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Dewdrop is told what’s going to happen to him before he’s fully awake.
“The band is getting a new bassist, and, naturally, a new Water Ghoul,” the Clergy member tells him this first thing in the morning with a flat, almost bored tone.
He doesn’t say when, or where, or even what exactly is going to take place, so Dew spends the morning pacing around his room, preparing for death. He thinks of his packmates– of the Ghouls he’s spent the past few months creating bonds with that feel like they’ve lasted lifetimes. The Clergymen won’t let him out of his room to say goodbye, so he writes notes for everyone in the band, even Terzo, though no one knows where he is.
The church bells ring out to signify that it’s noon, and at 12:01, a Clergyman, a different one from this morning, walks him to a side of the Abbey he’s never been in before. The closest thing he can compare it to is a dungeon.
He doesn’t have much time to think about it, though, as the moment he enters a cell, a rag comes up to his face and his vision goes black.
The room around him is dark and cold. Walls of stone, a hard concrete floor, iron bars on the thin door. The only light source is a candelabra with a single candle, burned almost all the way down, set up on the floor in a corner.
Footsteps are heard from outside and Dew stands. A Ghoul comes in. They’re masked, but the mask is different. It’s shinier than the current ones, and the chin has been cut out so the mouth is visible. The outfit is new too: a sleek black and grey suit, a black balaclava pulled down to show only the lips under the mask. The only part that’s stayed the same is the shoes.
In one hand of this Ghoul is a large syringe with a thick-gauge needle, loaded to the maximum line with what looks like lava. The hand holding it is shaking. As if the Ghoul doesn’t want to use it for whatever it’s supposed to be used for. Or whoever it’s supposed to be used on .
“Water,” a deep voice calls. It’s not the mystery Ghoul, as their lips don’t move. “The Clergy has made their decision. You will not be let go from the Project, but instead, re-assigned to a new position.”
Dew backs up until his back hits a wall. He’s tempted to grab that candelabra and shove it in the faces of these intruders, but his arms won’t move. He can’t will himself to do anything .
“Water number Six,” that voice says again. The added number makes an uneasy feeling crawl up Dew’s spine.
“Water… number Seven.” The mystery Ghoul stands up a little straighter and their hand shakes quicker.
‘Oh,’ Dew thinks. ‘Oh.’
“Water number Seven, go ahead.”
Dew scrambles to the floor as the other Ghoul walks closer, bringing that syringe up to about chest level. The eyes behind that mask look terrified.
They don’t want to do this.
They mutter an almost inaudible, “forgive me,” before stabbing the thick needle into Dew’s neck and pushing down on the plunger. Their free hand comes up to cradle the opposite side of Dew’s head, as if trying to help him through the white-hot pain coursing through his blood.
It’s like he’s been injected with pure fire. And he has. Within seconds, he’s on the floor writhing and screaming in pain, clutching at his arms and chest and anything he can reach to make it stop. Water number Seven steps back to stand in the doorway, watching in horror as the effects take place.
Dew’s fins shrivel up and snap off. His gills close up. His tail thwaps violently against the concrete as it thins out, losing the fish-like shape and turning more into the classic demon tail. For several moments he can’t breathe, resorting to opening his mouth as wide as he can and taking deep gulps of air. In the process of his thrashing and writhing, he hits his head on the ground, snapping about two-thirds off of his right horn. What’s left of that horn darkens and turns to more of a glass-like material, like obsidian.
Dewdrop is left there for several days, most of which he’s unconscious for. He eats nothing, drinks nothing but water left in there for him every few hours. At first, it was a plastic water bottle, but when Dew tried to grab it, the plastic melted under his touch, so the next delivery was in a glass cup when whoever delivered it saw the puddle of water and charred, melted plastic.
As hard as he tried, Dew couldn’t stay awake for more than a few hours at a time, passing out from exhaustion or pain. Every hour he’s awake is spent wailing until he’s got no tears left, and after that, silently staring at the thick scars where his fins and other water-related anatomy were. He can’t stand; his new, thin tail throws him off balance every time he tries.
Every moment is agonizing. He’s never wished more for Satan to take him to the depths of Hell until now.
Eventually, Dew catches who’s been leaving him water. He had a hunch it wasn’t a Clergy member, as they wouldn’t be kind enough to do such a thing.
He opens his eyes to a Ghoul crouched over him. Even through the blur of his vision, he knows it’s not a Ghoul he knows. They’ve got shoulder-length navy blue hair, rough stubble, short and thick horns that look like glowing sea glass. Dew squints his eyes and looks around, his gaze landing on the mask on the ground by the Ghoul’s feet. It’s the new mask. It’s the new Ghoul.
“Seven…” Dewdrop mutters, weakly pulling himself up to sit and shuffling backwards.
