Archive of Our Own

Taking the Miller's Road allowed them to reach Timmon’s Rock in a blink of an eye.

And Occtis had been blinking—if only for Thimble’s sake, to avoid freaking her out any more than he already did with his undead condition. He remembered all too vividly Thimble’s devastation when he admitted he didn’t dream anymore, like that was the worst thing to not be able to do anymore.

But as much as he adored Thimble’s company on the road and remained grateful for it, he caught himself wishing for some time alone. Like during the quiet study nights in the Penteveral. Surrounded not by people with various degrees of animosity toward him, but by his books and research, with the smell of fresh ink and slightly wet fur hanging in the air.

There was no going back to that.

Occtis knew that. He’d known it ever since he woke up undead at the front of Thaisha’s home. And the events of the past few days only cemented the fact that not a single person from their little group of rebels was getting their old life back ever again.

In theory, it should have been encouraging. They were all screwed, but they were still working together to thwart whatever Wicander’s and his own family were plotting. How courageous and uplifting.

Occtis wanted to scream.

He glanced at Julien with just a sliver of morbid jealousy. Whenever Sir Davinos was losing his temper (not that he had much to begin with), people rolled their eyes and moved on, because what’s the worst he could do to them? Say even more bad things about Thjazi?

But Occtis couldn’t afford to slip up—not before, when he was still alive, and especially not now, one wrong move away from being accused (again) of working with his family. Tiptoeing around all these people had been nerve-wracking, and unfortunately being dead didn’t prevent Occtis from getting stressed about it.

Which did not make sense and was thoroughly unfair in his opinion.

So even though the road to Timmon’s Rock had been short, by the time they’d reached King Gus’ castle Occtis was already wound up so tightly he almost wanted to take notes about his two-weeks-late rigor mortis finally settling in.

Instead, he had to be an active participant in a meeting with the king. It had been decided that they would trust Gus with the knowledge of Occtis’ condition, only partially because it would have been too risky to try and pull the same trick they (just barely) managed at Riesingürtle. So, no disguises, just Occtis’ own face, and the story of being ritually murdered told with his own voice.

Then Thimble took the lead, discussing things her group uncovered the last time they’ve been here, and Occtis turned his efforts toward trying to get a stock of his body. He could name every bone and every muscle in a human body, and right now he could also place them on a scale of one to ten in regards to how painfully they’ve been cramping. Not a ten yet, not even a six, but a five here and there was enough to lead Occtis toward obvious conclusions.

He needed a proper rest. A bath would probably be beneficial as well, but the amount of work he would have to put into this endeavour made him discard that idea right away. A blanket and a fireplace would have to do.

That seemed like a good enough plan, one that Occtis was desperately looking forward to. But as the mask of faux politeness dropped off his face and he tried to close the door to his room behind him, his thoughts were interrupted by someone’s startled grunt.

Frowning, Occtis turned to see none other than Sir Julien Davinos, scowling back at him.

“I would appreciate it if you refrained from attacking me, at least for tonight,” Julien huffed, then pushed the door back open to enter the room.

That was—mhm. That was not in Occtis’ plans for the evening. Great. Just… great.

Summoning back a somewhat civil smile, and putting his hands behind his back to keep himself from summoning anything else, Occtis glared daggers at his guest. “What,” he gritted out, “do you want from me?”

Julien had the gall to look indignant. “I do not want anything from you.”

That was all lovely and wonderful, but Occtis was not in the mood for verbal sparring. “Then what are you doing here?”

Julien gestured to one of two beds. “Trying to get some sleep? You should do that as well, take advantage of the comforts we will soon be lacking.”

“I kno—hm.” Occtis was not going to scream. He was not. Instead, he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes until the darkness under his eyelids lit up, then relaxed and looked back at Julien, desperately sinking his teeth into the last shreds of patience he had. “I was planning to. As soon as I was left alone.”

