Archive of Our Own

The other day when we were walking by the graveyard near the house, you asked me if I thought we would ever die
And if life and love both fade so predictably, we've made ourselves a kind of predictable lie

Dagon sat half-reclining in bed, a book in his hands and one leg heavily bandaged and propped up on a pillow. The situation was far from ideal, but sitting in here by himself was rather peaceful, and he was catching up on some reading. Things could have been a lot worse.

The front door opened downstairs, and Dagon knew things were, in fact, about to get worse.

The door slammed shut, there was a moment of quiet, presumably for Machiavelli to remove his coat, and then footsteps came up the stairs, sounding progressively louder and angrier.

The bedroom door banged open, and Dagon set down his book with a sigh. “Did you want something-”

“What the hell were you thinking?” Machiavelli demanded.

“I would like to point out,” Dagon said calmly, “that I did in fact get what I came for. You will find Enlil’s effigy on the kitchen table.”

Machiavelli shook his head. “I told you to be careful, I told you we should have tried to negotiate first-”

Dagon snorted. “You know Aten wouldn’t have accepted anything else. Whatever his quarrel with Enlil is, it is very clearly personal, and Aten is nothing if not dedicated to his grudges.”

“You could have died, Dagon!”

Oh. “Well, I survived, and I should be walking around again within two days.”

Machiavelli stared at him long and hard enough to make Dagon’s skin crawl, then said, “That’s a lot of bandages for an injury that only needs two days to heal.”

Dagon shrugged. “If I do not use my aura for anything else, it should work just fine. There will be significant scarring, but the leg will be functional.” When Machiavelli did not look reassured, he added, “You worry too much. I am very hard to kill.”

Machiavelli crossed his arms, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Hard to kill, yes, but not impossible. You should be more careful.” His tone was an odd mixture of annoyance and genuine concern, and as he was leaving, he paused before closing the bedroom door. “I do not know what I would do without you, my… friend.”

And so I pictured us like corpses, lying side by side in pieces in some dark and lonely plot under a bough
We looked so silly there, all decomposed, half turned to dust in tattered clothes
Though we probably look just as silly now

Like most immortals, Machiavelli didn’t eat much. But he did still need food now and then, which was why Dagon had dragged him out of his office to grab breakfast at a cafe overlooking the Seine. It was the kind of place that would normally be crawling with tourists, but this early in the morning, it was almost deserted.

Machiavelli ordered a coffee, and after a stern look from Dagon, a croissant that he had little intention of eating. Food had long ago lost its appeal for him; it tasted bland at best and rotten at worst. He supposed it should have bothered him more, but eating had been more inconvenient than anything during his mortal life, so he didn’t have much to miss.

He picked at his croissant, making a great show of moving it around on his plate between sips of coffee. Dagon sat across from him, reading a newspaper, and occasionally glancing up to make sure Machiavelli hadn’t thrown out his food. It was annoying how well Dagon knew him.

After about fifteen minutes of Machiavelli’s dramatic production of pretending to eat a single croissant, Dagon set down the newspaper. “You must know you’re not fooling me, Niccolò. You can cut the theatrics.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Oh, please. You clearly have something on your mind, and anyone can see you’ve had maybe two bites of that croissant.”

Machiavelli pointedly took a large bite, and immediately regretted it. The texture was all wrong and it crumbled like ash in his mouth. It must have shown on his face, because Dagon let out his strange, bubbly laugh, and shook his head. “We can go somewhere else, if you’d like.”

“It wouldn’t make any difference,” Machiavelli said, more gloomily than was necessary. “Everything all tastes the same.”

“I’ve been wondering about that,” Dagon said, frowning. “Do all immortal humani lose their sense of taste?”

Machiavelli poked the croissant like it might do something interesting. “I haven’t lost it, not completely. But nothing tastes good anymore, and hasn’t for a long time.” He pushed the plate to the side and folded his hands on the tabletop. “I’m told it’s common, but not universal.”

Dagon made a curious humming noise and leaned back in his chair. “One of many hidden costs of immortality for your species, I suppose. Magic comes much more naturally to my people, and our lifespan is already longer than yours.” He tilted his head to stare at Machiavelli, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. “Is it worth it, do you think?”

The answer rose to Machiavelli’s lips almost immediately; yes, of course, but something stopped him, and he dropped his gaze. “I... don’t know,” he admitted. 

