Chapter Text
Some say loyalty is like a promise.
One could keep it, hold it forever; one could whisper it under their breath the moment it begins to slip their mind, reminding them of what they said to the other; one could shatter it, betray the trust of the very people they swore their lives to in a matter of a simple sentence.
Impulse believes that he is one of the few that can hold onto it for as long as the universe exists.
That was until it came to the Crastle.
Void, he hated conflict, but if he just up and left the Crastle, then what would that do for him? What would that make him in the end?
The questions were like a mantra in his mind, multiplying into so many what-ifs that it felt like he was drowning with anxiety. He swallows back the bile building in his throat, keeping his hands balled into fists as he walks into the small, cramped building. He hears Bdubs and Cleo talking near the potion room and it makes his stomach churn at the thought of how they would react.
He avoids it. Again.
He heads up to the small compartment that made up his living quarters, opening his satchel and grabbing whatever keepsakes he could afford to carry. He closes the bag before he hears a rhythmic pattern of knocks against the door, answering it with a quick come in! before settling his satchel back onto his hip.
Bdubs steps inside, a usual, bright smile tugging at his lips. He’s dressed in a tattered, off-white tee and ripped jeans, adding more into the tattered style he was aiming for. Probably on purpose, knowing the glare.
“Didn’t hear you come back home!” Bdubs chuckles, folding his arms. “Are Cleo and I really that scary to you, Imp?” It’s a muse, and as much as Impulse would love to play along like he always had, it would only hurt more when he saw that smile drop into a betrayed frown.
“Uh, yeah! Yeah, sure,” Impulse stammers out. He fumbles with the drawers of his night stand, sifting through the papers and other trinkets inside.
“You seem pretty distracted! Something bothering you, dude?” Bdubs questions. His tone shifted to concern, as quick as it had changed to joyful and friendly. “You can tell us, or me, you know.”
“I’m fine,” Impulse deadpans. “Really, it’s fine. I just- had a run in with some enemies. Wasn’t the best, you know.” He waves his hand as he talks, feeling the anxiety drip-drip-dripping into his stomach like a broken pipe, poisoning him with a nauseating fear.
“Alright, alright,” Bdubs backs off, “I won’t pry, but uh… if it really is bothering you, whatever it is, just… let me know, alright?” He pauses for a moment, letting the silence fall back into the room again. He steps away only a beat later, closing the door behind him. Impulse waits until the footsteps are out of earshot, cursing under his breath as he runs a hand across his face, stopping at his mouth.
He couldn’t do it. He was a coward.
He sinks onto the edge of the cot beside him, taking a deep, wavering breath. He felt that he’d be taking a lot of deep breaths today, he absently thinks. He looks over at his satchel, pursing his lips as he scans the wooden floorboards for some odd epiphany or unknown vision; he wants to know exactly how to do this, how to not fuck it all up, but—
It doesn't work like that, does it?
Impulse looks over at the shield, hidden behind a closet door. The red and white colours feel like home, not this granite and stone castle. The sharp laughter and long nights by a campfire feel like family, not a cramped compartment where he was the only one inside. The curled, silver hair and scarlet eye that looked at him with such unwavering loyalty and friendship feels right to him, not the toothy grins or the deep, dark eyes.
He knew what he had to do.
♥♥♥
“Are you coming down for dinner?”
Bdubs’ voice is muffled by the other side of the door. Impulse hadn’t shown himself since he got back home, which had been hours ago by now. He looked… lost? If that could even describe how Impulse’s eyes were searching for something — anything — that could help him find whatever answer he was looking for.
Whatever he was, it wasn’t Impulse. It was everything but him.
So was the silence. Impulse was always talkative and yet, he hadn’t even greeted Bdubs nor Cleo when he got home. He hadn’t even so much as peeked in and gave a quick wave or a feign salute. It wasn’t wrong of Bdubs to say that he wasn’t a little offended, was it?
“Hey, Imp? Come on, dude, you’re kind of worrying me here a little,” Bdubs chuckles. He hopes he doesn’t come off as desperate, praying that Impulse might’ve just fallen asleep or was too busy with something else to hear him. It’s another beat of silence before Bdubs begins to turn the knob.
Fuck this. Impulse could be dead in there and he wouldn’t know.
The door opens with a longing, eerie creak. Bdubs takes a second to scan the room, seeing no sign of the demon. Great, as if he wasn’t already panicking a little. His eyes catch onto a piece of ripped-out journal paper, with a small, pocket watch laying on top of it to prevent it from flying out of the open window. When had that window been opened?
Bdubs steps closer to the night stand, grabbing the journal paper:
I’m sorry Bdubs, but this isn’t my home.
— Impulse
It read so simple, but spoke thousands of words. It was so, so simple, and it was so careful, yet it hurt more than any sword or arrow ever could.
Bdubs scans the room again, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He sees the closet door, and he sees red and white paint stained on the back of it; now dried, now belonging to what Bdubs never wanted it to.
Bdubs screams.
♥♥♥
It’s downpouring.
Torrential rain wasn’t uncommon, especially where Renchanting lies, and Etho didn’t mind it. It was peaceful, even if he was standing in the dead middle of it, his jacket and mask drenched in rainwater as he looked up at the dark storm clouds.
His fox ear flicks each time a raindrop hits it, recoiling on instinct with the touch. He breathes in the familiar petrichor from under his mask, a smile hidden by the dark covering.
It’s peaceful.
Until it’s not.
Etho snaps to attention the moment he hears the nearby bushes rustle, brandishing his shield and sword. He waits, tense up to the shoulders, for another beat of movement. He can hear his heart stutter against his sternum, adrenaline drumming in his ears and drowning out the rain.
He relaxes when amber eyes meet him.
Impulse stands, out of breath yet as calm as one could be. His tail flicks aimlessly against the ground behind him, creating a quiet thud each time it hits the grass. The shield of Dogwarts fits him well, tucked perfectly onto his right arm, whilst his left arm wields a familiar, iron hatchet.
“Hey, Etho.”