Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The tower was a cathedral of stillness.

It stood alone on a hill covered in a thick mist, its walls veined with ivy that glowed faintly under moonlight. Inside, time passed like drifting dust—slow, weightless, and without witness. Mel, the tower’s only inhabitant, sat cross-legged on the polished marble floor, surrounded by books that looked older than he was.

He had arranged them in perfect circles—encyclopedias, alchemical journals, grimoires, and mythic fragments. To anyone else, the chaos of open pages and scattered notes would have been overwhelming. But Mel liked it that way. It gave the illusion of company.

His soft burgundy hair spilled forward as he leaned closer to the candlelight, eyes glowing mauve-gold as they skimmed through a passage for the third time.

 “A summoning ritual requires equilibrium between world and soul. The summoner’s intent shapes the summoned.”

He mouthed the line, as if saying it enough might make it feel less forbidden.

A soft chime echoed from the corner of the room as one of his flowers bloomed. A glass lily, crystal-petaled and utterly cared for, grew toward him like it was trying to listen. Mel smiled faintly and whispered to it, “Do you think it’s wrong?”

The flower didn’t answer. It only released a slow shimmer of golden dust.

“Yeah,” Mel sighed. “You’re right. It’s lonely, isn’t it?”

He tried not to remember the last time someone had visited the tower—his eldest brother, cold and polite, delivering scrolls and food before retreating down the spiral stairs without looking back. His parents communicated by enchanted mirrors. His tutors came and went like passing ghosts, always careful not to touch him, always bowing a little too low.

Because Mel was not meant to touch the world.

He was born from stolen divinity—a miracle wrapped in a curse. His magic bloomed from emotion, uncontrolled, unstoppable. Joy could bring fields to life; grief could make gardens rot.

So they kept him safe.

Safe, and utterly alone.

The first time he read about summoning, he was seven and half-asleep in the library. The book had fallen open to a page with swirling gold letters: “To summon a spirit, you must first long for one.”

He’d laughed back then, a soft, disbelieving sound. “That’s easy,” he’d whispered to no one.

But over the years, that line grew roots in his heart. It came to him during breakfasts eaten in silence, during lessons that ended with the tutor’s nervous goodbyes, during nights when he fell asleep to the sound of his own heartbeat echoing through an empty tower.

By the time he turned seven and a half, he wasn’t laughing anymore.

He spent days preparing, disguising it as “studying ritual alchemy.” The servants who left food by the door never questioned why he asked for chalk, rare herbs, or rare purified water. Mel was careful—meticulous. He’d been told all his life to control, to balance, to never let his magic wander.

But this time, he was going to let it reach out.

He drew the first circle on the sixth night—too small. He erased it and tried again. By the eighth, he had filled half the tower floor with diagrams—some crooked, some precise, all glowing faintly with gold dust. He tried whispering to them, shaping intent like his father once taught him in meditation.

 “Magic listens to longing. So speak kindly, Mel.”

He could almost hear that voice now, distant but fond. It made him want to cry.

Day blended into night, and night into morning. Mel rarely slept, fueled instead by excitement and the ache of something just out of reach. He practiced the invocation until his voice turned hoarse.

When he wasn’t reciting, he paced the tower, imagining what his new companion would be like.

Someone utterly adorable.

Someone who wouldn’t flinch when his flowers bloomed too fast.

Someone who would laugh when he said something strange, not stare in silence.

He even practiced greetings before a cracked mirror. “Hello!—no, too loud. H-Hello, I’m Mel—no, too shy. Maybe… ‘Would you like tea?’ Yes. Everyone likes tea.”

His tail flicked nervously at the thought.

By the eleventh night, his ritual circle was flawless: a garden of living ivy intertwined with chalk sigils, dotted with pale anemones. The moon hung high above the tower’s glass dome, silver light draping over the room like silk.

He stood in the center, barefoot, his white night-robe brushing the floor, gold vines faintly glowing beneath his skin. His hands trembled as he held the grimoire open to the page that started it all.

“Okay,” he whispered, “no more changing your mind, Mel.”

He began to chant.

The air rippled.

The candles bowed, their flames bending inward.

The flowers surrounding the circle began to bloom and wither, bloom and wither again in rhythm with his heartbeat.

Mel’s voice quivered as he reached the final line. “By the seed of creation, by the kindness of life—grant me a friend who can understand.”

He pricked his finger, letting a drop of gold blood fall into the water at the circle’s heart.

For a moment—nothing.

Then the ivy recoiled. Then the light fractured like glass. The air thinned until Mel could barely breathe. A vibration, deep and low, rolled through the floor and climbed up his legs.