Bye, bye, bye, bye, bye, bye to all this dog-eared innocence
I can't pretend that I can tell you what is going to happen next or how to be
But you have no idea about me
Do you?

Dagon kept too many secrets, and he kept them too well. Over millennia, he’d learned to lock away memories like prisoners and to bury his pain deep enough that even he was surprised when it resurfaced.

Machiavelli had a particular talent for finding out people’s secrets, but he never pressed Dagon for information. On the rare occasions when Dagon mentioned his people or their world, Machiavelli’s eyes would light up, and sometimes he ventured a question or two, but he was careful with Dagon in a way he wasn’t with anyone else.

Talking about what he had lost was painful, even after the lifetimes he’d had to forget it. And for so long, he had tried to forget, to drown his grief in distractions, but now he found himself remembering more and more.

“I will never understand why Dee likes it here,” Machiavelli grumbled as the two of them elbowed their way through a damp, gray London street. “It’s far too wet, for one thing.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dagon said lightly. “Paris could do with more rain.” He stretched a gloved hand out beyond the edge of the umbrella to catch the raindrops. “All your cities could, in fact. Too dry.”

Machiavelli laughed. “Maybe you would like Venice.”

Dagon adjusted the umbrella. “We used to have canals.” Not looking at Machiavelli, he continued, “Our cities were built partly underwater and partly on land. The streets were water even on the surface, so you could swim through the whole city if you wanted.” One corner of his mouth turned up in a small smile. “There were floating houses and markets too. Some of the tallest underwater buildings broke the surface, and gardens were planted on their roofs. Everything on land was built to be able to float, in case of a flood. Humani build cities near rivers, but rivers were our cities.”

“Fascinating,” Machiavelli said, his voice soft and almost reverent. “I never knew.”

Dagon shrugged, feeling that pang of sadness that always came with the memories, no matter how beautiful. “I never told you.”

Machiavelli rested a hand on Dagon’s arm. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Dagon asked.

“For telling me now.”

And it left me to wonder if people ever know each other or just stumble around like strangers in the dark
‘Cause sometimes you seem so strange to me, I must seem strange to you
We're like two actors playing our parts
Did you memorize your lines? ‘Cause I did

The house was quiet, save for the occasional tapping of computer keys. Machiavelli had been staring at his laptop screen for so long that his head ached, but he didn’t want to stop. This security detail wouldn’t put itself together, after all.

He looked up, rubbing his stinging eyes, and was startled to see that it was nearly midnight. Turning back to the computer, he realized he had misspelled every potential bodyguard’s name at least once in his report so far. Maybe he could take a short break.

It was raining, so Machiavelli knew Dagon would be out on the balcony. Sure enough, when Machiavelli looked through the window, Dagon stood leaning over the railing, face tipped up towards the dark sky. Rain ran in rivulets down his scaly skin, and his large eyes glittered with a joy that was all too rare.

He was beautiful.

As though feeling Machiavelli’s gaze, Dagon turned his head to look at him, and gestured for him to come outside.

Machiavelli opened the sliding door and immediately regretted it. The wind was so strong that the rain nearly blew sideways, and he shivered in the chill night air. He wrapped his arms around himself for warmth.

Dagon looked amused. “Cold?” he asked.

“It’s freezing out here,” Machiavelli muttered. “I don’t understand why you like this so much.” He raised a hand, and a gray glow formed on the tips of fingers and spread across his body, drawing the water out of his clothes. He made another gesture, and a shimmering shield sat over his head like an umbrella.

Dagon watched all of this in silence, then said, “Do you ever miss Florence?”

Machiavelli raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Of course. Florence is my home.”

“And yet how long has it been since you were last there?”

Machiavelli closed his eyes, trying to remember. “Oh, at least two hundred years. Maybe more. I went to find something for Aten, but I haven’t gone back since.”

“Why?” The question was spoken so softly Machiavelli could barely hear it, and something about it irritated him. He didn’t like to think too long about Florence.

“There are precautions I have to take,” Machiavelli replied. “I cannot risk the life I’ve built here on a- a sightseeing trip.”

“So you don’t want to go back?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Dagon scoffed. “Niccolò, if you really wanted to return to Florence, I doubt anything could stand in your way.”

“I appreciate your confidence in me.”

“It’s true.”

“What is the point of this?” Machiavelli snapped. “I can go where I want, and I certainly don’t need to explain my decisions to you .”

