Chapter Text
Call doesn’t understand how everything could’ve gone so wrong so fast.
He’s on his knees in the forest outside the Magisterium, dirt in his hair and betrayal thick in his throat as Alex fits his arm inside the Alkahest and grins like a cat that's got the cream. He's so angry it hurts—he can feel himself shaking from how hard his heart is pounding, from how much he wants to break something or run away.
But he can’t do either of those things, not with his hands bound behind his back and not with Aaron in the same boat next to him, baring his teeth and struggling. He can’t even summon his magic this way, and it's frustrating how helpless he is without it. He feels like a complete idiot for trusting Alex, for not seeing what he was really like and allowing himself to be put in this situation. Stupid, stupid.
“Tamara?,” he demands, hating the way his voice shakes. “Did you hurt her? Is she here?”
Alex doesn't answer for a long moment, opting instead to watch them struggle on the ground like a creep, a pleased little grin stretching across his face, and Call desperately wishes his hands were free so he could punch him directly in his smug mouth.
“I have no idea where Tamara is. She and your stupid wolf are probably asleep,” he says. “It's kind of sad, don't you think? Poor little Tamara, always being left behind. Well, I guess she'll find out what happened to you two when she wakes up tomorrow. Maybe she'll take it as a lesson about minding her own business. Her and her family have always had a problem when it came to that.”
“And Master Joseph?," Aaron cuts in acidly, clearly not willing to listen to him monologue about his ex girlfriend's family. "Somehow, I don't really think he'll be all too pleased by this either."
Alex scowls. “You think I care about what Master Joseph thinks? He’s an idiot, and I don’t have to listen to him anymore. I’ve figured out a way to become a Makar myself." The smile comes back, and it looks quite manic when he directs it at Call, "And I’ll be a better Enemy of Death than you’ll ever be.”
He keeps going, detailing exactly how and why he's going to kill them as if he expects them to be impressed or something. Call just lets him talk. It’s a bit ridiculous, actually, watching the previously friendly, good-natured boy he'd known for so long prance around like a villain from a James Bond movie, but he knows this is anything but a game. As much as he would like to pretend that Alex won't really hurt him, that he’s just bluffing, he can see it in his eyes. He’s not just angry; he’s hurting and he wants revenge. He wants Call dead. And he wants Aaron dead too, and Call—
Call can’t let that happen. It’s one thing to threaten his own life, but—he can’t let Aaron die. He just can’t. Aaron’s his best friend—he was his first friend, even when he’d been covered in pen juice and smelling like a sewer, even when everyone thought he was a creepy weirdo who hated the Magisterium, and even when it was revealed that Call was the reincarnation of Constantine Madden—he stuck by him through it all, because that’s who Aaron is. He’s kind and loyal and he cares so much about other people, even when he doesn’t have to.
Aaron's the one destined to save everyone, not Call. Call is selfish. He's rude. He doesn't know how to talk to people, and he has a list ranking every evil deed he's done for the past two years under his bed. He has none of the qualities of a hero. If Aaron died, the Magisterium wouldn't stand a chance.
Call wants to live, Call thinks as he stares down Alex, feeling his magic coil around him, waiting and ready to strike. But he wants Aaron to live more.
“Alex,” he says, surprising them all. “Aaron didn't do anything. It's my fault. Take my magic."
Aaron makes a strangled noise. When Call looks over, he’s struggling harder, panic making his movements jerky and frantic. "No!," he shouts. "Don't hurt Call—don’t—take mine instead—"
Alex's lip curls. “All of this nobility is giving me a headache. Maybe the Alkahest should choose who dies. Maybe I’ll send it at both of you and see what happens. Maybe it’ll take both your magic. What do you think of that?”
“I think you’re crazy,” Aaron says, brilliantly angry even when afraid, and Call's heart hurts.
In the corner of his eye, he sees something shift in the tall grass, and a shadowed face appears between the trees. Tamara!
“Or maybe I’ll start with you,” Alex sneers, leaning down to get in Aaron’s face. Call wonders if Aaron will spit on him, but he’s probably too polite to attempt it, even in the face of danger. “You know, you’ve always gotten on my nerves. Such a bootlicker, just rolling over and doing whatever the Magisterium tells you to do. At least Call has some backbone. You’re just pathetic.”
