changeling's buttons too much in case he turns around and pushes back. With a knife. In the back. 

As Mei's control releases, the rider's eyelids droop and her head rolls forward as she loses consciousness. She'd probably be out at least for the next few hours, so they had some time to talk without worrying about anyone overhearing something they shouldn't. 

Zarius breathes a sigh of relief, the day had been exhausting for the both of them and they still couldn't let their guard down given the threat of the drake just outside the front door. The fellblood peers out one of the windows at the creature which is still laying on the grass. With any luck, it would take a nap as well so the two could at least figure out what to do next. 

He steps across the room to dust off the table and find two more chairs before looking up at Caedes, seeing that he's returned to looking like the face the fellblood is more familiar with. His gaze lingers on the pale man for a moment before he takes a seat. 

"Riding that displacer horse must have been a shock. No wonder it's a prized mount." He eyes the changeling up and down briefly. "Are you hurt at all? Or just tired?"

As far as he can tell, the changeling seems to have held his own just fine. There probably isn't any real reason to worry or be asking, but it feels the quiet of the old farmhouse is almost oppressive without any attempts at conversation. 

He pulls out a waterskin from a pouch on his waist. There's a moment where he almost offers it to Caedes out of habit but then he stops himself and takes a drink himself. The water just makes the taste of the ash in his mouth even less palatable. A look of disgust crosses his face before he wipes his mouth on his sleeve and puts the stopper back in the spout of the waterskin.

A thought crosses his mind, and he is not certain if he should voice it. After a moment of awkward silence, he looks at the pale man. "...do you need any blood?"

Gods, he must be tired. Why has making small talk become such a daunting task? There's no reason for it, at least that's what he tells himself. Deep down he can feel something unsettling. An unease. A worry. A fear. Of what exactly, he doesn't know, or chooses not to acknowledge.

And unfortunately that has made him anxious when he does not have anything else to focus on and distract him. There had to be something they could discuss. Something other than what they both seem to be avoiding, whether they know it or not. 

Zarius clears his throat, still feeling the slightly sting of smoke. Damn. He couldn't keep telling people he was if this kept persisting.

The earth warbles underneath him; the shadows bend and arch at the corners of his blurry vision; and his head throbs with the pressure of mental exhaustion and whiplash. He takes a deep breath while he pulls his palm away from his eyes; and he blinks to readjust his vision. The drooped head of the now-unconscious rider fades from blurry, to clear, as he does so. When Zarius’ voice interrupts the silence, he breathes a chuckle of perceived breathlessness.

“Labelling it as a shock might be an understatement.” He shakes his head, attempting to physically dislodge the fuzziness of his mind before he turns to look at Zarius. He watches clouds of dust billow off the old table while the fellblood swipes away remnants of age and neglect. “Blinking out of existence is a weird feeling; dunno if I'd suggest it.” It’s an effort to keep his voice light, but even the usual edge of his voice has dulled, “But after that first time, it made more sense that a displacer horse could even partially stand to compete against… Well.” Caedes trails off, gesturing towards the window where the drake lies.

He offers Zarius a lopsided smile before he turns back towards the rider’s unconscious form. He stoops down to lower himself closer to the ground and angles a shoulder to give Charlotte something to climb off of. “Let us know when she’s awake, please.” He murmurs to the spider; and Charlotte makes a tiny sound of agreement.

She moves from his shoulder, to arm, and then to the floor to circle around the chair the rider’s sitting in.

He smiles weakly as he watches her before placing his hands on his knees and pushing himself back to his feet. “I’m… fine, really.” He admits, or perhaps, objects. He turns on a heel to face Zarius, shrugging as he strides over to join him. “She got me a few times, but it’s nothing serious.” He brushes his fingertips across the back of one of the chairs and looks at the dust that sticks to his fingertips; he makes a bit of a face, before brushing it against his pants. “Reckless, but persistent; I’ll give her that.” Zarius might recall the torn fabric of his arm; and although not as noticeable given his inability to bleed; the cut of the bladed whip that had sunk into his skin.

“It just takes a lot out of you to maintain that level of manipulation in such quick succession.” He pulls out the chair across from the fellblood, shoulders rolling in a shrug; but he never quite meets Zarius’ eyes. “Had you not shown up when you did, it probably would have been actual trouble.” He chuckles, finally glancing across the table at the fellblood; and watching as he takes a swig of water from his waterskin. "I owe you for showing up when you did."

He notes the face that Zarius makes afterwards, but he can’t really determine why; it’s the sort of face that one might make after tanking alcohol a bit too strong for them. Zarius, though, isn’t really the kind to carry around alcohol in his waterskin.

Caedes tilts his pale gaze away, and lets the silence fall between them; a familiar, uneasy silence without a name that feels heavy and tedious. He distantly recalls evidence of the fellblood’s drinking habits under stress, which… well… he’s been acting different since the night of the Red Rogue, anyways.

Granted, so has he; it’s a two-way street; and Caedes isn’t sure where the line he shouldn’t cross lies anymore. It was easier to try and push Zarius’ buttons on purpose when they’d first met; and when he didn’t care what consequences they might hold if the fellblood tired of his antics. It was easier to joke with him when he knew the pattern; it was much easier when he knew, on some level, that there was some kind of exception granted to his behavior; and that it was reciprocated in a similar way.