It came out harsher than he meant it to, and he regretted his words as soon as he had spoken them.

Dagon was about to argue, but stopped himself. “Of course not,” he said flatly. “I was merely curious.”

“Dagon-”

Dagon turned back to stare out over the balcony railing. “Good luck with the security detail.”

Here's the part where I get so mad, I tell you, "I can't forget the past"
You get so quiet now, and you seem somehow like a lost and lonely child
And you just hope that the moment won't last

Coming here was a gamble, but Dagon felt confident it would work. Machiavelli had safe houses around the world, but the one in Chicago was the most well-supplied, and he had heard that Machiavelli had gone to San Francisco after the disaster in Paris, so he would probably stay in America for the time being.

From the outside, the safe house looked like a small, rundown apartment building. Inside, it was much the same, except for the entire top floor, which had had all its interior walls taken down to form one large room. It was stocked with clothes, food, cash, fake passports, credit cards under false names, burner phones, first aid supplies, everything Machiavelli would need to hide out for a while and then escape undetected. The windows had all been boarded up, and the stairwell and elevator shaft had been blocked from going up all the way. The only way in or out was through a hatch on the roof, which was locked, and Machiavelli and Dagon had the only keys.

Dagon stood on a crate to lock the hatch behind him, and then wandered over to the bookshelf. There was enough here to keep him occupied for weeks.

He waited for two days, until he heard someone walking on the roof. Dagon set his book down, sat down in the middle of the floor, and waited. Moments later, a disheveled-looking Machiavelli dropped through the ceiling and landed in a heap on the floor. Machiavelli stood up, frowned at a bruise on his arm- then saw Dagon.

“Hello,” Dagon said. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about me already.”

Machiavelli opened his mouth, but no words came out. He stared at Dagon, speechless.

“I’m alive,” Dagon continued, “which you would know if you had ever bothered to find out. But no, four hundred years together and you never gave me a second thought.”

“Dagon, I-”

“No, I know. You were busy. And besides, I was no longer a concern of yours. I’m no longer working for you, so what do you care?” Dagon’s face and voice remained neutral, but his hands tightened into fists at his sides. “A few decades ago, this wouldn’t have surprised me. But I thought something changed. I thought you cared .”

Machiavelli’s eyes were wide with shock, and what might have been hurt. “I thought you were dead,” he said, taking a step back. “If I had known you were alive, I would have-”

“Remember that safe house in Venice?” Dagon asked. “The one we agreed to go to if we were separated in an emergency?”

Machiavelli nodded.

“I waited there for a week, and you never even tried to contact me.”

“I forgot,” Machiavelli said, his voice uncharacteristically small, almost scared.

“Oh, that’s fine then,” Dagon said sarcastically. “Glad to know you think so highly of me.”

Machiavelli looked away, toying with the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Niccolò?”

“I was afraid!” Machiavelli looked up again, eyes blazing with sudden anger. “I thought I had sent you to your death, and I was afraid of confirming it. Not knowing what happened to you was horrible, but it would be worse to know for sure that you were gone.” He shook his head, and for an instant, he looked like he might cry. “I- I don’t know what to tell you. I’m sorry.”

There was a moment of tense silence.

“I don’t forgive you,” Dagon said at last. “But I accept your apology.”

“Thank you.” Machiavelli held out his hand. “Will you stay here with me? I need a few days to set up our new passports.”

Dagon took his hand and shook it. “And then what?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Machiavelli smiled. “Where would you like to go?”

Bye, bye, bye, bye, bye, bye to all this dog-eared innocence
I can't pretend that I can tell you what is going to happen next or how to be
But you have no idea about me
You have no idea about me
Do you?

“How much longer do you think we have?” Dagon asked, examining a book with a missing dust jacket and a small chunk taken out of one of the corners.

“We can leave, if you like,” Machiavelli said. The secondhand book store had been Dagon’s idea, but perhaps the dust was bothering him.

Dagon shook his head. “No, how much longer before Aten comes looking for us? You are still waerloga.”

Machiavelli set down his own book, a well-worn annotated copy of Much Ado About Nothing . “He may not come for us at all. As long we don’t move against him, he has no reason to worry about us.”

“You can’t say that for sure,” Dagon insisted. “We could be in danger right now, for all we know.”