Julien, who was already in the process of taking off his armor, offered him a crooked, knowing smirk. “Oh, did you assume I would leave right away in search of other company? Good thinking, boy. Alas, nobody caught my eye enough to forgo actual sleep,” he said, adding a little hair toss for emphasis. Occtis wanted to bite him. Hard. “If you wished to be left alone, you should have not agreed to share the room in the first place.”

“What? I never agreed—”

Occtis paused abruptly, as it occurred to him that Julien… Oh, no. Julien might have been right.

The meeting with King Gus ran longer than they anticipated. Thimble had been in the middle of recollecting what happened at the Hallowed Round, when three—no, four Hounds joined them, throwing the whole conversation into a disarray. It was around that time Occtis stopped pretending he was listening and the rest of the meeting was nothing more than white noise in his memory.

More importantly, though, Occtis could not remember how he got from the meeting room to this one. Logically he knew someone from King Gus’ staff must have told him where to go, but who was it? What were the directions? Glancing out the window Occtis only saw a nondescriptive rooftop and a fragment of the clouded night sky, and he realized he had no idea which part of the castle he ended up in.

“Oh,” he muttered to himself, faced with the conspicuous void in his memories. “That’s bad.”

“What’s that?”

Startled, Occtis managed to bite his tongue just in time to prevent a spell from forming and rushing in Julien’s direction. Oh, this was really bad.

“Nothing,” he said instead. He wasn’t going to explain himself to Julien, of all people. “It’s fine.”

“Occtis—”

No, absolutely not.

He straightened up and turned his back to Julien. Seeing his father do that so many times made it easy to impersonate him just enough. “You can do whatever you please,” Occtis announced, almost proud of how dismissive his voice sounded. “I’m going to rest now.”

It must have hit home, judging by Julien’s angry huff, a curse, and then his offended, blessed silence.

Which was good. Great, even. Occtis had more pressing matters to think about, without having to focus on playing nice with Sir Davinos. He had to make sure that there were no more gaps in his memories and that this one was caused only by exhaustion, nothing else.

Stress could make this happen, Occtis was aware of it. But again, he wasn’t alive enough to get stressed, even though his body could still get tired. Too tired, apparently.

Well, good thing he was as safe as he could be, here in King Gus’ castle, with the ever-looming presence of his faithful shadow, who just happened to be on the quest of bringing Occtis’ whole family to extinction.

Truly the perfect conditions to get a good night’s rest.

Putting everything into looking like he moved effortlessly, Occtis claimed the other bed, turned to face the wall, and started to think happy thoughts, just like Vaelus had taught him.

~*~

Julien didn’t snore and Occtis was going insane.

He must have been going insane, because why else would his mind attach itself to that completely useless fact about Julien’s breathing pattern? Why was he listening to that in the first place, instead of being grateful that his roommate decided to actually go to sleep right away, without pestering Occtis with his charming commentary?

And yet, here he was. Staring blankly at the wall, cursing Julien for stubbornly keeping close, then cursing himself for failing thoroughly to recall any memories good enough to pull him into a trance.

Every time he tried to reach for one, it would slip through his cold fingers and shatter into a horde of tiny shards, razor-sharp and stained with blood. Not even the image of Thimble, big and smiling so brightly the freckles on her cheeks gleamed with fae light, managed to hold up. Her laugh would quickly turn into a scream, calling out for Teor to run, or for Occtis to not leave her behind.

Occtis tried to yank his thoughts back on track, but his efforts remained in vain. Again and again, his mind took him back to Obrimus Manor—to being surrounded by hungry wraiths and ghouls, to the vision of Pin exploding (not gone, just… gone for now), to running away with a barely alive druid in his arms, but without the only person who cared about him in that place.

To what he now knew was the Stone of Nightsong being sundered.

A phantom echo of that moment pierced his chest and Occtis only just managed to muffle a pained cry. Startled by the intensity of this memory, he sat up on the bed and leaned forward, clutching a hand over the place where his heart once was.

He just had to wait it out. Let the pain run its course, wait for his muscles to relax. Maybe also not focus on all the awful things his mind was currently so considerately offering him in vivid colors.