And now?

Now, he… he doesn’t know.

It’s hard to strike up even the smallest conversation; and in the absence of conversation, the silence is awkward and burdensome.

The changeling glances in Zarius’ way when he does finally speak; but the question he offers causes his brows to raise in surprise; and he purses his lips before cracking a lopsided smile. “Uh,” He offers a chuckle into the universe, eyes turning towards the side; Zarius’ voice isn’t mocking, but to hear it so blatantly asked in the open air does catch him off guard.

Truthfully? He does; the exhaustion, the wounds, and the copper taste on his tongue tell him as much. He knows that the wounds won’t heal, and the exhaustion won’t quite fade with rest; but it would be an understatement to say that Caedes wasn’t a stranger to self-neglect on this front. He had once accepted his role as a monster in flesh, blood, and rumor when he was alive: but to accept what she might refer to as a blessing; this second life as a real monster in undeath?

It’s different.

He clears his throat, unwilling to dwell on it; the silence that follows Zarius’ question feels oppressive in the muted neglect of the farmhouse. “Probably?” The admission comes quietly, but he offers Zarius a lazy smile all the same, attempting to pass it off. “But I’ll be fine until we get back on the road, I just need to catch my breath.” He shrugs and leans forwards, resting his elbow against the old table while he looks across at the fellblood.

His subtle smile fades slightly when Zarius clears his throat; and he leans his head against his open palm; practically clawing for anything else to fill the silence. “… How long have you had that cough, anyways?”

Zarius nods in agreement, he could understand how much concentration it must have taken to impart his will over someone else for so long.

“You do not owe me anything,” he insists. “I put you in that situation to begin with, remember?”

The fellblood watches the changeling closely, noting each shrug of the shoulders, tilt of the head, and forced smile or glance. Caedes' sluggishness does not go unnoticed. It was apparent to Zarius that he was struggling more than he was willing to admit. An annoying habit they are both guilty of. But the fellblood isn’t concerned with himself at this moment. No, his focus is intently on Caedes.

Though he’d never witnessed any such behavior from Caedes personally, there were stories of vampires losing their minds over their thirst for blood. Zarius can’t help but remember his first bout with a violent vampire and just how intense fending off the bloodsucker was. Caedes doesn’t act as if any bloodlust is influencing him, but who could say for how long that would last. At night, Zarius would be at a disadvantage if he had to defend himself. The assassin had already bested him once before, and the memories of that night in the warehouse were still plenty fresh enough to easily resurface in his mind. If Caedes did not have his wits about him…there was a good chance the fellblood wouldn’t be able to escape.

It’s a dark train of thought, and it leaves a sickening feeling deep in Zarius’ stomach. He didn’t want to have to glance over his shoulder at the person he was trusting to watch his back in the first place. He didn’t want to plan for contingencies for if Caedes stabs in the back or attempts to kill him in the middle of the night. He didn’t want to fear the man.

He ruminates on that last thought. Fear. It wasn’t something he often thought about. Of course he had fears, but rarely did he have any reason to fear for his own life.

The fellblood’s eyes narrow. He considers the options on the table. If Caedes needed blood to regain his strength, there of course was their unconscious captive, and there was himself. They’d already inadvertently put the poor girl through a lot. If they wanted to salvage any chance at having a civil conversation with her, best not to cause her any more harm especially while she is unconscious.

Taking that into consideration, he draws the next logical conclusion quickly. 

“You do not heal without drinking blood, correct? Considering we may still need to fend off an angry drake and there is a long distance to travel back to Darkveil, I would prefer if you were not in a weakened state. How much do you think you need?”

Not waiting for an answer, he pulls out a pendant he has tucked into his shirt and unclasps it at the back before putting it on the table. He then starts to unbuckle and unwrap the bindings on one of his arms, leaving the wrappings in a pile on the table and then rolling up the sleeve underneath it to expose the skin of his arm. The same arm he nearly lost, but was spared thanks to the efforts of Caedes, Kamille, and Beist. 

He only pauses when Caedes asks about his cough. When exactly had it all started? The cough has been infrequent, only acting up when he got particularly stressed or in dire straits, but the other things…the things no one else could see and he had kept to himself…it had been a while, hadn’t it? The dreams, the whispers, the taste of ash and the scent of smoke on his skin. They felt like a part of him now, yet he certainly couldn’t recall these things being nearly as present in his childhood.

He tries to pinpoint a specific event or time for the appearance of the symptoms. They had not all started at once. The dreams were the oldest, but the more physical ailments were far more recent. As were some of the abilities he had gained. He suspected there was a connection, though what exactly was still beyond his current understanding. For as intelligent as he liked to think he was, knowledge of more supernatural nature were not his strong suit. That was more his sister and mother's area of expertise. 

After a moment though, one memory sticks out in his mind. It was shortly after meeting Caedes and the whole situation with the oozes in the Marsh Flats, between then and the Marrowvine’s ball. It’s a painful memory, ending with him bleeding out on the floor of his own room from a stab wound through his throat after escaping literal hell. He had nearly died that night and only escaped through miraculous happenstance. 

