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Chapter Text

“You’re dripping on my pumpkins,” says the god wearing the skin of man.

The boy – who is hardly more than a child stumbling into double digits – flails and falls over. He stutters and begs and pleads, and the god frowns, because he is wearing a glamour that should protect his true visage from human eyes.

Of course, the glamour holds true. The boy, the god realizes, is merely incredibly nervous.

“I’m sorry,” says the boy. “I – I’m so sorry.”

“No matter,” says the god, “I did not mean to startle you.”

“Still, I just . . . I was just . . .”

“Sitting here and crying in the dark?” the god finishes dryly.

The boy flushes. He, of course, does not know that he cannot lie to a god like the one standing before him, but the boy does not speak anyways. He has long since learned that no one will listen to the cries of a child whose mother wears the cross and wields the rosemary, especially not men who carry themselves like officers of the law.

And the god was once an officer of the law, but that was long ago, so long that humans barely had mastered bows and arrows, much less wands and guns, so the god merely takes a seat on the nearest pumpkin and says, “So, why are you sitting in my pumpkin patch crying in the dark?”

The boy looks at the god, looks at the fence, and looks back at the god. “This . . . This belongs to you?”

“Of course,” says the god. In truth, every single pumpkin in the world falls under the god’s domain, but to say that to a human would be incredibly improper. “I furrowed the dirt and planted the seeds and watered the seedlings myself.

The boy looks duly impressed. He is no stranger to hard work, of course, but it is one thing to stir large pots of gruel and stand at street corner to hand out pamphlets and kneel on hard floors to scrub and scrub and scrub until your hands ache, and quite another to till the soil and plant the seeds and tend to the little sprouts that arise as a result. “It must have been hard work,” says the boy.

The god pats at the nearest pumpkin. It was indeed hard work, the hardest work the god has ever known, but in the end, it was worth it. The god had shed his mortal shell and traded it for the bright, shining promise of immortality, and now the only mark of his ascendance is the silver streaks that line his hair. “Good things come of hard work,” says the god. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir.”

The boy’s voice wavers when he answers, so the god bends over and squints. “When was the last time you ate, boy? You’re pale as bone.”

The god has ears capable of hearing the slightest tremors in the earth, the soft disturbances against his pumpkins, the gentlest of breezes on his face. The boy, however, speaks so quietly that the god has to lean forward and concentrate, because for all of his power he honestly cannot understand a single word the boy says.

When the words finally do register, the god repeats, “Last night?”

The boy nods.

The god sighs. He thinks of all the lectures he will get for once again meddling in the human world, and then he looks at the boy and thinks of his thin, thin face, so thin that god feels like he wouldn’t even need to be a god to snap the boy in half with his bare hands. And it’s not like he’s really doing a lot of meddling, the god reassures himself. He’s not like Odin or Zeus, running around and popping out half-human children. He just wants to give the boy a meal, that’s all.

“Tell you what,” says the god, “what would you say to sharing a meal with an old farmer like me? I made too much, you see, and I would not like the food to go to waste.”

The boy hesitates.

“My house is just over there,” the god continues, pointing a bit further down the path, where a tiny shack rests. “If you would like to just take the food and leave, I understand. But I would not say no to a bit of company for my dinner.”

If the boy was a normal child, he might run, for any normal child might hear all the stories of the strangers who lure children into unfamiliar houses in order to eat them or kill them or do all sorts of unnatural things. Instead, this boy remembers only the hard-taught lessons of his Ma, who taught that respecting one’s elders and being polite and being selfless were more important than self-preservation.

So the boy says, “Okay.”

The boy follows the man to the shack, careful to follow each and every footstep. It is a good thing, because no human could ever find the god’s house without the blessing of the god, but of course the boy is too busy keeping his eyes turned downward to notice the way the pumpkins sway and the winds whisper and the air glitters as the god parts the magic that protects his home.

In fact, the boy notices nothing strange at all, until the god opens his hand to help the boy cross the final ward.

The god, however, startles, because he would know the touch of another god-blessed child anywhere. And even if he did not, his wards certainly would and are now screeching to the high heavens about darkness and smoke and danger danger danger.