But it was hard not to follow that trail. Hard not to remember Vaelus admitting she did not think about Occtis’ fate when she smashed the Stone. Not even for her to do anything differently, but to simply stop for a split second and think about him. To spare a single thought for the person who—well, who could be useful to Vaelus.

Occtis tried to straighten up, attempting to force the muscles in his torso to unwind. Honestly, what good was his necromancy if he couldn’t control even his own dead body?

Then his gaze fell on the sleeping form of Julien and Occtis stilled.

Yet another person who needed Occtis for their own personal gain. At least with Vaelus, Occtis’ usefulness was connected to his hard work, to what he could do as a trained and accomplished wizard. Julien, though… Julien needed bait. Nothing more than a bait to lure in more people for him to kill, leaving Occtis for last. It didn’t matter that Occtis had nothing to do with the reason for Julien’s revenge quest, it never really mattered what Occtis did or didn’t do, what he wanted, what he achieved. It only ever mattered what others could use him for.

But now Julien was asleep. His armor, his demi-gauntlet and rapier were left near the bed, close enough so he could grab them at a moment's notice.

But far enough that he wouldn’t be able to get them before the spell reached him.

Momentarily distracted from the pain, Occtis tilted his head to the side, curiously examining that thought. His hand rose slowly. The skin peeled off his fingers, muscles and veins withered, leaving only fragile bones, wreathed in sickly-green glow.

Julien hated him. Was using him. And, in all his glorious arrogance, he assumed Occtis would just take the hits, because he must have been too weak-spirited to ever bite back. Offence after offence, hurled at him with no regards for his station or power. Snarling and scowling and laughing at his expense.

Oh, it would have been so easy. Occtis didn’t die again in his home—he took something back with him instead. Not the sorcerous gift everyone else in his family shared, but a fresh bite of a potent power nonetheless. Julien’s chest rose and fell with each precious breath and all Occtis had to do was to point his finger and whisper.

Just like his father did to Hannan.

Vicious, necrotic chill started to bite the tips of Occtis’ fingers, but his hand didn’t tremble. He couldn’t kill Julien exactly like his father killed Hannan, because he didn’t have the power to do it with a single, devastating word… At least not yet.

Would he do it, though? If he could?

Thin veil of ice coated the skin on his wrist as Occtis dared to ask himself a question nobody ever asked of him: what did he want to do? Did he want to kill Julien? Did he want Julien dead, so the knight could finally serve Occtis some purpose as an obedient, loyal servant?

The answer should have been as easy as breathing.

But none of it was easy anymore.

Necrotic glow around the bare bones of his hand dimmed and the less deadly, but still a nasty spell Occtis had been holding fizzled out. Momentary conviction slowly turned into confusion. Why? He was tired of trying to do the things he thought Julien wanted him to do, things that would stop Julien from trying to kill him. He’d said it already and it felt true at the time. Now, though…

Another spasm seized Occtis’ chest, catching him off-guard enough to make him let out a strangled cry. He leaned forward, curling in on himself, pulling his knees up and pressing his forehead to them.

Shit, this was bad. Occtis needed to think, to be able to discern if all this was caused by the lack of proper rest or something else entirely, but trying to gather his thoughts felt like wading neck-deep through a swamp. All efforts went to keeping his head above the mud and cold logic eluded him.

Maybe sundering the Stone of Nightsong was only the beginning of Occtis’ problems. Even if the Stone wasn’t the thing that let him keep his awareness after death, it undoubtedly had done something to him. Upon destroying (no, not destroying—changing its purpose) it took something from Occtis. A phantom arrow had been plucked from his body, brutal and uncaring for the damage it did on its way out. Maybe, somehow, a fragment of it remained buried inside Occtis’ chest and was now spreading roots through his intestines. A growing, tangled mass of thorny vines, spearing his lungs, pushing into his veins, curling around his throat like a garrotte, and Occtis was dying again, being held down and sliced open and—

“Occtis?”