“Sorry!” Water Seven exclaims, crawling towards Dew. “Sorry, I was just making sure you were still breathing.”
Dew looks at the Ghoul with furrowed brows, trying to get his eyes to focus. There’s something wrong with his eyes. Something about them must have changed as well.
“Why–” He starts, stopping himself with a rough cough. His voice is different. He hasn’t talked in days. “Why the Hell are you here?”
“To bring you water.” Water Seven pushes the glass closer to Dew and sits down on his knees. “I… I don’t know what happened to you– what I did to you– but I wanted to help you through it at least somehow.”
Dewdrop snatches the glass and takes a sip, almost afraid that this Ghoul might take it back. “You’re replacing me?” He asks, though it’s not really a question. He holds the glass with two hands and chugs half of it, savouring how cold it is down his burning throat.
“I suppose,” Water Seven mumbles.
“You suppose ? You are .”
“I didn’t choose to.”
“And I didn’t choose to be mutilated.” Dew finishes the water and pushes the cup away. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
Water Seven takes the glass and places it beside him. As he does so, Dew catches a glance at the long, slim fins along the Ghoul’s exposed forearm. The mere sight makes him want to cry.
“I harmed you,” the Ghoul says simply. “I fucked you up. I fucked everything up.” He places his hands in his lap and fiddles with his fingers.
Dew wipes at his eyes, looking intently at the Ghoul’s sea glass horns. Even before all of this, his horns weren’t that nice. They were long and curved and a deep indigo, and they certainly didn’t glow. These horns are glowing gorgeous teal.
He’s too busy studying these horns that he doesn’t notice the way the Ghoul is crying until he lets out a quiet, stuttering choke.
“I’m so sorry. I swear I didn’t want to hurt you. I don’t even know you.” He shifts to sit on his bottom, pulling his knees to his chest. “I was summoned and was given a uniform without so much as a ‘welcome, Rain’. They shoved that syringe into my hand and dragged me here.” He wipes his nose with the heel of his palm and sniffles.
Dewdrop grimaces. Water number Seven’s name is Rain. For some reason, learning that made everything hurt more. “I wish you had just killed me.”
Rain whips his head up and raises a brow. “What?”
“I wish you had just killed me,” Dew repeats, staring at him blankly. “I wish whatever you put in me burned me to ash, and you could go up on stage beside Ifrit instead of what’s left of me.”
“Ifrit? I haven’t met an Ifrit.” Rain purses his lips. He’s met Aether, the Quint who plays rhythm guitar, but aside from him, everyone else he’s met here has been a Clergyman.
“You haven’t…” The realization sets in. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”
“I- I don’t–”
“He’s dead. They killed him. For me to replace him.” Dew clenches his hands into fists and scrunches his face, trying to hold in tears. Ifrit is dead. Satan knows what’s happened to Mountain, or Zephyr, or Aether.
Rain dips his head down, unable to confirm or deny anything, and knowing anything he has to say isn’t helpful. His shoulders shake with quiet cries.
“Just kill me, I beg you,” Dew pleads. He reaches a hand out and places it on Rain’s arm, almost recoiling when he feels the now-foreign texture of his watery skin. “I don’t care how you do it. Just end me .”
Without thinking, and before Dew can even process it, Rain pulls him into a tight embrace, running his webbed fingers through Dew’s long, buff-coloured hair. He doesn’t know why he’s doing it. He can barely feel himself doing it. But he holds on for dear life and pulls them both to the ground.
Dew’s skin is hot to the touch. It creates a sizzling sound when it makes contact with Rain’s. If the whole situation wasn’t so painful already, the touch would hurt.
“I won’t. I can’t .”
Everyone but Aether and Mountain are gone. Ifrit and Zephyr were killed. Terzo and his brothers before him were killed. No one will tell Dew how they met their demise, but the thick smell of blood that lingers through the building tells him it wasn’t merciful. What he was told, however, were the names of the new Ghouls. Rain, who he knows; Cirrus and Cumulus, two new Air Ghoulettes (why they have the feminine title, Dew doesn’t understand, as the bassist before him was female and still called a Ghoul); and Swiss. Swiss didn’t replace anyone. No one died to make way for him. But he’s here, and he’s a nuisance.
The minute Dew got out, he ran to the nearest mirror to see the extent of the damage. He finally gets a good look at his broken horn, how the remnants are glassy and black, but there’s a soft blue glow coming from the centre. His other horn is maroon, glowing yellow and almost white towards the tip. His ears are still long and pointed, but the fin parts of them are gone. His skin is different, too. He used to have a light, blue-grey complexion, but now in proper lighting, he can see its shifted hue to more of a pale, dull orange. It looks almost human. Odd. Ifrit had a complexion akin to a blood orange. Absolutely non-human.