Machiavelli took his friend’s hands in his. “You’re right, and it does worry me. But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hidden away from something that might never happen.” He squeezed Dagon’s hand. “I would rather face Aten tomorrow and die trying.”

Dagon cracked a small smile. “Who are you and what have you done with Niccolò Machiavelli?”

“Surviving is not the same as living,” Machiavelli said softly. “A friend taught me that.”

Still, there's always a way around, there's something tying our feet to the ground
A moment passed, we hear how it sounds
Then it seems a little less profound

Machiavelli leaned over Dagon’s shoulder. “What are you reading?”

Dagon showed him the cover. “It’s a biography of Tycho Brahe.”

“You know,” Machiavelli said, coming around to sit on the arm of Dagon’s chair, “there are rumors he became immortal.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but I doubt it. No one I know of has met him, and he was not known for his subtlety.”

Dagon turned a page. “He was an alchemist, though, so I suppose it’s possible.”

“Just what we need,” Machiavelli laughed. “Another alchemist causing havoc for us.”

The two of them lapsed into a comfortable silence, until Dagon said quietly, “Ne frusta vixisse vidar.”

“Hm?”

“Brahe’s last words. May I not seemed to have lived in vain.”

Machiavelli sighed. “We all wish that.”

Like we're all going the same way down, yeah, we're all going the same way down
I'm just trying to write it all down

“What are we?” Machiavelli asked one day, as he watched the sunrise over Dubai through the hotel window.

“What do you mean?” Dagon had maps of the city spread out in front of him on the floor, and was marking interesting places with a purple pen.

“I decided to keep a journal,” Machiavelli said, still staring out the window. “And I realized I wasn’t sure what to call you. Are we friends? Something else?”

“Oh.” Dagon straightened up and stretched his arms over his head. “That’s easy. We’re partners.”

He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, and maybe it was, but it still surprised Machiavelli. “But what kind of partners?” he persisted.

Dagon shrugged. “Does it matter? We’ve spent centuries together, and we like having each other around, so we’re going to stay together for as long as we can. The rest? We can figure it out as we go.”

Machiavelli felt strangely relieved. It wasn’t that he didn’t love Dagon, but trying put their relationship into a neatly labeled box of lovers, or friends, or anything else, didn’t feel quite right. Friends was the closest label, he supposed, but it still wasn’t perfect.

Partners. He could accept that.

Cause I write songs, and you write letters
We are tied like two in tethers
And we talk and read and laugh and sleep at night in bed together
And you wake in tears sometimes, I can see the thoughts flash across your eyes
They say, "Darling will you be kind? Will you be a good man and stay behind if I get old?"

Dagon rarely dreamed, but when he did, he dreamed of death. Sometimes it was his people’s death, sometimes his own, sometimes Machiavelli’s. And it was always, always , his fault.

Usually, he was alone when the dreams came. But he had been sleeping alone less and less lately. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

It had been a wonderful day. Machiavelli had found a house near a lake, and they had spent the day swimming. Actually, Dagon had done most of the swimming, while Machiavelli read on the shore and occasionally waded in to get Dagon to stop pestering him. That night, they had fallen asleep in a pile of blankets on the floor, surrounded by stacks of the books they’d found on the house’s shelves.

It was the kind of day that never should have ended with nightmares.

By the time Dagon woke up, pressing his hands over his mouth to hold back a scream, the dream was already fading away, but the terror remained. It sat like a lead weight on his chest, crushing the air from his lungs and the voice from his throat. His breathing came in ragged gasps, and his body shook all over.

The shadows of the dark room took on new forms as he sat there, trembling, tangled in blankets. Every creak of the old house was someone coming to hunt them down, every dark corner held a creature craving blood-

No, that was ridiculous. He would not give into this paranoia.

The man who sleeps with a knife by his bed is a fool every night but one, Dagon’s mind whispered traitorously.

And it was true his instincts were usually right.

But this wasn’t instinct, it was late-night anxiety over nothing but a dream he couldn’t remember.

All the while that Dagon was debating with himself and flinching at shadows, Machiavelli dozed next to him, oblivious. He had a book open facedown on the floor beside him, and the dress shirt he insisted on wearing was sandy from the beach and crumpled from sleeping on the floor. His face was relaxed, his body curled catlike into the blankets. He looked perfectly content; a once-rare sight that had recently become much more common. Carefully, so as not to disturb him, Dagon pushed the blankets aside, stood up, and moved towards the door.