That was not his brother’s voice. Still, Occtis flinched and tried to move away from it, to reach up and free his throat, to bring just one more saving gulp of air into his lungs. His hands were too cold now to properly form a spell, he had no other means of defending himself, nowhere to run, and he was going to die. Again.

“Occtis!”

A hand landed on his shoulder, making Occtis freeze up completely, bracing for the end. But even though the grip was strong and insistent, almost burning his skin at the point of contact, it… didn’t hurt him. It didn’t press harder to bruise, didn’t pierce the skin to bleed, didn’t tear into the muscles to incapacitate or crush the bones.

Instead, it grounded Occtis with the shock of familiarity.

“Occtis, look at me.”

He did, even before his mind could catch up and connect that voice with a name.

With every new piece of information about his father’s grand plan, Occtis felt more and more like a specimen under a magnifying glass of everyone around him. People kept poking and prodding, asking questions, grabbing him out of the blue, threatening, disregarding, hurting, demanding explanations he didn’t have.

Julien had been there as well. Pointing his rapier at Occtis’ still open chest, accusing him of playing a part in a massacre, promising a bloody end to his whole family, while using him to get them.

Julien had been there as well… Backing him up when Occtis least expected it. Following him back into the hungry darkness of his home, risking his sister’s very soul, even after Occtis yelled many unpleasant things at him. Touching him not to slice him open but to steady him, calling his name with worry instead of hatred, pulling him away from danger, away from—

Away from Occtis’ father. Away from the single person Julien wanted to kill the most.

“Occtis. What’s wrong?”

Julien had asked him the same thing only yesterday when, pushed to his knees in front of the Obrimus Manor, Occtis wondered how a dead man could have a heart attack without possessing a beating heart to begin with.

And Occtis’ answer remained the same.

“I don’t—” he rasped, fighting against the phantom ropes around his throat. “I don’t know.”

Julien’s eyes quickly scanned Occtis’ face, darted down to his throat, his chest, then back up. His brows pinched with a frown and he started to pull away, taking his hand from Occtis’ shoulder. “I’ll go get Thai—uh, Vaelus.”

With a lightning-quick move that should not have been possible with how frigid his muscles felt, Occtis reached out and grabbed Julien’s wrist. “Don’t!”

He winced even before the short word had been fully out. It was stupid and pathetic and maybe he truly was going insane, because Julien’s skin was burning under his touch and for some inexplicable reason Occtis really didn’t want him to leave.

Julien stilled, then said quietly, “Occtis, you’re hurting.”

“I don’t need V—” Saying he didn’t need Vaelus felt like a bit too revealing of an answer, so instead Occtis swallowed it and went with a slightly less vulnerable option. “I don’t need healing.”

“Are you certain?”

“Y-yeah, I just… I can’t breathe.”

Julien’s frown deepened with confusion. “I was under the impression you do not need to breathe?”

“Yeah, well, apparently I still want to.”

Occtis hated how small and shaky his voice sounded, but his body kept remembering being strangled and he had to fight against it. He had to scratch at his neck, over the bruised scar, seeking a rope that wasn’t there. He tried to force his hand down, and instead only managed to tighten his other hand on Julien’s wrist, holding onto it like a reminder that this was real, this was happening, not his memories. Maybe his body would catch up with the logic of it—hopefully quickly, because Julien was going to break this poor excuse of a grapple soon enough.

But seconds passed and Julien silently regarded Occtis with a hesitant look, seemingly more focused on the hand at Occtis’ throat than the one around Julien’s wrist. Then, just as Occtis braced himself for the inevitable rejection, Julien finally moved.

Not away, though. With a short, quiet exhale Julien shook his head and sat down on the bed facing Occtis, close enough to touch. Occtis could feel the heat radiating from him and suddenly he was in yet another battle, this time to keep himself from leaning even closer, because if he did, maybe the icy roots in his chest would melt just a little?