Though, for as vivid as that memory is, something still felt off about it, like there was more and that was not quite the true start of things. Trying to think of anything else was like recalling the details of a story someone else had told you, like the memories were not your own to even begin with. He shakes his head.

“A few months, I think.” He sits back in the chair a bit. “It has been getting worse, but I do not know why,” he reluctantly admits. “I know Eameia has noticed as well, though she has not said anything to me about it. It does not seem to be something that can be healed.”

“Zarius…” Caedes’ voice sounds somewhat exasperated, brows furrowing slightly in return; perhaps he’s too tired to keep beating around the bush. “You keep saying things like that, but you do realize that I’m here because I wanted to come with you, right? It’s not like you’ve been holding me at knife point. I could have stayed at the Rookery; you could have chosen to not show up at all; so at least allow me to thank you for it.”

Caedes pushes himself back into his chair, arms crossing loosely beneath his chest.

That much is true, at least; and thinking back on it, there wasn’t much communication between them at the time for Zarius to know that he was in trouble. The communication they did have wasn’t all that long before the fellblood came bursting in on the back of a “talking horse”— a thought that, as surprising as that had been at the time— is actually pretty funny in hindsight.

… Nonetheless, after what happened at the warehouse? He really had no reason to come to assist him; in fact, it probably would have been easiest to let him flounder. He doesn’t want to consider that Zarius would willingly send him on some kind of suicide mission, but in their line of work, it’s not necessarily an uncommon occurrence when one needs to rid of… a nuisance.

He doesn’t like to think of Zarius like that— but it’s a logical line of thinking after all that’s happened— and had Zarius not arrived, he may have fallen right into it given what surrounds their circumstances.

He looks across the table at Zarius as he speaks, gaze tilting to the side in a way that seems almost guilty; his expression cracks into uneasiness in the way his lips quirk into a pursed frown. “Well…” he trails off, “No, I can’t; but really, I’m not that—” Zarius doesn’t even wait for him to finish; the changeling glances back at him, fingertips tightening against the curve of his arms when he realizes that the fellblood is unbinding the wraps on his arms.

Given their conversation, he’s really only got one assumption.

“W-woah, wait— I don’t know, but— Zarius, you don’t have to do anything.” He objects, sitting up straight in his chair. “I couldn’t—” Caedes pulls the cloak around his shoulders by its inner lining, looking mildly guilty. “—ask you to do that.” Feeding isn’t exactly a point of pride for him; under normal circumstances, the warmth of shame and embarrassment might have washed over him, dusting his pale face in rosey hues— but it doesn’t, because it can’t. He clears his throat. “Most of the veins in the wrist are too small to be a quick fix, anyways.”

He’s taken great care up to this point not to raise awareness to this small quirk; despite the fact that Zarius has been privy to his inability to heal, his feverishness at that time had been a boon in those regards; and the only time that he was hellishly wounded, Zarius wasn’t there.

And he… he can’t remember what happened afterwards.

Killian had been there for a time, but not in the aftermath; when he had blacked out only to awaken better, and he… doesn’t think much about that— about who…

…

It’s one of many things he chooses not to think of about in terms of that trip to the Moonglade; he’s not a stranger to taking a life, but he is a stranger to losing control over himself and not knowing what he’s taken. She had assured him that she had taken care of him, but… that doesn’t make things any better, knowing that he had ultimately been a puppet to whatever decisions she made on his behalf.

…

He wouldn’t do that to Zarius, right?

… She wouldn’t?

He closes his eyes, shaking his head to dislodge the train of thought, before he lifts his gaze back to Zarius; for a time, he seems to consider his question; but Caedes’ pale gaze darkens somewhat at his answer. “It… can’t be healed?” He repeats, the words coming off his tongue like bramble and barbed wire; his chest tightens. Concern washes away guilt, embarrassment, and shame from their previous conversation; and for a moment, Caedes is utterly speechless. He looks across the table at Zarius, fingertips tightening around the trim of his cloak. “You’ve… talked to Eameia about it?” He asks, a worried cadence to his tone. “She doesn’t know what it is?”

He's quiet for another brief moment before he adjusts his sitting posture, "Are you okay?"

“If you want to thank me then just say thank you rather than declaring that you owe me something,” the fellblood retorts, equally exasperated.

They were both tired, and given how tense they were around one another currently, it wouldn’t be beyond belief for a small silly argument to turn into something more ugly given the circumstances.

The fellblood stares at the changeling for a moment. The way Caedes reacts catches him a bit by surprise. In Zarius’ mind, it is a logical solution to a problem that needs to be addressed. They need to be at their best to deal with anything that could go wrong in the next few hours. But the stammer, and the pulling at the edges of the cloak almost protectively clue him in that Caedes was not of the same line of thinking.

While he wants to reassure Caedes that it is fine and necessary for him to regain his strength, he struggles with how to continue that conversation without causing Caedes to recede further into that cloak.

He lets the topic slide for the time being, and allows the focus shift to himself. It’s an equally difficult thing for him to speak of. Admittedly, he has been avoiding dragging others into it. Cornered here in the shabby house didn't leave many options for avoiding giving some sort of answer.