Machiavelli stirred, eyelids flickering. Dagon froze and held his breath. If he stayed quiet-

“Dagon?” Machiavelli mumbled sleepily. “What are you doing?”

Too late. Dagon sat back down. “Nothing,” he said, hating how strained his voice sounded. “Just- stretching.”

“Liar,” Machiavelli said, but there was no heat in it. “Is something wrong?”

Dagon shrugged uncomfortably. “Bad dreams. You know how it is.”

“Oh.” Machiavelli was silent for a moment, seemingly unsure what to say. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

“No, I don’t remember what it was about. Only that I was afraid.”

“Afraid?” He could hear the surprise in Machiavelli’s voice. Very few things scared Dagon.

“Yes.”

Machiavelli moved closer to Dagon, their shoulders touching. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “How often do you dream like this?”

“Not very often.” Dagon tugged at a loose string on the edge of one of the blankets. “Sometimes I wish it happened more. Maybe then I would get used to it.”

Machiavelli’s hand found Dagon’s. “You don’t have to get used it, you know. I’m not going anywhere if I can help it.”

Dagon’s lips twitched, forming the ghost of a smile. “That’s very kind, Niccolò. But I will be all right, I promise.”

“I mean it,” Machiavelli insisted. “You can trust me.”

Dagon said nothing, but after a moment, leaned his head against Machiavelli’s shoulder with a soft sigh. Machiavelli shifted to put his arms around Dagon, and they sat like that until Machiavelli fell asleep again. Dagon remained awake, listening to Machiavelli’s deep, even breathing. The rhythm was comforting, a reassurance that, for now at least, they were okay.

And then the letters all flash through my head with the words that I was told
About the fading flesh of life and love, the failures of the bold
I can list each crippling fear like I'm reading from a will

Dagon had the nearest airport’s website pulled up on the laptop in front of him, and scrolled idly down the list of available flights. “Where to next?” he asked.

It was a familiar question. Ever since leaving Chicago together, the two of them had settled into a rhythm. They found a reason to go somewhere; anything from hiding out from an agent of an Elder trying to track them down to wanting to visit a museum was fair game, as was anywhere from a distant shadowrealm to a neighboring city. Then they stayed there until they were ready to move on again.

Machiavelli leaned over his partner’s shoulder, peering at the screen. “Go back up.”

Dagon tapped the arrow key twice, and Machiavelli sucked in a breath. He hadn’t misread the listing. “There,” he said, pointing, not wanting to speak it out loud just yet.

“Florence?” Dagon asked. “Are you sure?”

Machiavelli reached for his hand. “No,” he admitted. “But I want to see my home again, no matter how much it’s changed.”

Dagon squeezed his hand. “All right. I’ll get tickets.”

And I'll defy every one and love you still
I will carry you with me up every hill
And if you die before I die, I'll carve your name out of the sky
I'll fall asleep with your memory and dream of where you lie

“Where is it?” Machiavelli squinted at the map. “I swear, there used to be a bookshop on this road.”

“It’s been a while, Niccolò. It might not be there anymore.” Dagon was losing count of how many times he’d said that over the past four days. Machiavelli was eager to show Dagon around Florence, but the city he had grown up in was gone. There were plenty of museums and artworks and preserved historical buildings, but many of the little details, like the bookshop, had vanished.

“You’re probably right.” Machiavelli folded the map up again. “It’s gone or it’s been moved, like everything else in this fucking city.”

Unusual language for him. Machiavelli rarely resorted to four letter words, preferring instead to express himself more creatively. He had a wide array of insults, curses, and assorted vulgarities in many languages available to him. “We could go back to the Uffizi Gallery,” Dagon suggested. “We still have a lot left to see.”

“Fine.”

They had been to the Uffizi Gallery the previous day, and Dagon had loved it. Besides, Machiavelli seemed more comfortable in the historic city center than anywhere else. It was as modern as the rest of Florence in many ways, but the layout of streets and buildings themselves had changed very little. Machiavelli could find his way around better there.

They passed a pleasant enough afternoon in the art gallery; Dagon swinging their hands back and forth as they walked through the halls, stopping to examine each painting and read every sign. Machiavelli was uncharacteristically quiet. He answered when Dagon asked him if he recognized an artist, or what he thought of a particular detail, but otherwise said nothing.

