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His first thought is to take a sword to his chest, to cut an opening so Poe can get out. That's the logical response, right? Monty said Poe went into his chest so now Edgar has to get him out. He’s always been the logical one, the smart one - but his mind is moving so slowly, sluggish like molasses. He used to put molasses on his porridge. Poe would squawk ceaselessly in his ear until Edgar poured him his own little dish. Why won’t his hand just grab the sword? Poe won’t be able to breathe soon, trapped beneath layers of scrawny 11 year old boy chest. He wills his hand to move again but it won’t, it can’t. What a coward he is. Poe’s gone and Edgar… can’t.
—
The little silver helmet is so tiny against his hand, cradled tenderly in his palm. It doesn’t make sense. He was tormented by that crow for so, so long. He made Edgar’s life miserable. And yet it still feels like a little piece of his soul has been torn out. It was getting better, they were getting better. They were friends, nearly.
The other first years surround them now, unpacking the first aid kit so they can tend to Monty’s various scrapes and bruises. Edgar shoos them away whenever they approach him with bandages - Monty needs it more. Monty still has something that makes him special, something that stands a chance against the monster. All Edgar has is several crow sized pieces of armour and a gaping hole where Poe used to be. He’s not cursed anymore.
—
His mind is moving too fast now - too bold, too brash. He never would have dreamed of talking to the Hexmaster - to any authority figure - like this before today. He’s not too sure he cares anymore. It just keeps repeating over and over in his head, drowning out Hexmaster Singh’s pleading for him to just slow down for a moment: you’re not cursed anymore, Poe’s gone, Poe’s dead, you’re not cursed anymore, you don’t belong here, you never did, you’re not cursed anymore. He stops on the stairs for a moment to bury his face in his hands and scrub furiously at his cheeks. The tears are not logical, nor are they helpful. He needs to get back to the dorm so he can pack his stuff and leave. He needs to stop crying. He needs to hold it together. He’s fine. He wants Poe. He’s fine.
—
The dorm is, unsurprisingly, empty when he arrives. It reminds him of early mornings where Poe wouldn’t let him sleep so would read out in the common room for hours. Sometimes one of his friends would emerge, sleepily rubbing their eyes, and slump next to him on the couch to keep him company. He probably won’t see them again after he leaves. It’s the best course of action though, the most logical route. It saves the Hexmaster the trouble of having to blemish his tongue with Edgar’s unsatisfactory name when he tells him to go. Edgar is only doing what he’s been taught to do all his life: make himself useful, make himself scarce, and make himself small. He’s good at doing that, good at folding his long limbs into tight spaces to keep himself out of the way. Somehow he’s still always in the way though, no matter how hard he tries.
When he was younger - four maybe - he would run around in his Dad’s study, chasing Persimmon and Thaddeus. His Grandad tripped over him once and, frowning in bewilderment like he’d forgotten he had a small grandson, banished him from the study until he could sit still and behave himself. ‘That boy is forever underfoot’ his Grandad had muttered as he returned to his books, locking the door behind him. Edgar barely saw the other Allans for months.
He folds his shirts into pressed rectangles, laying them gently atop the layer of books already in his briefcase. Edgar keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the pile of unfolded packing so they do not stray to the shelf of unused bird equipment. Pick up, shake out, fold, pack, repeat. A few tears spill from his eyes and plop onto the leather cover of Caring For Your Corvid 101. His glasses slide a little further down his nose; he sniffs sadly and pushes them back up. The numbness has settled comfortably back into the hollow place in his heart by the time Roland, Kevin, and Monty come bursting through the door.
—
The cake cheers him a little, as does the vibrant mood of his friends. Monty is grinning, goofy in the brightness of his eyes and the smudge of pink frosting on the tip of his nose. Roland’s smile is sunny as it has ever been, hand warm as he reaches over the table to squeeze Edgar’s shoulder. Kevin is humming under his breath, something vaguely reminiscent of We Are The Champions by Queen. He looks up at Edgar and raises an eyebrow, smiling around a mouthful of cake. He would have missed them if he’d left, Edgar decides, missed their stupid jokes and their easy comfort and their brave spirits. He’s glad he didn’t leave.