“Not from what I can tell.” He reaches over and holds up the amulet which has a vial of shimmering icy blue liquid inside it to show it to Caedes.^[1]

“The contents of this is fairly potent and heals deep wounds, it is comparable to the magic and potions Lady Kamille used to heal me. I have used this a few times, both on myself and others, so I know it does what it is supposed to.” He places it back down on the table. “Yet it seems to be ineffective at curing whatever this is.”

Zarius shakes his head. “No, we have not spoken specifically about it. But we are siblings, close ones at that. It is hard for us to hide things from one another even if we avoid being direct. I do believe that she intends to speak to Lady Kamille about what she has observed, even if it means sneaking around behind my back. It is the kind of thing she would do.”

Not that he would stop her. He has hardly had the time to research what exactly it is himself. The possibilities seemed endless, some sort of magic resistant illness he caught while abroad, chronic symptoms from living in the Ash Lands, an entity that hitched a ride from hell itself, or a curse from meddling in the plans of the god of time. He wasn't an expert or a healer, and there have been so many distractions as of late. If Eameia felt it necessary to take matters into her own hands for his sake, he wouldn't object, especially if it gave her a convenient excuse to improve relations with the Witch of Moonglade.

Though it is fairly evident that he has neglected his own health to a degree. Or perhaps his pride got in the way of directly asking for help, even from a trusted family member or close friend.

“For the most part I feel fine. It just acts up from time to time," he shrugs somewhat dismissively.

“Though none of that really matters if we both get ripped apart by an angry drake later." Giving Caedes a pointed look, he pulls at the collar of his morph suit and loosens it to expose his neck. "You need to heal yourself and regain your strength. You can worry about my cough later.”

He wasn't terribly keen on the idea of being bitten himself, especially with the memory of bleeding out from his throat still lingering in the corners of his mind, but they had to be practical. There was nothing personal about this, and Caedes had already proved time and time again that he could be trusted, even in life or death situations.

“You probably know your way around the major blood vessels of the neck better than myself, being raised as an assassin and all that. I trust you not to tear my throat out, tempting as it may be some days," he teases and flashes Caedes sly smile in an attempt to ease the tension and give the changeling a little bit of a confidence boost.

He then gestures to the healing pendant on the table. "If I go unconscious please do remember to administer that potion. It should be able to restore a decent amount of blood loss. And if anything weird happens, do not hesitate to protect yourself as needed. Can you do that?”

---

[1] Essence of the North

His pale gaze follows the movements of the amulet; it’s the only thing past Zarius’ golden gaze that shimmers in the dull, drab interior of the farmhouse. He narrows his eyes at the liquid inside before shifting his attention to Zarius’ face while he speaks. He looks across the table quietly, expression shadowed; before he turns his eyes away from the fellblood, allowing his lashes to droop while he listens.

What does that mean, exactly?

If whatever’s causing his cough is resistant to the magical potency equivalent to a Witch like Kamille, then what does that have to say about what the cause is? If Eameia hasn’t approached Zarius about it, can he take that as a good sign that it’s not, or that it is, something worse?

Arguably, it’s not actually any of his business; and he has no right to stick his nose in what’s going on. Zarius is not liable to tell him anything he doesn’t want to; and both of them had, and still have, their respective secrets.

He knows well that Zarius doesn’t take to action happening behind his back.

… Not that Eameia would tell him anything even if he went to her.

But the news hits strangely; leaving a heavy weight in his chest— paired with an anxious, nagging worry. “You’re not concerned about it?” He asks, offering Zarius an uneasy glance— one which falls into an unbemused shadow when Zarius gives him a pointed look and directs the conversation back at him. “Look, Zarius; I get your point, but I really, just don’t…”

He trails off, shoulders tensing when Zarius starts to tug at the collar of his morph suit; Caedes’ gaze flicks sharply away, a flutter of internal panic rising in his chest.

He… makes a good point; the drake is still outside, resting, and it’s only a matter of time before it regains its strength, but at the same time?

A wash of self-conscious embarrassment falls over him; one that he has to brute force its way from the tightening of his shoulders and the curling of his fingertips into the cloak. There’s a plethora of reasons he doesn’t want to get into; a whole fucking list; and absolutely zero percent of that list he could dare to say to Zarius’ face as a reason to not go through with the logic that he should be in fighting shape in the case that a fight breaks out, and—

Fuck, it makes sense.

He just…

Gods be damned.

Caedes looks back at Zarius with furrowed brows; his expression is hard to read, but the assassin has long since stopped trying to mask himself with neutrality and smarmy smirks. Through the conversation, his head has been light; shadows fuzzy at the corners of his eyes; he is undoubtedly tired, and the copper taste on his tongue both tastes and feels horrid.

Really, the bickering between them has only served as a catalyst to further exhaust him.

He takes a hollow breath, shoulders rising and falling before he sighs, “Fine.”

He releases the slightly crinkled inner edges of Zarius’ cloak, rests his palms against his knees, and pushes himself up to his feet. Zarius’ sly smile, as perhaps intended, does help boost the changeling’s confidence somewhat; if only because those expressions seem to be rarer since the night of the Red Rogue.

It’s nothing personal, right? It’s just… a survival thing.