So he didn’t move when Julien reached out with his free hand toward Occtis’ neck. He didn’t protest when Julien’s fingers wrapped around Occtis’ wrist—almost a mirror to his own gesture, but with much less force. And he didn’t fight it when Julien started to pull Occtis’ hand away from his throat.

“What…” he tried to ask, not quite sure if his voice was still working.

“You said you wanted to breathe,” Julien said, his voice steady and quiet, with only a hint of its usual edge. “Allow me to assist.”

That did not answer Occtis’ initial question, only created at least three more. Logic suggested that anything regarding Sir Julien Davinos could become a significantly more dangerous experiment than anything Occtis did during his Penteveral studies. And yet, with logic pushed to the background by the almost-forgotten sensation of warmth over his skin, Occtis found himself unwilling to argue.

So he only stared with wide eyes as Julien guided Occtis’ hand closer to himself, then placed it against his left side, right over his ribs.

“Now,” Julien went on, as if all of this was perfectly normal and understandable, “I know you are a quick learner, so here, follow my lead. There is nothing preventing you from breathing.”

“I’m dead,” Occtis quipped weakly.

“And yet it does not deter you.”

“It fucks with my head.” Julien raised an eyebrow at the profanity and Occtis felt the strangest urge to grin at him. Instead, he slowly splayed his fingers over Julien’s ribs, noticing the slight catch in his breathing. Occtis’ hand was probably ice cold, even through the fabric of Julien’s undershirt. “You’re almost too hot to touch.”

“Mhm, so I’ve been told.”

Occtis frowned, for a second wondering how many other dead people had told Julien that. And then it hit him. Irritated that he walked right into this one, he tried to backtrack. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Oh, I know,” Julien said with a sharp grin. “You are quite easy to fluster, you know? It is adorable.”

“Adorable, great,” Occtis grumbled, fixing his gaze firmly on his own hand. Which was still pressed against Julien’s ribs, feeling the movements of his muscles as he breathed. “Precisely what I needed to hear, however did you know?”

“You see, I have this talent—”

“You have an attitude at best.”

“Eh, same difference,” Julien shrugged lightly. “Most importantly, it gets the job done.”

Occtis’ eyes darted back up to glare at Julien. “The job of embarrassing me?”

“The job of getting you out of your head.”

Occtis opened his mouth to retort, only to realize that Julien, once again, had been right. Sure, his body still hurt, everything around the empty space where his heart should be was crusted over with icy thorns, and his muscles had not yet figured out how to mimic Julien’s breathing pattern… but he did breathe a little. He had to, if only because he’d been talking.

And, most significantly, his mind was finally out of the mud.

“Shit,” he said softly, because what else was he supposed to do?

He could also stare for too long at Julien, and notice that the man’s careless, irritating smirk held somewhat less bite than earlier. That even though his words were flippant, his gaze remained sharply focused. That he still made no move to free himself from Occtis’ grip.

“How did you know?” Occtis asked quietly.

It took Julien a long moment to offer an equally quiet answer. “The Endless Night, even at its border, is a frightening place and demons residing there are not the only ones to haunt those who decide to face it.”

“Oh. Your recruits in the Barrowguard…” Occtis said slowly, connecting the dots as he went. “Oh, now you’re making more sense!”

“Mhm. Now, as opposed to…?”

“The Castle Torch,” Occtis went on with explanations. He let go of Julien’s wrist because he needed at least one free hand to emphasise his word with gestures. “All the people there seemed to like you—”

“They do like me,” Julien scoffed. “I am charming and irresistable.”

“Ah, hm, not the words I would use, but sure,” Occtis waved his hand. “It didn’t make sense they would like you just for good your looks, surely, so—”

“Oh, so you think I’m good looking?”

Occtis paused and gave Julien a thoroughly unimpressed glare. “Are you trying to fluster me again?”

“Most certainly. Is it working?”

“No,” Occtis lied. “Now, I was trying to make a point in your favor, but since you’re so keen on interrupting me…”

“My apologies,” Julien said with an astoundingly obvious lack of sincerity. “You were saying something about my good looks, please, continue.”

