Chapter Text
As Above
Itt mē ne werdeþþ
He’s standing dead—hah—still in expansive darkness, a relentless wind rolling over knee-high grassland, so freakishly clear in the moonlight all by itself. There’s hills, mountains probably, in the near distance, hulking black monstrosities, taller than anything he’s ever seen.
Cesare had always been under the impression that Venezia was a particularly beautiful place, and this forsaken dump only added fuel to that fire.
Truth be told, with what he’d been sent here to ‘catch’, he didn’t think this’d be the type of local’ he’d be apparated to. And that was the thing, wasn’t it, apparition! He didn’t walk here, absolutely not, if he tried that his legs’d most likely wear down to the nubbins. Nah, nothing so simple and so boring. He just did as the Boss had said, a simple snap of his fingers and BAM! Boom, here we are!
It had felt a little odd, there was a stench of ozone, a cracking sound, and a weird tingling sensation.
Then the sudden feeling of free fall, if only for a second, as he was absorbed into pure black.
One minute he was underground, next he was wherever the fuck this is.
Magic, actual magic.
He’d landed on his ass, unceremoniously, entirely surprised he’d landed on solid ground without splatting. In fact, there hadn’t been any actual falling really, Cesare had merely popped into existence with a whistling ZAP, already on his feet. ‘Fell anyway, it was his first time, give him a break.
It hadn’t taken long to recover from, either, just a quick bout of disorientation. Soon enough he’d stood back up and dusted himself off, trying not to focus on the odd appearance of his hands, flapping about all pale and skinny. Sure, sure, he was never exactly husky, girth was strictly for the overfed nobles and post-menopausal matrons. But he’d never been so thin that his wrist bones practically poked out. God, he might lose an eye to the fuckers now.
He could see his straggly strands of hair entering his eye line from up top, having been caught by the wind, that was taking some getting used to, too. He’d spent the majority of his life growing out that barnet, it still smacked him six ways to Sunday every time it had redawned on him it was all gone. But that was the thing, wasn’t it, that it needed reminding. Because really, he should feel it.
Cesare remembers the great lice epidemic of 1008, his hair shorn right to the skin. God, he’d hated that, loathed it. Fucking Antonio and his mangy ass cat, it was his fault. He remembers how it felt, having already refused to go near a pair in shears in years by that point. It’d felt so weird, like one small turn of the head transformed him into a fucking owl, spinning all the way round. Too light. Too exposed.
He isn’t feeling it, though, as if the weight was never there for him to get used to in the first place. Same with the wind, it’s here, it’s blowing, it’s touching him. But there’s no temperature change, he’s as cold as he was underground. There’s no, shit- how to phrase it, there’s no feeling to it. It’s there, it’s a physical thing that happens and IS happening right now. That’s it, though, that’s all it is.
So really it doesn’t make any sense why he’s still standing here, then, does it? Sure, SURE! It’s true, this is his first time up top since dying. It’s also the first time he’s ever been outside of Venezia, and he’s not just traveled a town over, this is a different country, a different landmass! And there’s no real significance to seeing the moon, it’s been up there forever, he’s seen it a million times, why would it suddenly become so damn noteworthy?
All of this is very true, completely true, very, indubitably.
Still doesn’t mean he’s gonna move, at least not right this second. He can take a moment, this is his first rodeo after all. ‘Course he’s gonna lock in when he’s good and ready, it’d be bullshit to bungle his first day on the job. That doesn’t mean he can’t take this time to just…
The moon actually controlled the tide—he’d never begin to understand how—and that was something he found fascinating. Somehow a celestial body could pull the waters of Earth to and fro. The world was at its mercy, and not even modern technology could tame it; or the waters it so easily manipulated on the daily.
The Boss kinda reminds him of the moon, he’s got the same face.
A distant cry of an animal makes him jump, and thank god there’s no one around. Because it’d really put a dampener on his whole new persona, to be caught jumping at some weird gurgling creature in butt fuck nowhere.
It’s fine, anyway, he needed to get his ass in gear. Gripping the parchment in his hands, he pulls it taught to prevent the wind from taking it. LDG had given it to him just before he flung himself back out into the world, his ‘assignment’.
He was still gonna ignore how he could somehow read the thing, despite it being in a language he’d never seen before. Nah, that particular psalm could be skipped over like church after he decided he couldn’t be bothered anymore.
