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Occtis finally has a moment to himself.
Normally he would be relieved, but now, after all that’s happened to him, the only thing he feels is numb.
He stands in front of the mirror, staring at himself in shock. Occtis feels as if he is floating - standing over his body and watching from the heavens like a disinterested god. Everything has been a blur. He isn’t sure it was even real.
All he is sure about is that he's been permanently changed.
Hands reaching up to his face, he feels his hollow cheekbones, now much more pronounced than they were. His eyebags, too. They lined his eyes in a deep shade of purple — much darker than before — so that he looked like a raccoon. The blood in his skin had drained completely leaving it cold, ashy, and waxy. It felt rough as he smoothed a hand gently over his face in disbelief at his condition.
Occtis had seen corpses before and he knew what happens to a body after death. But he never thought he would witness his own as it turned grey and lifeless.
His eyes lay upon the slice across his neck, now a permanent part of his body. However - he thinks - it's nothing compared to the large incision across his sternum and stomach. Branded by his family's betrayal. And no matter how hard he tried, the blood soaked clothes he wore served as a constant reminder of his dark fate.
He knew they never liked him — of course he did, it was impossible to ignore. The back of his father's hand had drilled it into him when he was young. What drove him crazy was the longing; all he wanted was to exist in their eyes. But after 20 years, he didn't bother trying to win his family's affection anymore. Occtis was dead to them from the beginning.
And, in his altered state, he didn’t even feel anymore. At least not in the way he’s used to.
There’s no anxiety; the deep pit in his stomach and the tightness in his chest is gone. Occtis’ confidence has increased. He can stand up for himself. It’s nice- he supposed. But he can’t feel the rush of excitement he used to; there’s no butterflies in his stomach when he sees Julien across from him or thinks about Kattigan. There's no eating, drinking, or sex. No breathing or ageing. He can’t even cry, though he is overwhelmed by the urge.
He missed the feeling of living. The warmth of the sun, a genuine laugh and a love that burns in his chest.
Now, there is no beating in his chest and no blood runs through his veins. His eyes are too bright, like uranium’s sickly glow.
Occtis let his hand drop down to his side again. Staring in the mirror, he stepped forward and reached out to touch his reflection. He imagined that in an alternate timeline, when he looked in the mirror his skin would still be flush and there would be air in his lungs. Maybe he would fall in love and marry, or become a powerful wizard capable of surpassing even the most gifted Tachonis.
In this world, he sees his family in the image of himself. The high cheekbones and sharp nose, as well as the prominent cupid's bow and down-turned eyes. Only they are alive and he is not — and yet he is still here.
His head spins and, had he not been dead, Occtis was sure he would be hyperventing. His legs shake. His body isn't his.
Waving his hand, he summons Pincushion almost without thinking about it. The gentle weight of the fox on his shoulder seems to soothe him slightly as he moves to sit down.
Pin clambers rather ungracefully into his lap. His paws dig into his skin but Occtis welcomed the sensations. It was familiar. Comforting. Those little button eyes gazed up at him, Pin’s mouth hung open in a way that seemed like a smile. Occtis reached down and scratched the fox’s chin, earning a yip of approval. Even he allows himself a small smile.
He wonders how similar Pincushion was before he was resurrected. Was he always this clumsy or was he once as graceful and agile as a regular fox? Perhaps his mismatched parts were to blame for his lack of coordination, which would technically be his fault.
As Pin’s tail sways gently, he nuzzles his face into Occtis’ chest.
There is no beating in Pin’s chest and no blood runs through his veins. His eyes are buttons, and he is stitched together.
But he places his front paws onto Occtis’ chest and yips in excitement. He adjusts Pin’s little bandana and strokes him gently. Maybe things would be okay.
He is changed, but he is him. And maybe ‘him’ is good enough.