Sure.

Just like it always has been.

Why is he making it a big deal out of this?

He takes a breath that won’t fill his lungs, and pushes himself to get over it.

“Sometimes I think you overestimate my bloodlust,” He remarks, flashing Zarius a tired grin; he keeps his voice light, but there’s a softer edge to his tone as he turns to the fellblood. “You’re not that much of a pain in my neck… but I guess, given the circumstances, I can’t say the same about myself right now.” The old floorboards creak under his weight as he crosses the threshold between them, stopping just diagonal from Zarius’ chair, where he looks down at him.

His next words are… somewhat concerning.

“I … Suppose…? What kind of weird are we talking about? Are you a sleepwalker?” He offers a hand from beneath the cloak to help Zarius to his feet; but his expression falls somewhat as he continues, voice losing some of its joking edge. “This is going to leave a mark, you know? I’m not actually sure how that potion will affect that, and I don’t…” Caedes’ pale gaze tilts to the side for a moment, his train of thought unfinished, before he looks back at Zarius, uncertain.

“... You’re really sure you’re okay with this?”

“My apologies. I will admit that I do not know much about your…situation, and the only other individual I have met with vampirism is a violent madman.” He shakes his head with a slight chuckle at how ridiculous he is being. “I should give you more credit. You are not like that. At all. You are sane.”

As Caedes approaches, he keeps fiddling with his collar, if only to give himself something to do. It’s not even necessary, the morph suit reacts to his thoughts. If only he could actually get his thoughts in order. Thankfully, Caedes’ question helps pull him out of his funk for a moment.

He glances up at the man then scoffs. “Not as far as I am aware. Though-” he hesitates, his gaze dropping for a moment as he thinks over what to say.

There were a lot of unanswered questions he had about his own condition. He knows whatever is going on inside himself is not normal, and it is likely something bad even if it has saved his life a few times. The abilities he has now are not those of his own and there are times when he feels...compelled to say the least. It feels like someone else is pushing their will against his own, and while he's managed to push back so far, it is wearing him down slowly.

What he worries about most is if there comes a day when he no longer is able to push back against whatever it is, and just how much damage he does in the process. 

He cracks a smile as he looks back up to meet Caedes’ gaze. “I do not want to accidentally punch you in the face and break your delicate little nose out of reflex.”

Zarius pulls his hand away from his collar and clasps Caedes’ hand as he rises to his feet. “It is fine. I am no stranger to a few scars, some are even from teeth but much larger than your own.” He lets go of Caedes’ hand as his eyes wander down to the little blue vial sitting on the table. “Well, there is only one way to find out. I would rather know now than if we are in an even worse situation.”

Really, Caedes’ reluctance was not lost on the fellblood. Zarius can't imagine all the challenges that being a vampire comes with. And the fellblood is pretty sure that given the choice, Caedes would be happier returning to how he was before. How possible that was in reality is unknown. Perhaps there was a way, but if he had to guess it would not be easy and certainly not something accomplished here in this dusty old farmhouse.

Zarius lets out an exasperated sigh. “No, but choices are a bit limited out here." He tugs at the collar of the morph suit again and this time it stretches and loosens to hang clear of his neck. He then gestures towards the front door. "Unless you want to wander on out there and nibble on a snoozing drake, you will just have to settle for me.”

Though he’s tempted to keep ribbing the changeling, his expression softens a bit. Caedes is clearly uncomfortable, and he does not want to make him feel bad for something he has no control over.

“I need you at your best. That is just the reality of the situation we are in right now. You do not need to be so hard on yourself." He nods towards Charlotte who is doing a good job of keeping an eye on the sleeping drake rider. "You will make Miss Charlotte worry, is that not right Miss Charlotte?"

“Who? That guy from the gala? Tall, pale, and flashy?” Caedes remarks with a chuckle, “Only thing that guy looked like he was capable of killing were the complimentary drinks.” Then again, he’d never met or seen the man after that; only heard tall tales of him after the fact. Zarius does seem a lot less confident when he finally does agree to this, in hindsight; and the fellblood’s fidgeting doesn’t go unnoticed as Caedes lessens the gap between them.

His small bouts of joking is all that he can think of to even begin lightening the tension.

“Pfft.” Caedes snickers in response to Zarius’ answer after his pause; he grasps the fellblood’s hand. “That would be tragic,” the changeling bemoans, his usual brand of sarcasm bleeds into his tone as he helps Zarius to his feet. “My pretty face is one of my few good qualities… Without it, all I’d have left is my sparkling personality and clever wits. Could you imagine? Tragic…”

He chuckles to himself before pulling back his hand and crossing his arms loosely beneath his chest; he turns his head to gaze at the blue vial sitting on the table. Caedes watches the way it shimmers faintly in light filtered through broken glass windows as Zarius addresses it. “I suppose so.” He agrees, the hesitance returning to his voice.

He looks to Zarius, then promptly looks away while the fellblood tugs at his collar; he clears his throat awkwardly.

“Something tells me that drake would break more than my face if I got anywhere near it,” he jests instead; chuckling to himself before lowering his lashes to gaze at the tips of his boots. He turns his gaze back to Zarius when he speaks again, “… I know, it just …” he trails off, unable to finish his train of thought; because what’s he going to say?