For a second Occtis considered giving in to pettiness and leaving this unsaid, but eventually he decided it would be more interesting to go on. Even though it meant revealing something about himself. Strangely, Occtis had a feeling that of all people in their group, Julien could be the one to understand.

He took a breath, measured right along with Julien’s, to get his thoughts in order. “People at the Castle Torch seemed to like you, yes, but they also respected you. And… Hm. I know what respect looks like when it is fueled by fear. Yours is not. And now I understand how.”

At that Occtis fell quiet and waited, half-expecting Julien to dismiss it with another stupid remark, hoping he wouldn’t.

“There are enough things to fear wherever we go,” Julien said, as his cheeky smile faded into a grim one. “I need my people to trust me and to be able to trust them in return. That is what saves lives.”

“Right. Trust.”

Such a simple concept, to trust one another. Great in theory, yet the most tricky in practice, as hard to earn as it was easy to lose.

When casting a spell, Occtis knew precisely what gestures to make, what words to speak, what pocket in his coat to reach for just the right ingredient. Trust didn’t have a set value. There were no clear paths to take and everything was shrouded in darkness.

But maybe—just maybe—Occtis could take a leap of faith.

He looked at his companion, whose breaths Occtis could still easily count, because his hand never left its place on Julien’s ribs. This seemed like a stupid idea, but he had to know. He wanted to hear it.

“Julien,” he tried, his voice barely over a whisper. “Do you want to kill me?”

In a blink Julien’s expression changed as he scrambled to put the walls back up, clearly taken off-guard by that question. Occtis just barely managed to notice how Julien’s heart rate kicked up when the man made a jolting move to get up from the bed. Without thinking, Occtis reached out to once again catch Julien’s wrist.

And, just like before, it stopped Julien in his tracks. He didn’t try to free himself, but he did flinch visibly, from cold or inconvenience or something else entirely. “Occtis…”

Something in Occtis simply snapped. “Can you just—Ugh. Can you, just this once, simply answer my damn question? It’s a yes or no, should not be that complicated. I need to know. Just—Please?” he gritted out through clenched teeth.

Julien didn’t answer and for what felt like the longest minute he just looked at Occtis, eyes wide and trapped, muscles tense and poised to strike. Even without his weapons he was a formidable opponent, and now Occtis wasn’t so certain he would be fast enough to cast a spell should he need to. But he was tired of pretending he didn’t care, so maybe a fight was what needed to happen, to solve it one way or another.

Then, with a swiftness that for anyone else would be vertigo-inducing, any traces of anger left Julien’s expression, leaving it carefully neutral, almost relaxed.

Only his gaze remained way too sharp for Occtis’ own good, as Julien said flatly, “Twenty breaths.”

A muscle at the corner of Occtis’ eye twitched involuntarily. It shouldn’t be able to do that anymore. “Ah. What?”

Julien’s gaze remained locked with Occtis’. “Take twenty full breaths first. Only after that I will answer your question, and I will do it adequately, you have my word.”

Occtis felt his lips curl up, baring his teeth. He was going to bite him. So help him every dead Shaper, Occtis was actually going to bite that bastard. “You cannot be serious.”

“I can, and I am, so whenever you are ready,” Julien said unmoved. “We do have most of the night still.”

“You—” Occtis opened his mouth, looking for cutting words, finding mostly verbal spell components. “You are infuriating.”

At that, Julien offered a sharp smile. “Mmm, flattery will not help you here, boy, but good try nonetheless.”

“I swear, Julien, if you’re just messing with me—”

“Oh, and I am not going to count the breaths you take to talk back at me,” Julien cut in lightly. “Just so you are aware. But by all means, do take your time, I am in no rush.”

He didn’t have to listen. Surely Julien was playing him for his own vicious entertainment and Occtis didn’t have to participate. He could just stand up and walk away, find another room or just a dark enough corner to hide until morning, or better yet, call back that spell he’d been rolling on his tongue and show Julien that he was not to be messed with like that.