He gasped, clutching his chest as the tower shuddered. “Wait—! That’s not—!”

A sound like distant thunder filled the room, and light burst from the circle, pale blue and alive. The flowers froze mid-bloom; every leaf turned translucent. The summoning circle cracked apart, releasing a rush of wind so cold it burned.

The air split.

From within the light came a voice—a small, confused voice that didn’t belong to anything Mel knew.

“…Where… am I?”

The glow dimmed. A figure stood in the center of the chaos: a boy about Mel’s age, his hair the color of blue fire, his form faintly transparent like mist. His eyes shone like circuits of light, blinking curiously as he took in his surroundings.

Mel stared, breath caught in his throat, heart hammering so hard it hurt.

He’d done it.

He’d actually done it.

And the boy was staring back.

The silence between them stretched, fragile as glass, until the boy tilted his head and whispered again, softer this time:

“…Who called me here?”

Mel could barely find his voice. His lips parted, trembling with disbelief and awe.

“I… did,” he whispered. “My name is Mel.”

The boy’s glowing eyes blinked, curious and unsure. “…I’m Ortho.”

The circle’s light faded, leaving only the moon to witness the impossible—two lonely children meeting for the first time, one born from a divine curse, the other from the underworld’s edge.

And though neither understood it yet, that single act of defiance, the summoning born of loneliness, had just changed both their worlds forever.

Chapter Text

When morning came, the tower looked softer somehow. The moonlight had left behind a silvery haze, and Mel woke to find the faint blue glow of his summoning still humming in the air, a low, gentle pulse of light that gathered near the corner of the room.

For a moment, he thought it had all been a dream.

But then Ortho blinked awake.

He was sitting cross-legged on the cold marble floor, the faint light of his phantom body flickering like a candle’s flame. His hospital gown or something that looked like one, it hung loosely from his shoulders, the edges clinical but thin.

Mel gasped, scrambling up and clutching his robe close. “Y-you’re still here!”

Ortho tilted his head, blinking. “Should I not be?”

Mel froze, mouth opening and closing like a fish. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. What if Ortho was supposed to go back? What if he had just… stolen someone?

His tail drooped, and he took a shaky step back. “I—I didn’t mean to trap you! I didn’t even know you were real, I just—”

His voice cracked before he could finish. The tears came fast, hot, and messy, spilling down his face before he even realized he was crying. His hands shook as he covered his mouth. “I-I wanted a friend! That’s all I wanted!”

Ortho’s eyes widened, the faint blue light flickering more steadily as he frowned in concern.

“Hey,” he said softly, floating closer. “It’s okay. You didn’t hurt me. I’m… just not sure where I am.”

Mel sniffled, wiping his face with his sleeves. “The—The tower. My tower.” He fidgeted with his funders before he gestured to the glowing vines and walls covered in flowers. “It’s… pretty, but it’s so empty. I didn’t mean to— y'know kidnap you.” The word sounded sour on his tongue, like something so awful.

But Ortho didn’t flinch. Instead, he smiled —a small and patient one. “You didn’t mean to. That’s what matters.”

He reached out, a cold and pale hand brushing Mel’s shoulder. It was cold, but steady. “See? I’m fine.”

Mel hiccupped, ears twitching. “You’re too nice.”

“I get that a lot.”

That made Mel laugh, a tiny, broken sound that came out more like a pathetic squeak. He wiped his face again and barely stood on shaky legs. “Y-you must be cold. That doesn’t look warm.”

Ortho glanced down at his faintly translucent gown. “I don’t really feel cold, I think.”

“Still,” Mel insisted, moving toward a chest at the corner of the room. “You should have clothes. Fitting ones.”

He rummaged through layers of folded fabrics and pulled out a set of soft linen garments — one of his older outfits, a tunic the color of rose petals and loose white trousers. He hesitated, then turned, cheeks pink. “They’re clean and alright. You can, um… wear them. Don't worry, I didn't use it.”

Ortho accepted them awkwardly, trying to mimic gratitude like he’d seen people in the internet do before. “Oh…, thank you. They’re… quite nice?”

“…No problem, you can keep them, I still have plenty,” Mel said quickly, rubbing his arm. “You can change behind the screen there.” Mel pointed towards where it was.

While Ortho disappeared behind the divider, Mel had tried to busy himself with what he could control — preparing food and he accomodating. He wasn’t much of a cook; he’d mostly been taught to brew teas and prepare tinctures as that's what guests and nice people like. But he could try to make something simple.