Tamara moves silently, keeping to the shadows. She catches his eye, mouths something, but he doesn’t know what she’s trying to tell him. Does she have a plan? Are the Masters on their way?
“If you touch him…” Aaron lets the threat hang. He sounds positively livid. Chaos magic crackles around his fingers, and the masked men holding him down shift uneasily.
“You’ll do what? Banish me to the void? Not without your stupid little Makar powers, you won’t.” He lifts the Alkahest. “But don’t worry, if you’re lucky, maybe they’ll bury you and Call in matching graves. You'd like that wouldn't you? You and Call, together even in death." Something cruel gleams in his eyes. “How romantic.”
Aaron freezes next to him, going absolutely stark white. Call glances at Tamara and sees her gearing up to rush in, and he steels his resolve. He’ll fight with everything he has, because the least he can do is make sure Aaron lives. For his sake. For everyone else’s sake.
He takes Aaron’s hand. Aaron looks surprised for a second. Then his grip locks with Call’s. And he smiles.
“At least we’re going to die together,” he says.
A lot happens in the next few seconds. Tamara bursts into the clearing, Havoc hot on her heels, and shoots an arc of fire at Alex, who’s caught so off guard that he only manages to redirect half of it towards the crowd of masked figures. The other half, ironically, blasts him in the face.
He screams, hands flying towards his eyes, and in the resulting chaos Call is somehow freed and able to pull Aaron to his feet, their hands still gripping tightly onto each other.
"Both of you run!,” Tamara yells, conjuring up more fire. Her bangs stick to her forehead, wet from the heat. “I’ll hold them off, just run!”
“NO!,” Alex shouts. Half of his handsome face is blistered and raw, features twisted in pain, but he has enough presence of mind left to turn his eyes on Call and snarl at him. “I won’t let you get away from me again!”
He levels the Alkahest towards them, and it blooms white-hot, illuminating his manically gleeful face as a blaze of light flies from its fingers.
Time slows.
Aaron drops his hand, black fire blooming in his palms. Tamara lurches forward, as if she means to push one of them out of the way, but Call’s faster; he swings around and knocks Aaron to the ground before he even has time to register what’s happening. His best friend hits the grass hard, chaos magic sputtering out like an extinguished flame.
Tamara screams something, but Call only has eyes for Aaron. He tries to convey as much as he can through facial expressions alone: I had to, I’m sorry, You’re the one meant to save everyone, not me.
But all Aaron can do is stare at him in horror.
The ball of light slams into his chest. Pain, unlike anything he’s ever felt before, burns hot and fast through his flesh, and he feels himself rise up into the air from the force of it, and then fall to the ground hard. In the distance, someone screams.
The world explodes into white.
And Callum Hunt lives no more.
It’s dark.
For a long moment, he doesn’t know where he is. For several terrifying seconds, he doesn’t know who he is.
Scattered memories. Voices calling for...someone. A dog barking, a girl screaming. A blinding light and—then what?
Then what?
There’s lights filling his vision, multi-colored and near blinding, and he feels something pulsing and tugging below his heart. Warm rain lashes violently against his face as he’s dragged further and further into the dark. He can't see where he's going. He doesn’t even know where he’s going. All he knows is that he's scared and cold and that he wants to go home.
Ní bhaineann tú anseo, a voice says, and suddenly there are no lights, there's no rain, no darkness. Just an open, grassy plane covered in mist. Startled, he turns and finds a gnarled willow tree that hadn’t been there before. A raven sits in one of the higher-most branches, watching him.
What?, he asks.
The raven’s gaze is steady. Ní bhaineann tú anseo, it repeats. And then it takes flight and vanishes into the fog.
He doesn’t know how long he spends in the field. Hours, maybe. Or days. Time seems to pass strangely around him here, like it’s in fast forward and slow motion all at once, and he can feel rain against his face even though the skies are clear. Everything has a hazy, dream-like quality that makes him feel floaty and not entirely physical. It’s...odd. But comforting. Almost nostalgic in a way, like a childhood toy he used to play with, but had forgotten existed until now.