A kelpie, a shape shifting creature found in Scot-land—Jesus Christ—known to both inhabit and live near bodies of water across the highlands. For some reason in an attempt to lure people, it changes into a horse so fine you just have to pet it, and once you do… you stick to it and it drags you into the water to drown you. THEN, it eats your corpse. Well, fantastic, looks like the Boss has thrown him out with the bath water on this one. In at the deep end. Shape shifting killer horses.
There’s an intricate illustration of a horse in the centre of the paper, LDG was an artist too, it seemed; the Boss clearly has a type. Although Cesare isn’t sure how helpful that’s going to be in this case, if the thing can shape shift, a pretty picture was a bit redundant.
He tries to find a place to stash it, but comes up empty. This whole uniform thing will take a while to get used to, especially since it has no pockets. He plucks back the collar and stuffs the paper down into the suit, trying his best to flatten it out over his chest. It’s actually a trip how stretchy the neck is, actually.
Maybe he could stick his whole hand down there, maybe he could feel around, maybe he could check for scars. He no doubt has some, now.
Well, he had some already. A few notable knicks and scratches on his hands, the ghost of a sliced palm. He’s got a scar on his left leg from scraping it against a barnacle as a child. Those are all probably pale now in comparison to the rest of him. Now that he’s been made into a pin cushion.
Would it be possible, really, would slipping his hand down there result in detecting uneven skin under the layers of sensory padding he now perpetually felt. Would just knowing they are there bring back the knife, or the pain, or the terror?
There are sounds rattling around in his brain, carving meat and agonised wailing. It makes him want to be sick, it makes him want to scream, grab and dig into his flesh, pinch the wounds closed, punch the shitheel responsible…
It makes his eyes uncomfortable, heavy, like thick cold honey is welling up within them and oozing out his sockets. .
He really shouldn’t go there, not now, later, when the job is done. So he scrubs at his face, beats a fist into the centre of his chest for good measure; it sounds hollow.
A kelpie, now why would it choose a horse? It really brings up a question about the locals, doesn’t it? Of all the things to tempt you into a watery grave, a fucking horse?
Water was his first task, then, he needed to find some water. Marching forward he pretended to focus on the job, but he found it way easier to be distracted. The way the moonlight bounced off of the grass, the way the grass was swaying. That in itself looked like water, the choppy sea, something far more familiar.
Then again, familiarity might be unwise right now, because familiar things lead back around to the wailing and the terror and the pain, the whole shebang. Best not to look for creature comforts right now, best to keep on walking.
It doesn’t take long, he finds a small stream cutting through the grass, babbling its way down the slight downward slope of the landscape. All he needed to really do for now, with nothing else springing to mind, was follow it downstream, right? Yeah. Obviously. The kelpie could drown someone in a teacup probably, but most likely preferred a bigger venue. Bodies of water, not limbs of water.
The wind doesn’t let up, but he’s endured enough all-nighters to know when dawn is approaching. Slowly, the sky has changed just enough from black to blue for him to tell. Which was strange because that must’ve meant he’d been walking for a good chunk of time.
But he isn’t tired, worn out, achy, any of that crap. He’s felt the exact same as he has since waking up.
Being dead is strange, nothing like how he expected. He’d never known a corpse could walk about, but apparently they could, and had been for whoever knows how long. He wasn’t the first Watcher, after all, that’d been made clear.
It’s not really something you’d want to try and think about really, because one minute you’re sure of one thing, the order of life and death, and the next you’re focusing on rocks in a stream bed to avoid having an existential crisis for the umteenth time today.
Is he still him? Cesare, pure organic and fresh from the farm? Or is he something else, and just hasn’t clocked it yet? If he had had friends, would they see him now and still recognise him, or was the rest of him just as blue and desiccated as his hands?
And if he did genuinely look like some sort of decomposed ghoul, there’s no telling of the shit-whipping horror show that could be going down inside his useless meat sack. Did he even have a soul, anymore, or did that leak out too along with his blood and entrails.
Did anyone, actually. He doubted the Boss was the ‘big guy’ in the sky, especially since he was, you know, underground. But he didn't seem to be the devil, either, however far down he may’ve been, he didn’t exactly match the description. So if Cesare was right and he’s pretty sure that he is, monotheistic doctrine was mendacious superstition, therefore, the concept of a soul might all be crap anyway.
So in that case, he has nothing to worry about!
Now that’s all done and dusted, he can actually turn to the matters at hand. The sun has already begun to peek over the horizon. His vision got by no problem in the dark previously but it was still nice to get a clearer view of where exactly he was.
He’d come out from some form of valley, nestled inside a mountain—hill?—range topped with snowy tips. The grassland sloped gently down and out into some woodland, and this little bonny babbling brook he was following followed the same path. The trees were covered in lush green leaves, swaying gentler in the now far more forgiving wind.