“Angels above and demons below,” exclaims the god. “You are one of Hecate’s children.”

“Who?” says the boy.

The god rubs wearily at his brow. Normally, he would not get involved - because that is why the Courts exist - but he cannot ignore the child of a fellow goddess, especially one that glows with so much promise and potential. “Credence Barebone,” says the god, startling the boy, who had given his name, “what do you know of magic?”

And just like that, two lives are never the same again.

Chapter Text

“Percival,” Credence says softly. He has one hand buried in the dirt of the garden, which always remains soft and moist no matter the season, and one hand resting on the veins of an enormous pumpkin. He can already feel the way the pumpkins are beginning to awaken, as they always do when Credence arrives and calls out the name of their creator. “Percival, I, Credence Barebone, request entrance.”

The pumpkins creak and the leaves flutter and the wind whistles, but it takes only a matter of seconds before the pumpkins convey the request and the answer.

The wards part like the Red Sea, and Credence smiles and steps inside.

Percival is, as usual, in his little shack. Well, little from the outside, anyways. The shack is as magical as Percival himself is, so while on the outside it looks barely big enough to contain one man, let alone a man and a bed and a kitchen, on the inside it is spacious enough to host at least a dozen with room to spare. Credence knocks on the door, because it is only polite, and then lets himself in when the door opens itself at Percival’s command.

“Good evening, Percival,” Credence greets.

Percival grunts in his direction. He has a knife between his teeth, orange pumpkin guts on his hands, and his sleeves are rolled up, so Credence does not take offense. Percival usually gets nonverbal when he is working.

Instead, Credence helps himself to the tray of faintly glowing pumpkin seeds by the door. He’s a child of Hecate, as many witches and wizards are, but he’s spent so long in the human world that it’s difficult for him to cross over to Percival’s world. If he stays too long without something to anchor him, he starts to face, and the last time he had forgotten to eat a pumpkin seed, Percival had panicked so much that Credence had been ready to promise the moon itself to stop the panic attack.

The seeds taste different every time, so Credence closes his eyes and savors it. The first time, they had tasted like chocolate and peppermint. The last time, they had tasted like chicken and pepper. Today, they taste like apples and pears, sweet and refreshing.

When he opens his eyes, Percival is standing in front of him, smiling faintly. “Hello, Credence,” Percival says.

“Hello, Percival,” says Credence.

It is their little ritual, and Credence has faithfully followed it for all of the years that he has been coming to visit Percival. It doesn’t matter that Percival is a god, and he would sense Credence’s presence in his pumpkin patch; it doesn’t matter that Credence is mortal, and he would never be able to cross into the house without Percival’s blessing. Every time, they say hello, and every time, Credence feels like the world has been put to rights again.

“So what are we learning today?” Credence asks.

Percival flashes a quick grin over his shoulder in answer, boyish and secretive, and then he’s bounding up into the loft for something. Percival has spoken of a magical school for people like Credence, where he might learn alongside people his age, but Credence has always refused to go. Percival is the one who found him, the one who sheltered him, the one who first taught him how to feel the magic within and learn control. He sees no reason to leave Percival’s careful tutelage for an uncertain future in a school far, far away.

Besides, his Ma already is very reluctant to let him go to Percival, even though Percival pays the church “donations” in exchange for Credence’s time. She’d never agree to a boarding school.

“Today,” Percival calls down, “we are going to have a . . . field trip. I think that’s what you humans call it anyways.”

Credence frowns up at him. Percival has always taught him in the safety of the house, because it means Credence won’t accidentally break the International Statute of Secrecy that Percival sometimes rambles about. “You want me to do magic outside?”

“You’ve done it before.”

And, yes, Credence technically has. All the same, he doesn’t think that casting growing charms or watering spells on pumpkins under Percival’s watchful is the same thing as wandering around casting spells on streets filled with rather less magical New Yorkers just minding their own business. New York is quite strange, but not that strange.

“Percival,” Credence begins uncertainly.