It’s different? It’s not ideal? It’s awkward?

He sighs, exasperated, and looks after Zarius when he addresses Charlotte.

After being addressed, Charlotte blinks her eight eyes a few times and looks past the rider at them. Unfortunately, she has been so attentive to the sleeping rider, that she seems to have missed his question.

“_Huh?” She asks, her voice tiny; and Caedes can’t help but choke on a laugh at the irony of Charlotte’s awareness.

“Aw wow, thanks Char.”

“_{… Huh??? What happened?}” Charlotte rises to her eight legs, looking as awkward as a large black widow could; she seems as though she’s realizing she’s missed something. She looks between Zarius and Caedes with as much quizzical energy as her red eyes can muster.

Caedes snickers, opening up to wave his hands dismissively at her. “Don’t worry about it; you’re doing great Char, keep it up.” Charlotte, despite her confusion, perks up a little with the praise; she seems to stand up a little straighter even as Caedes turns away to look back at Zarius. He chuckles, offering the fellblood a lopsided smile. “If she were paying attention, your point may have been better proven.” His expression softens slightly as he speaks; but sure, Zarius still has a point.

He breathes a sigh, shoulders loosening as he unwinds his arms and closes the distance between them with a step— admittedly, one of the plethora of reasons he didn’t exactly want to go through with this. He’s not all that much taller than Zarius; and the close proximity feels particularly personal, despite not being personal at all. “I get it, it’s just…” He meets Zarius’ gaze for a moment before the apprehensive wave of self-conscious embarrassment forces it away. He clears his throat softly. “…I don’t know. I’m sorry to have to put you in this position in the first place; I was hoping this mission would cut you a break." His touch is light, cautious, as he tilts Zarius' face upwards and slightly to the side from beneath his jawline.

"You can still change your mind, you know?”

Zarius makes a disgruntled face at the mention of Bellighul. That jerk still got under his skin even though the necromancer has been oddly quiet as of late. Though he cares nothing for the pompous prick, he does wonder how Kamille is fairing. As much as he thinks she could do better, it is not his place to interfere with who she chooses to get romantically entangled with. Her personal life is none of his business. Course that doesn’t mean he can’t still vehemently despise her choice in companionship. Damned leech.

The fellblood rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “So tragic. Course being able to change your appearance as you do I would not be surprised if you have plenty of pretty faces to spare.”

He can’t help but chuckle at Charlotte’s reaction. For a spider she sure was expressive. It was very cute how her body language shifts at Caedes’ compliment. They were a good fit for one another.

“Cannot blame me for trying.” He shrugs, it was worth a shot. And really, it was worth it just to hear the changeling's laugh. It had become a rarer sound these days.

As Caedes steps even closer, the awkward tension between them comes back. It’s strange and unpleasant. It didn’t used to be like this either. So much had changed and it was starting to feel like it wasn’t just because of their previous misunderstanding.

“I do not understand why you are apologizing, but I appreciate your concern. I do not feel that I need a break, there is too much to get done. Now, if you could make it so there are more hours in the day, that would be helpful,” he teases a bit. “Maybe one day we will actually be able to relax without having to worry about anything, though I do not foresee that anytime soon.”

Caedes touch under his chin is freaking frigid and sends a shiver down the fellblood’s spine. Gods, it was like the man had just pulled his fingers out of an ice bath. He averts his eyes and rests one hand on the back of the chair.

“Gods," he breathes. "Stop making it awkward and just do it. Acting like a meek maiden does not suit you.” He flashes the changeling a mocking grin, a small dig at his ego if only to make him not feel as bad about the situation. 

There’s a slight frustrated tremble in the changeling’s hold; one that he could just as easily attribute to mana-depleted exhaustion as easily as he could the nerves of a man just come to terms with his feelings; but it’s hard to decipher which reasoning comes first. Zarius’ pulse is still easier to pinpoint beneath his fingertips than it is to use any of his other senses despite it; and while his background as an assassin is technically a boon to knowing the location of the neck’s vitals, he’s not willing to gamble the fellblood’s wellbeing on memory or potion alone.

Precautions to ensure he does as little harm as possible.

This close to him, the perception of brimstone and ash is more distinct, almost evocative of the smoke of a campfire in its subtle presence; and in comparison to himself, Zarius is warm. So much so that Caedes almost winces when his palm initially brushes Zarius’ neck; it’s been long enough that he gradually dismisses, or perhaps, chooses not to remember what it is he lacks in undeath.

He purses his lips, wrestling with a familiar inclination— one he recognizes all too well from his first trip through Marsh Flats with Zarius— when he pinpoints the thrum of the fellblood’s heart beneath his palm. The uncomfortable fixation cultivated from vampiric tendencies that he had once not recognized— but now— very much does causes his thoughts to muddle together in what feels like near-lapses in his memory. His focus lapses between the glinting gold of Zarius' capped horns, the careful tattoos which embellish them, and the fellblood's pulse beneath his fingertips.

The hyperfixation, at least, makes it easiest to pinpoint the safest place to bite without risking too much.