Birds were singing, now, the midsection of the dawn chorus was well underway. He’d missed the opener, too wrapped up in his own head. More echoes of another guttural cry from something deeper inside the valley sounded, the same thing he’d heard earlier. It didn’t seem to be a threat, and sounded sorta’ bovine, so he let it slide.
Scotland was fine, now that he could see it clearer. Even though there was a distinct lack of hustle and bustle, canals, and actual sunshine. Sure, the big fire ball had decided to make an appearance but as it rose higher into the sky, the more the clouds covered it up. Either way the landscape wasn’t too shabby, pretty peaceful really. Well, it would be if he felt at all peaceful, which he didn’t.
He’s actually feeling impatient which to be fair was better than how he’d felt earlier back underground. Maybe it was the idea of being under uncountable metric tons of soil and stone that’d phased him. But it was probably all the other fun stuff, like flopping out of a box and finding himself to be blue with no heartbeat.
Cesare wasn’t big on pilgrimages and this was beginning to feel like one, had he teleported himself so far away, or was that LDG? Because he hadn’t been given a location, just the instruction. The Boss didn’t seem all that hands on—ironic—with the actual work, so if anyone was going to be in charge of logistics it was going to be her. So what was this, some kind of hazing ritual for the new guy?
Of course, she might just be the type of person who isn’t too hot on change. And this was a big change, wasn’t it! For him, mostly, he’d concede, but still…
It could just be that she had been close with his predecessor, and their retirement meant she lost a friend. He’d never had friends to lose obviously, but he was capable of empathy (still). If he’d had them, he’d definitely have a stick up his ass when it came to them being replaced. Even if it did mean they got to retire, it still sucked. No, yeah, he could understand that plenty.
Speaking of sucking, the trees in place were parked far too close to each other, carts rubbing elbows on narrow bridges type close. He has to duck and weave like a boxer, avoiding spiky limbs and overgrown brush. They seemed to open up a little ways from the stream, but that ran the risk of losing track of the water. So instead he keeps going, muttering to himself now as he has to clamber over a small section of dark, mossy rock.
One summer he went to visit cousins who lived further inland. After the winter wherein he’d almost kicked it, nasty fever, his father said the warmer air would do him good. It didn’t and his cousins were coxcomb fools at the best of times, a week in had him wishing he’d just died instead.
They’d lived near a thick patch of woodland and insisted he join them nigh on every damn day, hide and seek, fighting with sticks, all that shit. He’d decided back then, the woods sucked. Dingy, leaf filled, branch covered, ugly places full of wolves and bears; even when they weren’t, they were in spirit.
Even if those cousins know he’s shuffled off the mortal coil, he doubts they’d care; which was fair, because he doesn’t give two figs for them either.
“Ēalā hwæt wlitig hors!”
Cesare’s head snaps up immediately at the sound of a child’s voice; it came from nearby, ahead of him by some metres but not a great distance. He doesn't know exactly why his initial instinct is to hide because one, it’s obviously a kid talking and two, he hasn’t done anything wrong. And yet he finds himself ducking behind the nearest fat tree and pressing against the bark, unnecessary breaths ceasing as he goes rigid.
He can’t really make out any more distinct words, but there’s definitely more than one voice. All sprogs, young, talking amongst themselves. Cesare decides he’s being a bit stupid, pussyfooting around when he has a job to do. LDG had told him he had to be as discreet as inhumanly possible, but even if he was clocked, no one would believe kids who said they saw a ‘ghoul in the woods’. He shouldn’t be such a coward about it, he’d never been one before dammit! And even if these kids were heathenish little monsters, what could they do, kill him?
So he carries on, quiet still, but moving with purpose. Maybe his movements are a little exaggerated, tip toeing quickly like a scuttling insect, but it keeps him focused doesn’t it? The voices get louder, and he still hasn’t a clue what they’re saying, but now he hears a neighing bray that also shuts the kids up for a second, now he locks in.
“Wē sculon hit smēacan.” One of the kids calls out, now he’s close enough to see them. All pasty brats with messy hair and strange clothes, but that’s not really important, that’s not what catches his attention.
That would be the horse standing at the shores of the small lake the stream apparently feeds into.
Imaginary feathers brush harshly up his entire spine, forcefully sending a shiver through his body, the strongest sensation he’s felt in a while. The tingling in his neck, a trillion heavy footed spiders making their way up into his skull.
Oh yeah, that’s a kelpie.