Except then Percival leaps down lightly from the loft, and the sight of him takes Credence’s breath away. Percival always dresses very nicely – he’d once remarked dryly that it was a habit from a human life that he’d never been able to shake, even in immortality – but tonight his suit so sharp that Credence thinks if he were to touch it, he might slice his fingers wide open. His tie is glittering, like a thousand tiny stars against a backdrop of the night sky, and he’s wearing a long sweeping cloak that flares out on the ground. He looks out of this world, like the god he truly is.

“Like it?” Percival does a little spin, like a dancer, and Credence can only nod dumbly. “Good. Tonight is one of the first gatherings for Samhain, and I think there’s no better night to get a glimpse into our world.”

So saying, he offers Credence a delicate mask. It’s a little plain, just a simple white face with a band of elastic on the back, but it practically thrums with magic.

And Credence has been wanting a glimpse into Percival’s world ever since he first learned that it existed, but it’s one thing to wish for something and quite another to actually get that wish. If there was one lesson from Ma that Percival didn’t scoff at, it was to be incredibly careful of what one wished for, especially when magic users were involved.

“Is it safe?” Credence asks.

Percival laughs, warm and full-throated. “Oh, of course not. This is the feast of the Fae Courts, and nothing is more dangerous than the Fae. Still,” he promises. “I will be your side the entire time, Credence. And you won’t be the only mortal present.”

“Oh? Who?”

“Witches and wizards have long since forgotten their roots with Hecate,” Percival explains. “But we have not forgotten them. Every year, we extend them an invitation to come dance with us, and every year, they accept. I believe a delegation from the Magical Congress of the United States of America shall be in attendance; I have heard that the new President is quite an interesting one.”

Credence takes the mask. Up close, the call of magic is even stronger. “And the mask?”

“Protection,” Percival says, “and a little bit of fun. Try it on.”

The first bit of the mask’s magic is very quickly apparent, for the second Credence places it on his face, it immediately smoothes out, molding to his skin until it fits every nook and cranny without impeding his eyes or mouth or nose. It is also incredibly light; if not for the gentle pressure of the elastic at his hair, Credence might forget that he is wearing a mask altogether. Yet the greatest magic of all is revealed when Percival sweeps aside to summon a mirror, for when Credence looks up, gone is the ragged boy with hunched shoulders and worn clothing and tattered shoes; in his place is a young man, wearing an elegant set of robes with a sparkling tie of his own and with the mask of a wolf upon his face.

“A wolf,” Percival says softly, fingering the edge of his mask. “How fitting, my Credence.”

“But the mask – ”

“It adapts to whomsoever wears it. A reflection of your inner self, if the spells are to be believed. In the old days, my kind used these to bring consorts to our Courts, for the mask never lies.”

Credence closes his eyes and lets Percival’s voice wash over him. He knows that if he was truly afraid, if he hesitated, if he asked, Percival would take the mask back and let him stay here. He could stay in this house and learn more magic and yearn for one more year to see Percival’s world. Percival is kind like that.

Yet Percival is also strong, and fearless, and powerful. Credence has seen him add an entire floor to the house with an absent wave of his wave and grow a full-fledged pumpkin from a tiny seed in seconds. Whenever Credence comes to him wincing from bruises and lashes, Percival always heals him. He knows Percival will always protect him, just as he promised.

I am a child of Hecate, goddess of magic, Credence tells himself. Percival’s world is my world too, in the end.

“Okay,” Credence says, before he can lose his nerve, “show me your world, Percival.”

Percival leads him solemnly to door that Credence has never seen before. It’s situated right by the room they always practice and eat meals in, so Credence isn’t sure why he’s never glimpsed it before, but it sings of magic the same way the mask does. The door knob is an elegant knot of vines, green and vibrant and healthy, and that is when Credence realizes that the door itself is carved from a pumpkin, orange and glowing and ridged. There is no window and no light seeps through the cracks to betray what lies on the other side, but when Credence puts out a hand, he comes up against an invisible barrier.

“Ah,” Percival mutters. “I thought that might happen.”

He takes a deep breath, and when he turns to face Credence, his eyes are serious. He looks a little bit like he did when Credence first came to him with a burn on his hand from one of Ma’s punishments, with eyes that glow like no mortal’s ever would.

