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Death took no more than a breath.
In one to the next, eyes slipping closed, Emmrich’s hand going limp in Lucanis’ grip. One moment, Emmrich was there, gazing up at him from their bed, the corners of his mouth quirked in a fragile, brave smile. The final words, “I’m not afraid, my dear Lucanis. I’m not alone,” spoken with such certainty, lingering in the air. Spite was silent.
Then — he was gone.
Spite made a promise. A contract. To Emmrich. To Lucanis.
So when Emmrich opened his eyes again, Spite was ready. Arms wrapped protectively around him, Emmrich's spirit like a bird between his fingers, flitting, fluttering wildly to a flicker of a heartbeat no longer needed.
Tiny. Smaller than Spite had ever seen him, used to watching Emmrich through his and Lucanis’ body, head raised to meet warm, kind eyes. But the Fade was a world of memory — shaped by feeling, molded by emotion — and Emmrich’s spirit paved the way, the scent of fear cloying in the air.
Blood. Bone. Bile. The vision of too young hands cupping too pale cheeks. A home turned to rubble around them. Dust and smoke. A cry somewhere from between his fingers and the impossible sprawling distance of consciousness and memory.
A nightmare. No different, he thought, from the ones Spite learnt to devour. Talons tearing dreams. Claws through cracks. Fangs digging into the pulse of whatever spirit dared to enter until they learnt who Emmrich and Lucanis belonged to.
Now, Spite snapped and snarled at the shades around them.
“Leave!” The words echoed, ricocheting on conjured streets and broken walls. “Mine!”
Like vultures to a body, scattering when Spite spread his wings and growled, teeth bared to kill.
Emmrich shook, gasping, clawing at Spite’s form. Spite didn’t mind, steadfast in the wild shifting of the Fade, Emmrich’s psyche stretching and remembering one final time.
Death was not unfamiliar to Spite — contracts with Lucanis, rituals with Emmrich. Common enough occurrences through the decades spent together, the dead and the dying surrounding all three of them. He knew, recognized, the moment when the spirit — the very soul, Emmrich sometimes said — left the body. That shift as the Veil parted, ghosts passing then disappearing somewhere beyond Spite’s senses.
But he had not seen it like this either. This close. Intimate. Pages flipping through a book, Emmrich’s finger lingering in some places longer than others. A pause before the end.
They were in the Lighthouse. Emmrich, no longer in Spite’s arms but at his desk, looked up at the familiar knock of Lucanis’ knuckles on the laboratory door.
“Lucanis! What can I do for you?”
“Emmrich,” a shade, playing out the memory, replied, eyes crinkling, voice soft and affectionate.
Spite scoffed. Lucanis didn’t say Emmrich’s name like that until later. If Spite had to learn useless things like time, surely this shade could too. Unfair.
But shade pressed on, the words correct, though Spite still sniffed at the tone, memories blurring together as Emmrich’s spirit saw fit. “I was at the market in Treviso with Rook. We found something for you.”
“Oh my!” Crystalline wineglasses materialized on Emmrich’s desk, all three of them now peering down at the pretty things. Emmrich picked one up and held it to the hazy light. “How beautiful! But how did you—”
Lucanis shrugged. “The drinkware selection here isn’t exactly the most inspiring. I’ve seen you shake your head at the cups in the kitchen more than once.”
Cheeks red, Emmrich chuckled. He cleared his throat before smiling. “Well. What about a drink, my dear?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Lucanis nodded. “Alright.”
The shade was off script. Bottle in hand, careful not to spill. Wine — Antivan. Red. Warm as blood. Not coffee, not a kiss, but still bitter and sweet. The moment before parting, a reunion down the road but not knowing how long it would take to get there. Lucanis did not drink this wine at the Lighthouse. Not yet.
Spite had enough, stepping toward the shade with a growl. When it ran off with an undignified yelp Lucanis would never make, tail tucked between its legs, it snapped Emmrich out of his trance too.
His gaze sharpened with awareness before finally landing on Spite and softening with affection. “My dear Spite.”
“Emmrich is ours. Oakmoss and flowers. Blood and sap.” A wine like goodbye. Fear thrumming under the surface. Spite reached out to soothe it. “Waiting. But not alone. Never alone.”
“And Lucanis…?”
“Lucanis. Can wait. Outside.”
Emmrich covered his snort with a cough and a laugh before turning to look around them.
“The Fade. This must mean—” He sucked in a harsh breath, hands tightening around Spite.
“Memory lives here. Thoughts. Feelings. Yours.” Spite curled around Emmrich, Spite’s head under his chin. Emmrich was bigger now. “Until the end.”
“I thought we had more time…” Emmrich whispered. “I suppose that’s not a surprising thought here. We had prepared for this, and yet…”
The fear was still there, beating behind Emmrich’s ribs, heart of his heart, ivy stubbornly clinging to a wall. Spite could eat it, but it always grew back. Emmrich only sighed, Spite giving a rumbling purr in answer.
Around them, the Fade trembled, Spite sensing the edges closing in. Emmrich did too. Time was running out.
Emmrich pressed a cheek to the top of Spite’s head, voice distant, something beyond them both already pulling him away. “Thank you, my dear. Know that I love you. Both of you. Do make sure to tell Lucanis as well, yes?”
“We will find you.” Another contract, another promise. Solemn as a vow. Spite was determined. “After. When Lucanis goes, I go too. We will find you. Together.”
It was far more peaceful than anything else in Lucanis’ memory.
Targets choking on their own blood before he swiftly dealt the final blow. His Crows cut down by foes and gods, ruthless and cruel. Curses thrown, bloody knuckles on skin, on bone, words as sharp as daggers. Death was rarely such a quiet affair.
Now, only stillness greeted him, Spite rarely so silent. Oh, when he was a younger man, what Lucanis would have given for this blessed silence. But the solitude today felt unwelcome.
Emmrich was still warm on the bed, Lucanis’ lips pressed to his knuckles, over one then the next and the next, counting over and over as he reeled from the heartache.
It had been no more than a minute before a flash of violet appeared in the corner of his eyes. Spite had returned.
“Spite. Did you… Did he—” Lucanis’ lips pressed into a line, willing himself not to choke on the words.
“Yes. Contract complete.”
Lucanis couldn’t help but chuckle. Over the years, Spite had certainly turned into a professional, though their understanding ran so much deeper than that. Emmrich had helped. But now he was gone, a part of them cleaved cleanly away.
Lucanis squeezed his eyes closed, forehead to Emmrich’s hand. Spite felt almost warm behind him, violet wings spread out before closing around all three of them.