Caedes’ shoulders jolt when Zarius speaks; he glances up sharply as if surprised; and for a moment, isn’t sure how long he’s been in silence. After a few blinks to register what was said, he promptly flashes Zarius a look over his comment. His expression lightens after a chuff of bemusement, a roll of his eyes, and a slight lopsided smirk. His tone holds a light but defeated note to it as he chuckles, “Okay— okay, fine.” What is left of his reluctance gradually caves way to the inevitability of the circumstances and lack of outs. “If you’re going to punch me though… at least aim away from the face. I've seen how you punch, and I'd rather you just break my arm.”

His jesting comes with a snicker, which fades. If he had a pulse left, it might race in his anxiety; and although there is no logical reason for him to be nervous — it’s not personal, it’s survival — the awkward atmosphere is suffocating for more than its most obvious reason. "But really, if you need me to stop, just hit me."

After ensuring Zarius understands as much, he ultimately bites the cross bolt, so to speak.

Caedes sweeps his free arm beneath Zarius’ outstretched arm to support him from around his back in the case he were to lose his footing or consciousness at any point. Tilting Zarius’ neck back just slightly, and in a fell motion, he closes the final distance between them with a quick swoop. The bite itself comes swiftly; ultimately no more than a targeted piercing sensation, followed by a numbed settling. He pulls the fellblood up against him to keep him steady, one arm around his back, and the other supporting his neck.

The metallic taste that follows is… not quite right; it hits like the expectation of a glass of water before discovering immediately that the liquid in the cup was vodka. Caedes would not consider himself a connoisseur by any means; and despite the instinct-induced haze that comes with a feeding — he knows pretty intimately that the sulfuric, acrid taste of ash which accompanies the usual copper tang of blood is —

A shaky breath exhaled among the shadows; eight eyes lift to the light; and her clawed fingers tangled in thread and twine cease in their constant motion. The shadows slough from thin, dark threads; a maelstrom of organized chaos; a spiderweb which connects the gentle glow of lantern-like orbs to one another, their patterns ceaseless in infinity and depth. The light of the orbs, floating like soft will-o-wisps, is gentle; but something burns brighter far from them as though triggered.

Blue flame erupts from a tangled web far from her sight; a beacon in a horizon of darkness which licks and snaps shadowed threads glinting in obsidian weaves against a brutal, cerulean light. Eight legs rise, and two hands unravel glinted twines from the fingertips of the other four; anxiety and frustration brews amongst her silent darkness; each step cautious, as if approaching a trespasser within her domain.

And that unrest, her unrest, translates across planes of existence; far from pools of ink lit by will-o-wisps, and obsidian twine patterned carefully and lovingly amongst the softest of their glows; and settles deep in his chest. Ominous and foreboding.

— wrong.

A chill runs down his spine from Caedes’ touch. The man really had no warmth of his own to speak of. It’s hard to imagine what that must feel like, and he wonders if Caedes even remembers what it feels like to be alive anymore.

Zarius is more caught off guard by being pulled in close against Caedes’ than by the sharp pang as the changeling sinks his fangs into the side of his neck. The pain isn't as bad as he was expecting, but it is hard to resist pushing away from the feeling of being trapped there and at the assassin’s mercy.

Despite the instinct to draw away, he stands his ground. All he needs to do was stay on his feet and let Caedes know if he starts to lose consciousness. Simple, at least in theory. In practice, on the other hand-- well, they haven't exactly had any practice to speak of. Neither of them likely expected to be stuck in this situation under these circumstances. 

He stares at the ceiling, picking one knot in the wood to focus on while he counts the seconds in his head. The sound of his own heartbeat drums loudly in his ears, but it’s not the only thing he hears. While Caedes confronts the off-putting flavor laced into the fellblood's blood, Zarius is confronted by his own internal nuisances. 

Rising up in the back of his mind are those dreaded whispers, the many voices that hide in the darkest recesses of his consciousness only revealing themselves at the most inopportune moments. He shouldn’t be surprised they are making themselves heard now of all times.

He takes a deep breath, careful not to tense up the muscles in his neck in case that would cause more damage from Caedes’ fangs.

Nothing is wrong. This is fine.

Over and over again he repeats those two thoughts in his mind to try and counteract the whispers, to drive them back into their corner and silence them for the time being. If he just ignores them, maybe they will shut the fuck up. What wishful thinking. 

The numb feeling in his neck starts to spread up to the underside of his jaw and down towards his clavicle as Caedes drains his blood. The sensation, or lack thereof, was only worsened by the chill of Caedes’ touch sapping the warmth out of his own body.

After a few more moments, a wave of lightheadedness washes over him and his knees nearly buckle under him. He reflexively grabs onto Caedes' cloak to steady himself and keep from dragging them both to the dusty floor.

"Sorry," he manages to utter between breaths.

His body shudders slightly and he closes his eyes tight as the whispers use that moment to fill his mind with the dissonant echoes of protest, anger, fear, and desperation. The burning sensation in the back of his throat returns, threatening to send him into another fit of coughing which would be less than ideal given the current situation.

Shifting his weight, he adjusts his balance and slowly releases his grip on Caedes’ cloak before moving to just rest his hands on Caedes arm and shoulder in case he needs to steady himself again. He looks back up at the ceiling, struggling to get his eyes to focus in the dark as he searching for that knot in the wood again.