ZAP! The whipping sound of a lightning strike causes him to flinch and his clenching fingers curl around something he wasn’t holding mere milliseconds before. Looking down he finds they’re holding a net… okay.
Holding it up to get a better look, it’s made from a strange and coarse woven string, black and shaped rather like a spiderweb. Huh, well, it looked like management was prepared to lend him a hand after all.
Pulling his focus back he’s appalled to see the kids are moving towards the thing, chittering like excited little idiots. He might be biassed now as apparently he’s got some advantages in sensing when something smells off, but surely these children aren’t that stupid.
A pristine black horse, healthy with a silky coat and luscious mane. Standing in the middle of absolute nowhere. Staring at them like it knows what’s up.
Come on!
Now one of the troglo-tykes is reaching out towards it, being spurred on by his hollow headed cohorts. Great.
Cesare jumps out from the treeline, arms up, flailing the net above his head.
Fuck stealth, because he’s not returning from his first job with a dead child or two in tow.
“HEY! YOU STUPID KIDS! GET AWAY FROM THAT THING!”
They all whip around in unison now he’s made himself known, and it only takes a second before their surprise turns into something that makes his stomach churn- somehow. Fear, it had to be fear, because all at once as each ruddy faced cherub gets a proper look, they begin to scream and disperse.
“Dēofol! Dēofol!”
“Ryn, hit ūs ofslēhþ!”
Not really sure how he feels about that, Cesare just waves his arms erratically and barks at them.
“THAT’S IT, SCRAM, THE LOT OF YA’, BEAT IT! OR I’LL BEAT YOU!”
It’s not like he really cares, but he takes his eye off the horse just long enough to watch them all run down the path they’d presumably been walking along. Now that they were out of the way, he didn’t have to divide his attention, it was an all round win in his book.
Alas, or not, considering, the kelpie doesn’t seem phased at his outburst. It’s not moved at all, which again proves it’s not a real horse ‘cus those things are jumpy mother fuckers. Instead it’s looking straight at him, and maybe it’s already using some of those shapeshifting powers because he would swear under oath that it looks angry.
“Alright you horse faced freak, let’s skip the opening act.” He widens the net out in front him as he inches closer, crossing over the path and towards the beast. “I wanna get to the mane event.”
The kelpie only has time to stamp a hoof before he lunges, arms out, battle cry in his throat.
Cesare falls flat on his face in the soft mushy earth, the net landing just ahead of him, down into the mud with a loud wet ‘thwack’. It’s not that the not-horse had moved, he’d simply misjudged the small drop off between where he’d been and where the thing was.
He wasn’t about to let that break his stride, though, especially now the kelpie was rearing itself back onto its hind legs, making its way over to him. Wobbling awkwardly on two back hooves, it approaches and forces him to shake off the embarrassment double time. He rolls out of the way right before it can trample him back down to the underground.
Scrambling up to his feet he realises that the net is now under the goddamn thing, and no longer in his hands. Growling Cesare thinks fast, he beckons the beast to try it again, even as it snorts and kicks at the ground.
“Come on then, Bucephalus, gimme all you got.”
It charges forward, this time seemingly intent on simply flattening him with sheer brute force like an angry bull. With no pounding heartbeat or nervous sweat, it’s a damn sight easier to concentrate. Cesare waits, right hand twitching with anticipation, and just as it's almost on top of him he bolts forward and dives down.
He’d had just enough distance before the dive to propel himself forward in the mud, sliding through it and under the kelpie, its thunderous hooves missing him by inches. It wasn’t perfect because now he’s practically swimming atop the mud to reach the net.
And he’s just about to make it, when a dull thud against his back causes the wind to be knocked right out of him. He arches into the air the entirely wrong way, and emits a strangled sound. The heretic horse has just planted its hoof slap bang on the centre of his spine, he can tell, there was a cracking sound.
No pain, though, which is such a relief he almost moans into the mud. The next pleasant surprise comes when he’s able to roll himself over, even with the kelpie pressing down on him. Suddenly its substantial weight means absolutely sweet FA, because whatever he is now.
He’s strong as shit.
Bolstered by the shiny new feeling that he is indeed, far more durable than he’s ever been before. He doesn’t stop to think before he raises a leg and kicks the thing square in the undercarriage.
It sort of works, because the thing lets out an actual pained screech, not a trace of equine in it. When it falls apart, is when he realises he now cannot remove his leg from the undercarriage.
It seems like the hooves are the exception to the rule, the rule he only just remembers.
You stick to it… and it drags you into the water.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.