He gathered a bunch of honey, fruits, and soft bread from the enchanted pantry and set them neatly on a tray. His movements were precise, which was kinda almost ceremonial, as if presentation could make up for how disoriented everything felt.

When Ortho finally came out, awkwardly dressed in the slightly oversized but odly warm tunic, Mel’s jumped a bit. He looked more real now, not like the patient and tired looking boy that first arrived.

“I made breakfast,” Mel blurted, tail flicking nervously. “You probably don’t… need to eat, I think? Since you've probably already ate but I don't know that yet, and it’s polite to offer.”

Ortho smiled, not too certain if it was for Mel or for himself, but he tried to make it convincing. “I can pretend.”

That made Mel grin faintly — a shy, embarrassed expression that softened his face. He handed Ortho a piece of bread and fumbled for something— anything to say, something that wasn’t another I’m sorry I kidnapped you.

“So,” Mel said after a long silence. “Do you… remember where you came from?”

Ortho’s smile faltered just a fraction of a second, thankfully Mel didn't catch it. “Not exactly. It’s… cold there. And quiet. I think I was asleep.”

Mel’s ears drooped again, his tail stopped moving from side to side. “So I really did take you from somewhere.”

“You woke me up,” Ortho corrected him gently.

Mel blinked at that. “Woke… you up?”

“Yeah.” Ortho bit into the bread, pretending to chew so Mel would stop worrying. “You wanted a friend, right? Maybe that’s why I heard you.”

Mel fell quiet, watching the boy in front of him pretend to eat at his table, wearing his clothes, sitting beneath the same skylight he’d stared at alone for years. The absurdity of it all hit him at once — he’d actually summoned someone, someone who wasn’t supposed to exist, and now they were sharing breakfast like two lost children.

It was… nice.

A little too nice.

And the kindness hurt.

He bit his lip, tears stinging his eyes all over again. “You’re really kind, Ortho. Even though I did something awful.”

Ortho sighed softly, his patience thinning just slightly — not from cruelty, but exhaustion. He could feel Mel’s guilt spinning in circles, and it was frustrating to see someone so young —even if they were the same age— crumble under a weight he didn’t even understand.

“Mel,” he said gently, “I told you, it’s okay.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Ortho crossed his arms, or tried to, his hands flickering faintly as they passed through each other. “You’re just a kid. You made a mistake because you were lonely. That’s not evil, it’s just…” He hesitated, searching for the word. “Human.”

Mel stared at him like the word itself was foreign and almost nonexistent.

Ortho smiled faintly, god was this boy miserable. “You didn’t know any better. And really that’s fine.”

Mel sniffled again, just a bit, trying not to cry a third time as he tried to hold it in. His tail curled around his legs, his flowers blooming nervously at his feet.

“I just… wanted someone to talk to,” he whispered.

“Then you can talk to me,” Ortho said simply. “I’m here now.”

The boy smiled again — that patient, gentle, slightly weary smile that made something deep in Mel’s chest ache. He didn’t understand how someone could be so calm after being dragged across worlds for someone's selfish wish.

So Mel did what he knew how to do. He made sure Ortho’s chair was soft. He fetched more tea. He even draped a shawl across Ortho’s shoulders, the one Mel knitted once, even though it slid through his form like mist.

He didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop trying — as though if he just tried hard enough, Ortho would stop glowing faintly blue with that scary aura and start looking like a normal boy.

Ortho watched him for a long while, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t have to give me everything, you know.”

Mel blinked, confused. “But… I want you to be comfortable.”

“I am.”

“But—”

“Mel.”

The boy froze. Ortho’s tone wasn’t sharp — just firm. The kind of voice that sounded older than it should. “You’re allowed to sit down.”

Mel hesitated, then finally relented just enough, folding himself awkwardly beside the table. His flowers leaned toward Ortho as if listening.

For a moment, they just sat there. A phantom and a lonely child, one trying to hold everything together, the other trying not to vanish.

Ortho finally broke the silence with a small sigh. “You really don’t know how to relax, do you?”

Mel gave a sheepish smile, eyes still red from crying. “Not really.”

“That’s okay.” Ortho leaned back, his faint blue glow dimming slightly — like he was settling in. “You’ll learn.”

And though Mel didn’t quite understand what that meant, he nodded anyway, eyes soft with hope.

Outside, the morning light began to pour through the glass dome, catching on the hundreds of flowers that bloomed anew. For the first time in years, the tower didn’t feel like a cage.

It felt… lived in. More alive than the things Mel had seen in his life.

And as Ortho watched Mel nervously fuss over the tea again, he realized that maybe this wasn’t a kidnapping after all.

Maybe it was the first accident that felt a little bit like fate.