“Credence,” Percival says, “do you trust me?”

It’s natural for Credence to take his hand. It’s natural for Credence to nod. It’s natural for Credence to lean forward and let Percival touch his cheek, because Percival has never betrayed Credence’s trust. When Credence was wet and cold and exhausted, Percival had taken him in and given him warm clothes and a soft bed and fresh food. When Credence had broken a window with magic and come to him panicked and crying, Percival had soothed him and whispered stories to calm him. When Credence had asked to learn magic, Percival had nodded and gotten him books and potions. Percival is the one person in Credence’s entire life that he trusts without question or reservation.

“Visiting my domain,” Percival says, breath warm against Credence’s cheek, “is one thing. The seeds of my power are enough to allow you to cross over. But this – these are Fae lands in the Fae Courts. My power alone is not enough to bring you there.”

“Then what?” Credence asks, because Percival would never say such things without having an answer. “How do I cross over?”

“We make a bargain,” Percival says, “and we seal it with a kiss.”

Credence nearly stops breathing. Mind reading is not one of Percival’s powers, but how could he know? How could he know that Credence dreams of him, in the secret dreams of which he never speaks? How could he know that Credence treasures the scent of him on the clothing Percival gifts him? How he could know that Credence would kiss him any day, without the need for any bargain?

Except, of course, then he remembers – almost all bargains in Percival’s world are sealed with kisses.

“Okay,” Credence says, because he can do this. “Okay. I, Credence Barebone, enter into a bargain with the god Percival. I do this of my own free will.”

“I, Percival, god of pumpkins, accept the bargain of Credence Barebone,” Percival replies, turning his palms over and clasping their hands together. “I will take my Credence into the Courts for this night of Samhain, and I will ask no price but enjoyment. This I do of my own free will.”

He adds more words that Credence cannot understand, but with every word, the barrier lessens and lessens, until it feels more like Swiss cheese than an unstoppable wall. He can feel the change in magic too, for the mask glows white hot before cooling again, and as Percival continues speaking, mist begins to crawl around them, climbing up their legs and arms to circle Credence’s neck before coalescing into small and shiny at his throat.

Then they are kissing, and Credence forgets about the Courts, about the bargain, about the mist. He forgets everything except the feeling of Percival’s lips upon his own.

Unfortunately, all too soon, Percival draws away.

“It is done,” Percival says quietly. “Are you ready, Credence? There is still time to back out.”

Credence looks down at their joined hands. He could go home, he knows, and never return. He could live forever as a normal human, just like everyone else. Percival would let him go, if he asked.

But he won’t. He is Credence Barebone, a child of Hecate, and he will never turn down an invitation to spend a night with Percival.

“I accept your bargain, Percival,” Credence tells him, and he knows from the sly smile on Percival’s face that he has said the right thing. “Now show me what your world is like, Percival. It’s got a lot to live up to.”

Chapter Text

Percival’s world is strange.

Credence is quite aware that Percival’s world is very different, of course. The first time he had attempted to stay in Percival’s domain for more than a few hours, he had started turning into transparent, like smoke, and Percival had had to force pumpkin seeds down his throat in order to make him somewhat solid again. Yet Credence will never forget that moment when his fingers started to blur and his toes had begun to curl into wisps of smoke; it is forever a memory that he will remember that defines the separation between the human world and Percival’s.

And yet, and yet, Percival’s world is still stranger than he ever could have imagined.

As they stroll down the path to the enormous field that is lined with glittering, twitching lights, Credence notices all sorts of wondrous things. He sees a beast that walks upright on two legs, dressed in a sharp suit and discussing something quite eagerly with a woman who has flames for hair. He smells warm, meaty stew and airy, sweet dessert, but also a thick, smoky wood scent, like baked bark, and a sharp acrid scent that is almost like mint and lemon and spice rolled into one. He hears chattering in a thousand different languages, including some that don’t sound remotely like languages at all and some that are discussed in hand motions and head tilts.

He understands why Percival insisted on the mask as well. Magic is so potent in the air that Credence’s eyes water. This is undoubtedly something out of the human world, but the mask serves as a protective barrier against most of it so that he does not go mad.