There are no other living creatures here, and he doesn’t see the bird again, but sometimes he thinks he can see shadows moving in the fog when he’s not really looking. Shapes seem to follow him wherever he goes, reaching out with gnarled hands and sharpened claws from the corners of his eyes, but the shadows always disperse and break away before they manage to touch his skin.
Ní bhaineann tú anseo, the bird had said.
He still wants to go home.
It's awhile before he notices he's not the only one here.
There’s a human soul resting by his feet. He's not sure when it got there or why it's there, it’s just...there. A ball of light; dirty, dull-colored and resting innocently in the grass, as if someone put it there for someone else to find later. The light emanating from it is strangely dim, like a candle burned down to the wick, and it's much smaller and lumpy-looking than he thinks it should be.
It's also one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen.
He bends down to get a better look. He wonders why it looks so...weak. He doesn’t have a lot of experience with souls (at least, he doesn’t think he does), but he also thinks they’re not supposed to be so dim.
Hey, he says.
A long moment passes. Birds twitter in the distance, distorted and off-key. From somewhere in the trees, a twig snaps.
He waits.
Eventually, he gets a response.
...Hello.
The soul's voice is slow, soft, and sweet. Something in him relaxes when he hears it, and he finds himself smiling.
What are you doing?, he prods when they fall silent again. Why are you on the ground? Are you sleeping?
The light flickers briefly. They seem confused.
No, they say after a pause. Waiting.
For what? No response. Not for lack of trying though; it seems like they’re having trouble forming words. He tries a different tactic. Can I wait with you?
Another long moment. Fog begins to descend upon the copse of trees, twinkling with bits of starlight where the sun hits it.
Alright, they agree.
He sits.
The sky changes from blue to black as they lay there, basking in each others’ company. Crickets chirp and fireflies begin to appear among the tall grass. The moon is abnormally large and full, the stars gleaming and bright. It's a picturesque scene. Almost too perfect.
He can feel the soul looking at him, and when he glances back, he sees flashes of a life that isn’t his; of a boy with mousy brown hair and a soft, shy smile. He sees towers of books and scuffed jeans, and feels the quiet warmth of a fireplace on his skin.
You’re Jericho, aren’t you?, he asks, suddenly sure of it. Jericho Madden. Constantine Madden’s brother.
The glow surrounding the soul seems to shine brighter, if just for a moment. Yes, he says curiously, and now, in the moonlight, he sounds less monotone. More alive. Who are you?
I’m Call. Callum Hunt. Memories begin to trickle into his mind, things long-forgotten and buried with time, and he frowns. I think I’m dead.
Oddly enough, this makes Jericho laugh. Of course. This is the afterlife, after all.
Ah, says Call. That makes sense, he supposes. It also explains a lot of things. Have you been here long?
He can't see Jericho's face, but he imagines he might be frowning. Yes. Too long, I think. You're the first person I've talked to since I got here.
Being stuck in an empty field for all of eternity sounds like an incredibly lonely and boring way to spend your afterlife. Oh. Well, sorry for being late, I guess.
Again, he laughs. It's a nice, clear sound, like tinkling bells. Don't be. All roads lead back to here in the end. Some just get here faster than others.
Call nods. He thinks about his mom. He thinks about poor little baby Call, the original one, who died before he could even say his first words. He wonders if they're together somewhere. He wonders if they're happy.
You knew my name before I told you, Jericho says, suddenly sounding shy. Did I know you when we were alive?
His smile, when it emerges, is a bit melancholy. Not...exactly. But you probably knew my parents. Alastair and Sarah Hunt?
The light flickers in surprise. Alastair and Sarah—you don't mean Sarah Novak? At Call's nod, he continues, shocked, That's impossible. They hate each other!
He's startled into a laugh. Jericho sounds so outraged. Did they really?
Yes! They couldn't stand being in the same apprentice group. Alastair asked Master Rufus to put him with someone else nearly every day. Plus, Sarah vowed she'd never get married. I cant believe she married Alastair Hunt of all people. He fumes for a moment, much to Call's amusement, but then the humor fades. They must be so old now. And Declan too. I—how long have I been gone?
He sounds so lost. Call doesn't really know a way to respond that won't upset him, so he offers, I can tell you about them. I can tell you about everything that’s happened since you’ve been gone. If you want to hear it.