But Julien’s eyes gleamed with a silent challenge and Occtis, unreasonably, found himself wanting to brave it.

“Fine,” he snapped, mildly taken aback by how rough his own voice sounded. But there was no rope around his throat, only Julien’s beating heart under his palm, and Occtis slowly, deliberately, took a deep breath.

Julien’s mouth quirked up. “One.”

“I am not one of your recruits for you to count me out loud!”

“You’re right, my recruits wouldn’t waste their breath like that.”

Occtis bit back a retort and, as he willed his diaphragm to do its job again, he dug his nails into Julien’s side in retaliation. It was enough to make Julien’s breath catch for the briefest moment. A tiny victory, but a victory nonetheless.

“Two. Three. Four.”

Occtis could hurt him. Not all the way and permanently, at least not right away, but just enough to cause actual pain. Julien clearly wasn’t afraid enough, treating Occtis with disrespect, like they were equals or worse.

“Five. Six. Seven.”

They were not equals. Occtis was a noble and he should be treated with due respect, or else—

“Eight.”

Occtis stumbled over the next breath and lost it, as something painfully uncoiled in his chest. The feeling was similar to when the Stone of Nightsong had been sundered, though not to such magnitude anymore. Just a thorny vine being plucked out, leaving a bruise in its wake.

He counted five full breaths from Julien before he managed to draw his own again.

“Nine. Ten. Eleven.”

Occtis did know what respect looked like when it was fueled by fear. For the longest time it had been the only way he knew, demanding and degrading, leaving him cold and bitter and miserable. It felt like home.

“Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.”

But he left his home. Five years ago, Occtis just walked out and didn’t look back, and nobody tried to find him until they needed him to die for them. Five years were not enough to forget how to be afraid. Occtis still had the instincts to shrink back, to apologize, to anticipate and to placate.

And he was so fucking tired of being afraid.

“Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.”

Occtis didn’t know any spell that could make the fear go away, at least not without consequences he was not willing to accept. The problem was he didn’t know how to manage it any other way, either. He was sure to stumble, mess up and fall back to what he knew deeply in what was left of his blood.

But even though every instinct he possessed screamed in alarm, Occtis couldn’t get rid of that small, exceptionally dangerous idea.

“Eighteen. Nineteen.”

Trust was such a complicated, fragile thing, undoubtedly bound to hurt him. Still, Occtis wanted to try it.

“Twenty.”

With that last, long exhale, Occtis released Julien’s wrist, but left his other hand right where Julien had placed it. He didn’t repeat the question, simply waited, now with his own challenge.

And Julien kept his word in a way Occtis could not anticipate.

“You didn’t kill my family,” he said, quietly yet clearly, holding Occtis’ gaze. “You died along with them. So no, Occtis, I do not want to kill you. And I am not going to hurt you.”

“Uh.” A small, incoherent sound was all Occtis could manage to get out, and this time it had nothing to do with breathing, or the lack of it. He hoped for a short, simple answer, not for Julien to repeat Occtis’ own words back to him, turning them into what sounded almost like an oath, if one was feeling slightly generous and highly insane. Now what was he supposed to do with that?! Fine, he could, maybe, offer a truth in return. “I, ah. I do not want to kill you, either.”

A tiny spark ignited in Julien’s eyes. “I do appreciate it. Nothing about not going to hurt me, though?”

The ice that was coating his lungs cracked and Occtis huffed a relieved sigh, which, even to his own ears, sounded strangely like a laugh, even if still a bit strangled. “It would be dishonorable to make a promise I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep.”

“Hm, cheeky, though fair enough,” Julien conceded way too easily.

Occtis eyed him warily. “Are you not going to argue that I’m not capable of hurting you?”

“Oh, I know you are capable of hurting me,” Julien said. “You are currently in the process of giving me the second frost-bite this evening.”