When he finally looks back at Percival, the god has a soft smile on his face, indulgent and gentle, like he had worn the first time he had given Credence a taste of chocolate. “Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?”

“I don’t have the words,” Credence says honestly. “Your world is wonderful, Percival.”

Percival’s smile grows a little bit. He touches his fingers to the edge of Credence’s cheek, and little sparks go off, orange and yellow. “You are a child of Hecate, goddess of magic,” Percival reminds him. “This is your world too. Your kind have just . . . forgotten that.”

“How could we have ever forgotten this?”

“Time can be the great mender,” Percival says soberly, “but it can also be the great eraser. You humans have such short lives that one would think your kind would scramble to keep records of everything, but you do not. It was not so long ago that you humans fought the great Trojan War and called it among the greatest wars of your kind, and yet nowadays all I hear about is this war to end all wars. You have a habit of . . . forgetting things that once were parts of your daily life, and you stow them away in legends and myths.”

“Perhaps we could not bear to remember,” Credence muses. As they pass a tree dotted with bright purple flowers, it bursts into bloom, scattering petals that morph into butterflies and moths and take to the sky. One lands on Credence’s shoulder and flashes orange-blue-green before taking off again. “Perhaps the reminder of all we could not be, as our bloodlines diluted, was too terrible for us to acknowledge.”

“Perhaps,” Percival says. “Or perhaps you just forgot.”

Credence shoots Percival an amused glance. It’s rare for Percival to show his irritation with humanity, because he’s rather open about how he was once human. “And pray tell, how much do you remember of being human, oh mighty god?”

“Touché,” Percival says, eyes gleaming. “But I suppose we should save the theoretical discussions for later. Here we are; what would you like to try?”

Credence looks down and realizes that they have reached what passes for the main food table in the clearing. Of course, it’s less of a table and more of trees grow together in a circular grove, with food and dishes nestled in dips in the wood and hollows in the trunks. Pitchers and wine glasses dangle from branches. There are no utensils or napkins or plates, but Credence is used to that, because the first time he had asked for a fork or knife Percival had looked at him like Credence had turned to smoke again.

Credence bites his lip. Every dish thrums with magic as well, and while some of it is benign – warming charms, cooling charms, charms to ward off flies and ants – some of it is much more powerful and discreet. “Something that won’t turn me into a frog,” he says, aiming for humor.

“Frogs? Have you no imagination? We could turn you into a horse or a fish or a bird, and you pick frogs?”

“You did turn a pumpkin into a frog to demonstrate transfiguration.”

“You asked for a frog.”

“You still delivered.”

Snorting, Percival glances quickly at the nearest dishes. He deliberates for only a moment before he reaches out and snags what looks on the surface to be a plain brown rectangle, like a brownie. If, of course, brownies typically had a color-changing petal on the top and smelled like honey, salt water, and fresh linens.

When Credence hesitates, Percival laughs. He’s not offended, of course, but Credence blushes all the same. “This was made by humans,” Percival explains. “It’s an offering from one of the delegations invited here. It’s perfectly safe, I promise.”

It turns Credence’s tongue blue, but it tastes amazing.

Credence does not tell Percival this, but he supposes the way he reaches for another one gives him away. Percival just reels him close, smiling faintly, and then moves them down the line of food, occasionally picking out treats for them. He scoops up some sort of dripping roasted meat that dissolves in Credence’s mouth. He plucks a delicate looking scale, which almost looks like it’s from a fish, from a hollow and chews with every appearance of enjoyment, even though he declines to let Credence try. He even points out what Credence mistakes for a samples of fabric, and although it is more akin to cotton candy, it’s so spicy that Credence ends up breathing fire for a few moments and singes part of Percival’s suit.

“You knew that would happen!”

Percival laughs so hard that he has to lean against a tree, waving away Credence’s attempts to repair his shirt. “That is nothing,” he gasps between heaves of laughter. “When I tried it, I set fire to a bush and had to turn it into a pumpkin to prevent a catastrophe.”