Jericho hesitates only a moment. I have a feeling it might take awhile to explain.
Good thing we have all the time in the world, then, Call says, and tells him.
He tells him about the Iron Trial. He tells him about his father warning him against the Magisterium, about what magic did to his mother. He tells him about Aaron and Tamara, about Aaron being a Makar, about Call being his counterweight and about Tamara’s sister.
He tells him about Drew and Alex and Master Joseph. He tells him about Constantine, and what he did in order to get his brother back.
By the end of it all, Jericho’s soul is nearly blinding and Call’s throat is very sore. The sky is bright again, the sun overlarge and beating down on them hot and humid.
I don’t understand, Jericho says. Constantine did all that? He hurt all those people...for me?
Call closes his eyes, leans his head against a tree trunk. People do crazy things for the ones they love. It's just...human nature, I guess.
Jericho doesn't say anything, and Call thinks about Aaron and Tamara. Maybe now, without him actively putting them in danger, they'll be able to focus on normal things and live their lives to the fullest. He wonders if they miss him. He wonders if they're mourning.
I wish I had more time, Jericho says. Maybe things would be different.
There’s a sharp caw, and he glances up. The raven is there, sitting on a branch and staring down at two of them with fathomless black eyes.
Oh, it's you, he says, but something is wrong. The bird seems agitated, fluttering its wings and twitching its head back and forth, like it's in pain.
Ní bhaineann tú anseo, it says, and for the first time, he realizes he understands it.
You do not belong here.
The raven launches suddenly into the air, shrieking loudly. Go, now!, it cries, and sharp claws take violently at his eyes, leaving behind searing pain and blood. He thinks he hears Jericho cry out before his vision tunnels, and he falls back into the darkness as rain lashes at his cheeks. He's running somewhere, he falls,
and
Call
breathes.
The funeral is held three days after Callum Hunt's death.
Celia sits quietly in her chair, feeling hollow. There’s a low murmur of voices from the mingling crowd, but she pays no attention to anyone besides her mothers, who sit on either side of her and offer silent support.
Somehow, it’s not enough.
Call’s death had been sudden, and maybe that’s why it doesn’t seem quite real to her yet. She’d been asleep when it happened, and by the time she and a handful of other students had emerged from their rooms, roused by the commotion coming from the gates, it had been too late to do more than stand there and gawk. She’d watched with blank shock as Tamara Rajavi had stumbled through, looking pale and haggard, followed by an equally horrified-looking Aaron Stewart. Both were covered in scrapes and bruises and both were shaking uncontrollably. The cloying, heavy stench of smoke clung to their clothes, and over the cacophony of all the gathered Masters shouting over one another, Celia thought she might’ve heard someone crying.
Master Rufus had come in next, looking grim. In his arms he seemed to be carrying a thin, limp doll. Aaron fell to his knees the second he saw it, and it wasn’t until then that Celia realized she recognized that shock of dark hair, that wrist band, that uniform, and oh god—
“Holy shit,” Rafe had said as a rushing sound filled her ears. “Is that Call?”
It was. He’d looked so small cradled in Master Rufus’ arms, so broken. Whatever had taken him down must’ve hit him in the chest, because it was smoking—the smell of burnt flesh made her retch and stumble into Gwenda, who’d started shrieking—and the skin around it was black, burned away with bits of red underneath and—
She shivers hard, tamping down her sudden nausea. Mama’s hand tightens on her shoulder, nails digging into her flesh. The pain keeps her grounded, but only just.
It’s another few moments before she manages to collect herself, and by that time, the attendees are beginning to take their seats. She catches a glimpse of Jasper with his parents, looking incredibly out of sorts in his oversized suit, but she’s only able to see the back of his head before he vanishes once more into the crowd.
Alastair Hunt sits in the front row, looking emotionally drained and so very tired. Celia's heart goes out to him. Growing up, she’d heard all sorts of horror stories about the war. Brothers and sisters facing each other down on opposite sides of the battlefield, corpses of friends, long-deceased, shambling about as undead horrors. But she can’t imagine any greater pain than having to bury your own child.