—
The egg is cocooned in blankets on his desk, safe and warm and at absolutely no risk - tucked into its nest as it is. Edgar does not think this. It has been an hour, two nearly, since he left the people filled common room to fetch something from his dorm. He has been sitting at his desk nearly this whole time, watching and fretting and fearing. His eyelids droop dangerously low and he slides down lower in his chair. His glasses hang crookedly from his ears, fogging further with each yawning breath. He is scared that if he closes his eyes it will disappear like Poe did. He failed to save Poe but he will not fail this egg. Whatever it is, and however it got to him, it is his responsibility. He’s just so… tired.
—
He doesn’t recognise where he is at first. It’s dark and quiet and there is something pressing into his back. He reaches out a hand, careful, and tries to feel where he is. There’s a book in his lap, pages thin and feathery to the touch. He gropes around a little more: a coathanger, a vacuum cleaner, the smooth breadth of an ironing board. Then a doorknob, round and glossy under his fingers. Before he can twist it open it turns by itself and through the door he can see the broad shoulders and grim face of his Grandad. Past him Edgar sees the two tidy twin beds of a hotel room, already covered in the Allans’ many books.
“In the storage closet again hmm? What’re you reading?” Elias stoops a little so he can talk to his grandson at eye level. Edgar looks down at his book. There aren’t any words written on the pages.
“I don’t know,” his Grandad frowns, disappointed “I’m sorry, Grandad. I- sorry.”
“Not much point in reading a book if you don’t learn anything, Edgar. Shuffle over a little so I can grab my jacket.” Edgar obeys, pressing himself back into the wall as much as he can. His Grandad reaches past him to unhook his leather jacket from its hanger.
“Are you… going somewhere, Grandad?” Elias pauses in his process of donning the jacket and kicking the closet door shut with his foot.
“Elliot and I are visiting the district library to peruse some of their ancient texts, then to dinner with an old friend of mine,” his eyes light with the prospect of flirtation and new knowledge, then dim with confused consideration when they again land on Edgar “You’ll need food won’t you, hmm. Well there’ll be tea bags on the counter for you and milk in the fridge. Make yourself a cup of tea and eat the apple in the bowl for dinner. That's all? Right, we’ll be off now.” He again goes to close the door but is, again, stopped when Edgar pipes up in a small voice.
“But… who’ll look after me?” His Grandad sighs, sounding fully annoyed now rather than fondly exasperated “Sorry, I’m so sorry I just would rather not be alone. Sorry.”
“Man up, Edgar. You can look after yourself can’t you? And you’ve got that bally crow as well. Just sit in here and read your book, maybe you’ll learn something.” The door finally closes, and Edgar swears he can hear the lock click shut. Then silence again. Where is his crow? Grandad said he had one and he does… doesn’t he? Poe, with his sharp beak and glossy feathers. His curse.
Something ghosts against his cheek, tickling his skin with tufts of down. Then another, this time brushing against his brow.
“Poe?” The things, feathers maybe, continue falling. He reaches up to catch one but his hands are heavy in his lap.
“The book,” he remembers, “The book must be weighing my hands down.” He moves a finger, trying to touch the pages. More feathers, a talon, a beak. He jolts sideways, the back of his head banging into the wall. A light flickers on overhead, illuminating the closet. Poe lies spread-eagle in Edgar’s hands, blood spilling from the tips of his feathers to coalesce in Edgar’s palms.
He thinks he screams, thinks horrified cries must rend through his numb lips. He cannot tear his eyes from Poe’s limp form. More feathers float down, each a black void spewing inky darkness into the air. They move faster now, knife sharp flurries scratching at his arms and face and hands.
The feathers nearly block out the light by the time he lurches to standing, Poe still cradled gently in one hand as he desperately tugs at the door handle. Even if it were unlocked his blood slick fingers would find little purchase on the brass coloured knob. He can hear his Grandad’s voice outside the door, his Dad’s. Then Monty, Roland, Kevin: raising their voices in scornful mockery. Sarge’s, Nurse Lenny’s, Hexmaster Singh’s dismissive tones. The bullies from his old school, laughing and jeering.
“Disgrace to the Allan name.”
“Couldn’t even keep his bloody crow alive.”
“Doesn’t belong with us.”
“Wish he’d just get out of St Churnleys.”
“Couldn’t do anything without Poe.”
“Little weakling is a disgrace to my class, and to this school.”
“That kid couldn’t be helpful if he tried. Always in the way is that Allan boy.”