“What he means,” someone says dryly, “is that he turned an enormous fire into an enormous pumpkin, which he tried to shrink so rapidly that it exploded and caused an even bigger catastrophe than the fire.”

Percival’s laughter turns sharp, his smile filling with teeth and power, and Credence automatically straightens. It’s not like he ever forgets that Percival is a god, capable of things mortals could hardly dream of, but Percival so rarely shows his full strength that Credence forgets how he can steal all the air from the immediate area simply by smiling and letting his eyes start to glow a little bit.

The speaker is a woman wearing a dress so beautiful that it’s a little terrifying, complete with an elegantly embroidered headdress and earrings in the shape of a strange bird. She has a little congregation of her own, people in sharp suits and similar bird markings arrayed behind her.

Percival tilts his head.

The woman gazes back.

Credence sidles closer to Percival, twitching. He knows the rules of gods and Fae and immortals. The one who speaks first defers to the higher authority, or else by speaking first the superior honors the listener. It is why Credence always initiates the rituals to enter Percival’s domain. Yet he does not know whether this woman or Percival is stronger, and he’s not quite he wants to find out the hard way.

Percival’s face doesn’t change, but he does place his hand on Credence’s back and Credence takes comfort in it, the reminder that Percival – for all his godliness, for all his inhumanity – still remembers him.

And maybe it means something or maybe it doesn’t, but it’s only after that display that the woman inclines her head and says, “Hello, Lord Percival.”

“Madam President,” Percival replies, inclining his own head. “Credence, this is Seraphina Picquery, President of the Magical Congress of the United States of America. President Picquery, this is Credence.”

There is a bit of an awkward silence after this.

“Credence,” the President greets warmly. “It is nice to meet you. I didn’t know you had taken on a . . . protégé, Lord Percival.”

Which is when Credence flushes, because he realizes the awkward silence was the President waiting for a title or a surname or something else in addition to his name. He doesn’t even know why Percival did that, because Percival certainly knows his full name. Percival knew it within two seconds of shaking his hand for the first time.

“I normally don’t,” Percival says, as if it’s normal. “But Credence has an extraordinary potential, and I am honored to be part of shaping that.”

“Oh?”

“I’m a child of Hecate,” Credence blurts out, because he can tell that Percival and the President are willing to play this half-truths cat and mouse game for the entire night and he actually is kind of thirsty after the spicy, fire-breathing-inducing fabric food.

The President goes very, very still, like an eagle that has just spotted a rat in the grass. “How . . . interesting,” she says. “I haven’t heard someone refer to themselves as such for a long time. I assume that is your influence, Lord Percival?”

“Well, if your people had done your job, I wouldn’t have needed to,” Percival says lightly.

“A fascinating critique. When last did you walk the halls of MACUSA, Lord Percival?”

“Back when you still valued the safety of all children of Hecate,” Percival shoots back. “No matter who they were born to and who they called family. Surely MACUA has not changed so much since then?”

“We are witches and wizards now,” the President says quietly. “Hecate was our beginning, not our future.”

“Such pretty words. Are you up for reelection?”

The President sighs. She shifts, and her dress sparkles in the light like a thousand stars in a galaxy, shining a spotlight onto her all-too-human drooping shoulders. It’s clear that this is an argument that has been made many times, and she has grown tired of it. “Believe what you will. I have done what is necessary for our survival. We cannot all be gods. Have you at least told him of Ilvermorny?”

“Yes, I know of it,” Credence says, shooting a glare at Percival. He really doesn’t want this to turn into a fight.

“Then we will welcome you there as a fellow wizard, when you are ready.”

The President curtseys, just the slightest little dip, and by the time Credence is done bowing back, she has swept off, head held high and glittering like a comet cutting a swathe through the heavens. He can see why she became President, for she is fierce and immovable and willing o stand up to a god to make her point.

Still. “Was that posturing really necessary?”

Percival shrugs. Now that his opponent has left, he’s returned to his typical appearance, with no glowing eyes or orange sparks or echoing voice. He looks as ordinary as any other person in attendance. “The President and I have known each other for a long time. If anything, it’ll give her an excuse if she wants to make a policy chance. MACUSA tends to get scared when she starts mentioning the old gods. Not that she needs my help, of course, because she’s always been good at getting her way, but changing traditions requires more than one voice.”