“WHAT?!” Occtis snatched his hand away and jolted back, making the other man wince. True enough, a thin veil of frost covered that part of Julien’s shirt where his hand had been. And, when Occtis dared to look at Julien’s hand, he noticed right away the purple band around his wrist. “What the hells is wrong with you? No, don’t answer that. Why didn’t you say something earlier?!”

Julien just shrugged, looking unbothered, and got up from Occtis’ bed. “It was not anything I could not handle,” he said, but he also slipped a hand under his shirt to rub some warmth back into the hurt place over his ribs.

“That’s not a good enough reason!”

“It was good enough for me.”

“Right.” Occtis started to get off the bed. “I’m going to get Vaelus.”

With a huffed curse, Julien grabbed his own blanket and threw it right at Occtis, making him fall back down on the bed. “I don’t need the elf’s magic, stop fussing!”

“I’m not fussing!” Occtis shot back, refusing to admit that maybe he was, just a little bit. But for good reasons! He held the blanket tight to his chest as his mind kept flitting over the spells he knew, looking for anything that could help with this, and coming up empty. “I can’t just… be doing that,” he admitted after a moment, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I didn’t mean to.”

At that, Julien actually rolled his eyes at him. “I’m aware. You are not usually this cold.”

The matter-of-factly way he said it stunned Occtis into complete silence. Julien offered no more explanations, he simply crossed the room, knelt by the cold fireplace, and started the process of lighting it up by himself, as if King Gus didn’t have the servants to do it for his guests.

Slowly, Occtis pulled Julien’s blanket over his shoulders and hunched underneath it. He kept his eyes trained on Julien’s hands, not out of fear for the hurt they could bring, but out of the sheer bewilderment over the comfort they had already brought. Julien didn’t have to do any of the things he did for Occtis, dragging him out of what now seemed to be an exhaustion-induced panic. Granted, he also didn’t have to be an asshole about half of it… Then again, the thought of Sir Julien Davinos being nothing but nice made Occtis shiver with unease, as it would be a clear sign of something being tremendously wrong.

Well, more wrong than things around them were in general as of late.

The first licks of flame appeared in the fireplace, skillfully brought to life by Julien’s hands. Soft, warm light from the flames flickered over his form, making it impossible to look away. And, at this point, Occtis didn’t even try.

Julien remained a puzzle, a confusing mess of opposing words and actions, and Occtis had to admit he was not going to solve it tonight. Not even in a long time, or in however long they were going to have, travelling and fighting together. But also, quietly and with some trepidation, he had to admit he wanted to keep trying. Julien had gotten under his skin without Occtis noticing it, and now it was too late to just ignore it.

No, Occtis wanted to look more closely.

For a moment longer Julien stood before the fireplace, absentmindedly rubbing a hand over his frost-bitten wrist. Then, as if he remembered why the gesture was needed in the first place, he turned to look at Occtis.

And caught him staring.

It took all of Occtis’ willpower to not look away like his instincts were yelling at him to do. Instead, he forced himself to hold Julien’s gaze, not as a challenge, but as an acknowledgement of… a truce? An understanding? A beginning? He had no idea, his body and mind still too bruised and hurting to try and figure it out. 

And he didn’t even mind when Julien broke the silence with a taunting, “All right, boy, you can admire me some more tomorrow. Now do try to get some rest, yes?”

Occtis hummed something agreeable and was going to leave it at that, but as the other man walked over to his own bed, he realized there was one more thing he wanted to say.

“Julien?”

“Hm?” The knight paused, his brows raised questioningly.

Occtis wasn’t good with words, worse yet with using them to voice his feelings, especially after he’d died. But there were still some words he could wield confidently enough, at least in this instance, pouring into them as much honest emotion as he was able to.

“Thank you.”

There was no quippy remark in answer to it. For a moment Julien did look like he was going to say something, but eventually he offered only a short nod, before returning to his bed.

Occtis had no idea what this—this whole exchange, everything—meant. What could it mean tomorrow and the days after. But he knew, with a strange, stubborn certainty, that something had irreversibly changed.

And, as he finally fell into a restful trance, he thought it might just prove to be a good thing.