The unwanted sequel to the Trojan horse doesn’t even wait a beat, it begins to canter and turn, heading back to the water. Cesare helplessly being dragged along with it, and he doesn’t help matters, grabbing onto a front leg with one hand to prevent himself from getting spun around and pulverised by the back hooves.
Great, two limbs down and the net is well and truly out of reach, what a wonderful first day.
The water had to be freezing, but he can’t tell, he only feels it dully when it splashes the back of his head and begins to fill his ears. Then his mouth and nose, and now his whole head is under, his body following obediently.
He watches his surroundings darken, as the kelpie gallops deeper and deeper, its strides slowing but still pulling his body this way and that like dough. In a moment of madness, or perhaps genius, he forces all the air out his body. His research is limited but he’s found it’s easier not to breathe when you aren’t holding any breath. To have air in his useless sacks, is to fool himself he needs it. Watching the bubbles rise, brushing past the beast and towards the surface, it reminds him of something.
It can’t be a memory, because it’s never really happened to him. But for a second, he swears the water shifts. No longer fresh, it’s salty tide water, grubbier, and more importantly familiar.
He’s underwater still, wrapped in something that’s coming loose, and he can see the lights above him, moonlight, torchlight, shadowy figurines at the surface. It’s getting darker, further away. The bubbles that escape him are small and surrounded by rising red tendrils dancing in the current.
Cesare is back under the damn horse, which is now swimming, but instead of using the legs it had been utilising up top, it glides through the water via two huge feathery fins that’ve popped out of its flanks.
Craning his neck causes him to almost inhale with the shock of it, because the horse’s neck is now so long it’s turned and twisted around and is looking under itself, the ‘right’ way up and right at him.
And it’s smiling. Jesus H. Christ on a communion cracker, the thing is fucking smiling.
And really, that’s a little too presumptuous for his tastes, especially considering he still has a hand free. A hand he raises up from his failing side, and goes to click the fingers of; the only trouble being it’s his left hand which never does it on the first attempt.
The kelpie’s jaws are opening impossibly wide, the teeth growing long and sharp, and maybe he should panic now. No, bad idea, he has to focus and so he tries one more time.
And another, and another, and-
It feels a little odd, despite being underwater, there is a clear crackling sound, and a weird tingling sensation. The water around them shifts and bubbles, vibrating almost.
Then the sudden feeling of free fall, if only for a second, and both Cesare and the kelpie are absorbed into pure black.
Cesare lands atop the creature, it’s not really a horse anymore. Not with that brontosaurus neck and oversized goldfish arms. It’s writhing underneath him, making a noise somewhere between an actual cavallo and a fresh widow.
Not his problem though, because he’s somehow no longer attached to the bloody thing. Rolling off, he’s almost bisected length ways before he has time to catch his breath. Sprouting from the ceiling, deadly stalactites of black and white stone slam down into the ground beside Cesare and separate him from his catch.
He turns his head to look at it through the bars, it’s still screaming, kicking its little horse legs in the air like it's having a tantrum. Serves it right.
Pulling himself up into a sitting position, legs splayed out in front of him, it’s time to take a minute. He’s soaked through and if the weird pinching sensation in his back is anything to go by, part of his spine is still prodding something it shouldn’t be.
And yet here he is! Moving, thinking, not exactly breathing as a little bit of water did get in and he’s coughing it up at present. But still, a win’s a win. He watches the water soak into the floor, being absorbed unusually quickly, as if it’s thirsty.
He did it, he actually did it. Him, Cesare, he just did… that. Him, a humble—be serious—wood carver from dear Venezia. He caught a magical shapeshifting horse that could’ve killed countless people including those kids, he caught it on his first go.
Cesare hefts himself up, swipes the wet hair off his forehead, and can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. He can’t stop even if he tried and he doesn’t want to, he died, died and now he’s unstoppable.
And more importantly, he’s good at this. Isn’t he? It didn’t go exactly according to plan but for his first rodeo this was pretty damn good. No casualties, no pitchforks and torches, no failed capture.
He’s an undead woodcarver who just captured a mythical creature, it had broken his back and tried to drown him and neither of those things had mattered. Holy shit.
Oh and how he laughs, he can feel that cold ooze spilling down his cheeks with how much he’s laughing. Clutching his stomach he wheezes and coughs, spluttering cackles echoing off the walls.
Even as the Boss’ voice tickles his brain, with an indescribable chill flaring within his core at the mere sound, he can’t stop laughing.
“Well done. my little spider. Come to me now.”
He keeps laughing until he’s half way up the stairs, the sound of kelpie finally out of earshot.