Shit.

How long has it been now? He lost count, and the whispers are loud enough to drown out the sound of his heartbeat.

Careful steps lead her over weaves and threads; long, obsidian hair drapes over their taut strands, falling around the joints of eight clicking legs. Monstrous shadows cast across gloomily lit floors; the very darkness splash with her steps, ink disappearing back into the dark void around it; but her eight eyes are only for the web set aflame.

White noise hisses; it grows louder as she approaches: whispers upon whispers layered upon one another; an endless argument, plea, scream; breaking the silence, like their light shatters the shadows.

When Zarius buckles, the haze of vampiric bloodlust and interplanar distress wavers; Caedes’ fingertips curl into the back of the fellblood’s clothing, and he bends slightly as he catches Zarius beneath the arm and leans his weight into the pull of Zarius’ grasp. Guilt and shame join the maelstrom of emotion in the haze; but despite apologies, he can ultimately only really help Zarius back to his feet; he adjusts his own hold on the fellblood to better support his weight.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Azure flames lick at threads so tangled that the fatemother, who once crafted them with her own hands, cannot decide where one begins and the other ends. Thin fibres start to thin and fray; snapping and crackling; curling at their ends as the heat grows more intense.

Anxiety and fear suddenly overwhelms everything else; it pulses through Caedes like a shockwave.

In a blink, his eyes turn pitch black; and the white skin visible from his fingertips begins to stain in a dark, inky swath ^{(1. Abyssal Infusion)}. His shoulders tense as a familiar feeling washes through him, ripping his free will from every muscle in his body as though it was never his to begin with.

STOP.

The changeling releases Zarius’ neck immediately under her influence.

What is he?

He blinks, gasping and choking on a cough when he pulls away; the pale hue of his eyes returns.

The sulfur in Zarius’ blood stings the back of his throat, leaving an unpleasant feeling in its wake. The haze of her communication makes his head reel. Caedes swallows the anxiety of her words with the acidic sting; he finally withdraws his hand from the fellblood's neck, quickly lifting his wrist to bite into the fabric of the remaining sleeve of his uniform.

He pulls, ripping the sleeve of his uniform in a wide, curled band; it’s not much, but it’s enough to put pressure on the bleeding while he reaches for the locket on the table. “That’s it, that’s enough.” He chokes around the aftertaste of smoke on his tongue; he balances Zarius’ weight the best he can, ensuring that the fellblood doesn’t collapse while he hooks the chain of the locket with his index finger and uncorks it to help Zarius if needed.

Ink and ash flutter from the remnants of the azure flames; the last of its heat licks angrily at fibres curled by its fury. Like the flames, the whispers too begin to fade, their desperation melting into the obsidian void of her domain; anxiety and anger pulse through her.

One arm reaches out above the curled fibres, tentatively brushing over them as if they were delicate, or made of glass; the heat remains, but it should never have been here to begin with… not in her domain.

As the last flames flicker out and the last of the whispers die, she cradles what is left of the tangle between four ink-stained claws. What sort of misfortune has befallen you?

The fellblood feels the assassin release his throat. His vision blurs a bit from the dizziness that comes after the changeling withdraws. He lifts a hand to put pressure on the wound without really thinking, his own touch scorchingly hot compared to the coolness of Caedes’. The changeling then presses the torn piece of cloth between Zarius' hand and the wound.

Damn. How much blood did he actually lose?

He tries to pull back away from Caedes, but is stopped by the assassin’s grip on the back of his coat. Having little choice, he leans on the man and firmly holds onto his arm with his free hand.

The voices in his head do not stop. They overwhelm his senses and block out the sound of Caedes choking. He doesn’t hear Caedes say anything to him either. Nothing cuts through the cacophony which only seems to worsen with every passing second until-

What sort of misfortune has befallen you?

For the first time in his life, his blood runs cold. The voices go silent.

What was that?

His senses return to him. His vision comes into focus on the vial of blue sparkling liquid being held before him. Tentatively, he removes his hand from his neck and takes the vial between his blood stained fingers.

“Thank you,” he says quietly before drinking the contents of the vial.

The watery liquid rushes down his throat, and while it does little to purge the taste of ash in his mouth, the healing energy does flood through his body. The wound on his neck is quick to close, leaving barely any evidence of what transpired this night. It even helps counteract the numbing feeling and returns some of Zarius' strength, though not fully erasing his fatigue from the day's events. He would still need to get some sleep to fully recover. 

He takes a moment to just stand there and assess how he is feeling. Physically, it seems that their plan worked well enough. But that voice, it was different than what he had grown accustomed to. What's more is that it stopped the other voices in an instant. What did that mean? There was something terrifying about the voice, but also something oddly...sympathetic? He couldn't quite put his finger on it. 

Shaking his head, he breathes a sigh of relief before looking at Caedes, finally meeting his eyes. He also releases his grip on the man's arm and pats him reassuringly on the shoulder.

“I think I am fine. What about you?”

Hopefully the assassin had taken enough to heal himself and recover. He'd rather not get bitten twice in the same day. Nothing terrible happened, but they should be careful not to risk tempting fate at this point.