“And the child of Hecate thing?”

“Hmm. Yes, hardly anyone uses it anymore, except the old Houses.”

“Thanks for that.”

Percival smiles, like a snake prepping to strike, and reaches an arm out to draw him close. “Ah, Credence. With your kind of power, there is no better title for you use. Trust me.”

“Fat chance of that,” Credence tells him, but Percival does at least fetch him water, so Credence obliges when he asks for a dance.

After that, the rest of the night passes a bit of a blur. Credence drinks and eats and dances and dances some more, and Percival even starts to loosen up. He starts glowing around the edges, like so many of the other gods, and when Credence lets his own edges go blurry with smoke, Percival laughs and twirls him around on the grass until Credence is dizzy with the approving applause of the crowds around them.

It is not until the sun begins to rise that Percival finally shakes himself and takes them home, and Credence is a dazed, stumbling pile of human limbs that Percival eventually sweeps up and carries through the portal. Credence just hums and giggles and presses himself close to his god, drunk on the magic of the Fae, and only the sight of the rising sun sobers him.

“It – It’s morning,” he says dumbly.

Percival rubs at his eyes, squinting. “Yes, time can move differently when the Fae are the ones running the show,” he admits, pulling off his tie. “The feast was three nights straight, I’m honestly surprised it’s only morning here.”

“I need to go home.” It’s like a physical weight on his stomach, because he knows he needs to go home. Ma is already going to be beyond furious, and the longer he waits the angrier she’ll get.

Percival looks at him.

“I don’t want to,” Credence confesses, because it’s the truth. He owes Percival that much.

Percival brushes his cheek, fingers still inhumanly warm, and his eyes are starting to glow again when Credence looks at him. He looks like the god he is, just barely contained in a human shell, but the godliness doesn’t hurt Credence at all. Percival would never hurt him.

“So stay,” Percival says. “Stay with me. Stay here in our world.”

“I can’t just – ‘”

“Can’t just leave? What holds you back, my dear? Just – Credence, look at you. You are a child of Hecate, you have so much magic that you glow with it! You glow like a god. You are part of this world and you have just spent the entire night eating our food and drinking our wines and dancing to our music. No normal human can do such a feat.”

Credence catches Percival’s hand. “But I’m not normal. I have you.”

“I’m not quite that powerful,” Percival murmurs, kissing his palm. He knees before Credence like a supplicant, still glowing, and sparks fly as he clasps Credence’s hands. “Credence Barebone, you are part of our world. Join us and take your place amongst us. We would welcome you the way humans never would.”

And it should be difficult, it should be almost impossible, to even consider abandoning his home and his family and his place in the human world, but. But Credence is inhuman. He can turn to smoke and ash and fly through the skies as easily as a cloud. He can partake in the food of the Fae and not be lost. He can dance to their music and not go mad. He can cast spells and use magic. His Ma knew a long time ago that something wasn’t quite right, and now, glowing as he is and suffused with the taste of old magic, he doesn’t think he can ever quite blend in again.

“Okay,” Credence says. “Okay.”

Then, before he loses his courage, he drops to his knees and kisses Percival.

Percival is gratifying dazed. “What was that for?”

“If I am to be part of your world,” Credence says, “it’s because of you. It’s for you. Because I – because I love you.”

It’s like growing a pumpkin from scratch to push out the words, but Credence says them, because they have to be said. He doesn’t think he’ll find the strength ever again, even if the strength he has now is born of Fae magic.

“Credence Barebone,” Percival murmurs, like a revelation, like a bargain, like a promise, “my love, you will never cease to surprise me.”

They are married on Samhain, in the same field where Percival opened Credence’s eyes to the wonders of his domain, and all over the clearing, pumpkins bloom into live as they kiss.

“Welcome to my world, my love,” Percival says.

“Our world now,” Credence corrects.

“And all the better it is to have you in it,” Percival finishes, and he is right by Credence’s side when Credence takes his first sip of nectar and his first bite of ambrosia, opens his eyes, and sees.

FINIS