“That gallery is one of the oldest museums in Florence,” Machiavelli said that evening in their hotel room. Dagon was stretched out on the bed, reading a magazine from a newsstand they’d passed earlier, and Machiavelli was standing by the window, staring at the street below.

“Yes, I saw that.” Dagon turned a page. “Beautiful place, isn’t it?”

“This is the first time I’ve seen it,” Machiavelli admitted. “It wasn’t built until after I left.”

Dagon set his magazine aside and joined Machiavelli at the window. “What are you looking at?” he asked softly.

“The city. It’s all so different .” Machiavelli shook his head. “Some of the oldest places here, I don’t even recognize. I knew things wouldn’t be the same, but…” he trailed off and shrugged. “I should have come back sooner,” he whispered, more to himself than to Dagon.

Dagon wrapped his arms around Machiavelli from behind with a sigh. “But you’re here now. That counts for something.”

“I suppose.” Machiavelli disentangled himself from Dagon, and walked over to sit on the bed. He picked up a crumpled map from the nightstand, scanned it, and nodded to himself. “There’s one thing I know is still here.”

Dagon glanced at the map. “You want to go there? ” he asked, trying not to sound appalled.

The Basilica of Santa Croce was an imposing building, all pointed rooftops and soaring columns. It was beautiful, ornately decorated with carved images and arched windows, but Dagon dreaded having to go inside.

Machiavelli took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Ready?”

“If you are.” Dagon slipped his hand into Machiavelli’s, and the two of them entered the church.

They had to ask for directions; the celebratory tombs that Santa Croce was famous for had not been there when Machiavelli was alive. But they found their way to Machiavelli’s own tomb eventually.

Machiavelli stood staring at it in silence for a long time. Then, abruptly, he said, “I was not a very good husband.”

Dagon shrugged noncommittally. To argue would have been a lie, but the statement wasn’t entirely true either. When it became clear that Machiavelli was waiting for a response, Dagon said, “But you loved Marietta, at least. And she loved you, even at the end.”

“She knew something was wrong.” Machiavelli laughed humorlessly. “Spending so much time away from her, never looking any older… I’m lucky she was so good at keeping secrets.” He picked at the cuff of his sleeve. “Sometimes I wonder if I really did love her.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I cared for her, I was attracted to her, I loved being with her, but did I love her? I am not so sure. I don’t know if I love you, either, or anyone else.” He held up a hand to stop Dagon from interrupting. “Maybe that’s not the best word choice. I love you. I loved Marietta. But I can’t tell if I was ever in love .”

Dagon said nothing. “I know it doesn’t make sense,” Machiavelli continued. “But I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, and this is the best I could do.” He paused. “I apologize, if it makes you feel better. I shouldn’t have waited so long to say this.”

“Stop talking,” Dagon said, and wrapped Machiavelli in a hug.

“Dagon.” A pebble bounced off Dagon’s shoulder.

“Dagon.” The second pebble missed and landed beside him.

“Dagon, caro, light of my life-”

“What do you want?”

“How do you skip rocks?”

Dagon held up his webbed hands. “I don’t think I’m the right person to ask.”

Cause it's better to love whether you win or lose or die
It's better to love whether you win or lose or die

Sunlight streamed in through the window, but neither of the people in the bed wanted to move. “Mm, you’re warm,” Dagon mumbled, snuggling closer to Machiavelli.

Machiavelli pushed his arm away. “And you’re freezing.”

“You love me anyway.” Dagon moved to lay halfway on top of him. “And you’re a very nice pillow.”

Machiavelli laughed. “Some days I feel very lucky to wake up next to you. But today…”

“Hey!”

“Only teasing, caro mío.”

It's better to love and I will love you until I die

Years passed. They explored many shadowrealms together, but most of their travel was on Earth. Machiavelli didn’t mind nearly as much as he thought he would.

Since his supposed death, Machiavelli had felt tired of the world. It had nothing and no one left for him. Everything was explored and nothing was ever new. Meeting Dagon had changed that, a little. Dagon was proof the world still had something to offer.

After what was supposed to be the end of the world, Machiavelli wanted to see everything . He had traveled extensively, yes, but he knew there were things he had missed, and there were still places he had never been to. And he wanted to share it all with Dagon.

Dagon, who had lost an entire world of his own. Dagon, who stood on balconies in the rain and remembered underwater cities. Dagon, who was wonderful, and sometimes annoying, and a puzzle Machiavelli would never get tired of trying to solve.