Dew frowns as he remembers Ifrit.
Every Ghoul has their own room, but in the days following Dew’s return, Mountain and Aether have all but abandoned theirs in favour of spending every waking moment in Dew’s with him. Mountain uses his Earth affinities to soothe his friend while Aether uses Quintessential magic to heal his wounds and ease the burning in his body.
The three of them lie in Dewdrop’s nest-like bed, Mountain acting as the big spoon, Aether holding Dew close to his chest. The poor Ghoul hasn’t been able to sleep since he came back from that cell, so while his friends snore lightly on either side of him, Dew lays silently with heavy eyes, fidgeting with one of Aether’s many necklaces.
“Droplet,” Aether mumbles, feeling the thin, hot fingers on his neck. “You doing okay?”
The simple nickname almost stings. “No.” Dew ceases his fidgeting and curls in on himself. His body aches, the scars where his fins were itch, and his broken horn is giving him one hell of a headache.
Mountain holds him a little closer in his sleep, sensing the shift in the energy of the room.
“I… I want to see Rain,” Dew whispers. There’s something deep in his soul that feels like the new Water Ghoul can help him, even though all his pain stems from him. That moment in the cell replays in his mind again and again and he aches for it.
“He’s probably asleep. But in the morning we can go find him.” Aether traces a finger up and down Dew’s left horn, feeling the soft, bony ridges, and Dew melts into the touch.
“He feels terrible about what he did,” Mountain adds, finally waking up a little.
Dew sighs. “I know.”
“And he does want to see you and how you’re doing. He asked about you earlier today.”
“I figured.”
“The other Ghouls wonder about you too,” Aether cuts in. “They want to meet you.”
“I don’t want to meet them ,” Dew growls. While Rain and he forged their bond, small as it is, through the pain of his being brought into the band, the likelihood that Dew could do the same with Cirrus and Cumulus was slim. And he simply had no interest in meeting Swiss. The ‘Multi-Ghoul’, as Mountain called him, really had no reason to be here.
Mountain and Aether share a look. Dew hasn’t even met the Cardinal yet. And with his attitude towards the new Ghouls, that meeting was bound to go disastrously.
Rain’s room is bare. He took Ifrit’s room, as Dew wasn’t physically able to move out of his. The walls have been hastily painted white in preparation for whatever colour Rain chooses. There’s nothing in here but a neat suitcase, a clothing hamper, and a bed with a single pillow and throw blanket. Not even a fitted sheet; the mattress is bare. If he’s received his guitar, it’s not in here.
The Water Ghoul sits on the edge of his bed, in his lounge clothes, bouncing his knee anxiously as Aether ushers Dewdrop into the sterile room. With nothing but a silent nod, Aether leaves the two alone.
“Hi, Rain,” Dew says under his breath.
“Hello, Dewdrop.”
“Looks… nice in here.”
Rain gives a small smile and nods. “They’ve yet to paint in here so I don’t know what to do with my stuff.”
Dew takes a seat on the floor in the middle of the room with a “humph.” His tail sways against the floorboards uneasily. This room feels too small and too big at the same time. And the fact that it still faintly smells like Ifrit only makes him feel more off. These bare walls were covered in posters and tapestries mere days ago; clothes piled on the floor; the messiest bed you’d ever seen against the opposite wall where it is now.
Rain shouldn’t be in here. It should be Dew taking this room if this is how the band was to be. Or, rather, it should be Ifrit still in here, Dew in his room as a Water Ghoul, and Rain nowhere at all.
“I didn’t pick this room to upset you,” Rain whispers. “I didn’t pick it at all.”
“I know,” Dew says simply, looking everywhere but at the Ghoul across from him.
Rain stands up and takes a step, then another, then sits down so his knees are touching Dew’s. The Fire Ghoul still won’t meet his eyes, but Rain doesn’t take his gaze away from his face. His horns, his chapped lips, his tired eyes.
“Can you still swim?” Rain asks suddenly.
“No… Or, maybe, I don’t know.”
“Would you like to go swimming with me? In the pond in the Gardens?”
Dew finally looks into Rain’s big blue eyes. It’s a tempting offer. Judging by the way Rain’s cheeks flush a light indigo, he wants Dew to say yes. He’s offering the proverbial olive branch. A chance to connect properly and begin anew in the arms of their Element.
Assuming he’s still able to swim, it would feel good to do so. It would feel so incredibly good to be able to feel cool water envelop him and wash away the white-hot ever-present pain in his veins.
And as jealous as he is of Rain and his fins and his gills and his slick blue skin, the thought of being able to see Rain swimming alongside him feels oddly peaceful.
Dewdrop nods and takes Rain’s fishy hands in his, rubbing his thumbs across his knuckles. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds nice.”