“Best you go home, Edgar.”
“Scrawny little baby, gonna go cry for your Mummy? Oh wait, you don’t have one.”
“You’re not cursed anymore.”
“You don’t belong here, Edgar. You don’t belong anywhere.”
He falls backwards as the door is pushed in by a woman without a face. The feathers swarm him and soon he cannot see or breathe. Poe’s weight disappears from his hands, and his glasses fall from his face and smash on the floor. He is screaming when he wakes.
The first thing he sees is Monty’s worried face hovering above him. The next is Kevin's worried face, then Roland’s. Edgar sits up quickly, nearly knocking into Monty’s forehead. Kevin disappears for a moment before returning with Edgar’s glasses held carefully out towards him. His glasses aren’t broken. Which means it was just a dream. He is happy to return to the sensible order of logic.
“Where’s Poe?” Roland shifts uneasily at Edgar’s question, exchanging glances with the other two boys.
“Edgar… you were screaming. Do you want-”
“I want Poe. Where is he?” It’s Kevin who speaks this time, looking confused but sad.
“You don’t remember? Edgar… he’s gone.” No. No. He can’t be, it was just a dream. He wants to tell them so but something in Kevin’s face makes him pause.
“What do you mean?” A grimace, this time from Roland, saddening his usually cheerful face.
“Poe… he sacrificed himself for you. You were going to die and he… he brought you back to life.” And then it all comes rushing back.
Monty half tackles him in a hug as the tears start to fall, his head pressed securely into Edgar’s collarbone. He’s reeling too much to hug back but he lets himself be caught up in Monty’s arms.
Roland sits at his other side, wedging himself in next to Edgar and Monty in the single bed so he can rub comforting circles into Edgar’s back. He whispers reassurances under his breath while Monty repeats his somewhat helpful mantra of “Cry. Cry. Cry.”
Kevin doesn’t try to touch Edgar, just sits at the end of the bed humming softly. Something classical, something soothing. It all makes Edgar feel a little worse. Here he is again being a useless, cry-baby burden. The tears fall a little thicker, a little faster. His throat feels raw, as if he’s been crying for hours instead of minutes. Monty squeezes him a little tighter, and Roland leans further into his shoulder, whispering something about letting it all out. Kevin’s weight shifts and then a tissue is being gently wiped across Edgar’s cheeks.
He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve any of their love, any of their sympathy. He’s fine. He is. Maybe if he repeats it enough it will be true.
—
Monty stays with Edgar as he falls asleep, worn out from crying and bone tired from the heavy, all-consuming grief. The others go back to their dorm somewhat reluctantly, promising to come check in on him in the morning. He’s fine.
They both lie on their sides facing each other, Monty’s hand palm up in the little space between them and Edgar’s bony wrist cradled in it. The point of contact, little as it is, helps stop his mind from drifting to that memory-dream of the closet and the swirling feathers.
The egg is nestled in its nest on the windowsill on Edgar’s other side. He wonders if the thing inside is Poe or something else. Maybe the raven he was supposed to have. He doesn’t want a stupid raven though. He wants Poe, his Poe.
“Edgar?” Monty’s voice is hesitant, and slightly slurred with sleep. He’s trying to whisper but his words are still loud in the too quiet room. Edgar can’t help but listen for a stray caw or tapping at the window. It doesn’t come.
“Mmm.” Edgar lets his eyes fall from the window and looks back at Monty. The other boy yawns and settles further into the grey pillow taken from the bed across the room.
“He was a good bird, Edgar. I’m glad you didn’t die,” Monty gently squeezes Edgar’s wrist, giving a last slow blink before ultimately losing the battle with sleep “G’night, Ed.”
Edgar can’t quite find it in himself to smile. He squeezes Monty’s hand back, lulled slightly by the warmth, and settles down to sleep properly. He wishes that Poe hadn’t tried to save him, that he was the one warm and cozy in a nest of blankets, that Edgar had died as he was meant to. The grief threatens to swallow him whole, buzzing around in his brain with a whole tangle of other emotions. So he boxes it all up into a little compartment and welcomes back his old friends: numbness and loneliness. Make yourself useful, make yourself scarce, and make yourself small. He tucks his long, bony limbs into himself as best he can and whispers to Monty so as not to wake him.
“Goodnight.”
He’s fine. He is.