The funeral rites pass by in a blur of tears and shameless theatrics. It’s quite amazing, she thinks with no small amount of bitterness, how many people will emerge from the woodworks the second they smell a chance to put themselves in the spotlight. The sheer amount of middle-aged high society mages going up to give speeches about how “wonderful” and “talented” a boy Callum Hunt was is staggering. Celia’s almost certain none of them had ever even spoken to him before.
The biggest affront, in her opinion, are the Rajavi’s. They sit in perfectly poised tandem in the second row, backs straight and gazes impassive as the ceremony continues on. Tamara is the only one who looks even remotely upset. Kimiya just looks guilty. She probably should, considering it was her crazy ex boyfriend who’d killed him in the first place.
Celia thinks they’re all a bunch of shams. It had seemed nice, at first, of them to offer their garden as the setting for Call’s funeral, but then they’d gone and turned it into this huge function and invited all these people who’d never even met Call. Suddenly, it wasn’t a private gathering of mourning friends and family, but just another excuse to show off their sprawling wealth. It's despicable. It's pure evil.
“It’s just politics, dear,” a woman had said to her earlier, taking a sip of champagne. “Don’t take it so personal.”
Just politics. Celia clenches her fists in her lap. She thinks there may be something fundamentally wrong with the mage community if attending a murdered boy’s funeral is what some call ‘politics’.
Aaron Stewart goes up to speak last.
A somber atmosphere settles over the audience as the last remaining Makar shuffles into place behind the podium. He looks terrible. There are shadows around his eyes, which are puffy and red from crying, and his posture is stiff and tired. He looks so small and sad and defeated. Celia swallows the lump in her throat and tries to listen as he begins his speech.
“Callum Hunt,” he starts, voice hoarse and shaking. “Was...was not only my counter-weight, but my best friend.”
He speaks monotonously, reading from a sheet of paper he’d brought up with him. Celia bets everything she owns that the Rajavi’s had forced him to go up there. They probably wrote the speech too.
The crowd is enraptured, of course. If there’s one thing mages adore, it’s drama. And this might be the most dramatic thing to happen at the Magisterium since Jericho Madden’s horrific death all those years ago.
"Thank you, Aaron," Master Rufus says when he finishes, and the crowd claps awkwardly, like they're not sure if they're allowed to applaud during a funeral. "I'm sure Call appreciates all the kind words said about him today. May his journey to the Otherworld be swift and filled with love and support."
"Hear, hear," the crowd intones.
Aaron does not look up from his lap.
Neither, Celia notes, does Tamara.
They begin the real part of the service now; the funeral rites. Everyone dons their protective flowers and resins, Celia already has hers around her neck, and people go up to place offerings around the casket, in order to provide safe travels. Celia doesn't move from her seat. She wants Call to be as comfortable as possible when moving on to the afterlife, but she thinks seeing his corpse for a second time will give her even worse nightmares than before.
She also doesn't want to be anywhere near the casket when they burn it.
When everyone settles back into their seats, Master Rufus begins the prayer and lights the torch. Celia squeezes her eyes shut and plugs her nose. She hates this part most of all, but it's important that they burn the body, in order to prevent more Chaos-Ridden from being created. Just the thought of Alex managing to get ahold of Call and turning him into a mindless walking corpse like he did to Jennifer Matsui is enough to make her nearly lose her lunch. She just hopes it's over quick.
But then something strange happens.
Master Rufus, in the middle of the prayer, abruptly chokes on his tongue. Sounds of sniffling are replaced with gasps and cries of alarm. Startled, Celia snaps her head up. And then her heart jumps into her throat.
Because the body is...Call is moving.
Moving and sitting up in the casket. He’s—Celia looks wildly around the garden; Tamara has her hands clasped over her mouth and Jasper, she spots near the back, has half-risen from his chair—is frowning and blinking and rubbing at his eyes as if he’d just woken up from a particularly long nap and not been dead merely seconds before. He stares confusedly at the amassed crowd; at Master Rufus, at his father, at Master Milagros and Master North and Master Graves, at the fifty or so gathered Mages who are looking on with an amalgamation of astonishment and bewildered horror—before finally settling on Aaron, who is gaping at the stage, face completely drained of all color.
“Um,” Call says in the sudden silence. The entire garden seems to be collectively holding their breath as he scratches the back of his head, looking awkward. “Hey.”
Then his eyes roll up into his head and he collapses back into the casket.