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Wahisietel set the bottle of gin down on his desk, placing the rum back in its rightful place. As soon as he was sure Finley was asleep - as soon as her snores echoed throughout his house, that was, he uncorked the bottle and took a swig, not even bothering to pour a nip.
His pipe still smoldered from his last smoke. He would have to wait for it to cool down before exchanging its current contents with a far more needed blend, so he settled for reclining in his desk chair and taking the occasional swig of gin to pass the time.
He barely noticed when Finley’s snores became uneven and sputtering, as if…
Setting down the bottle, he stood and edged over to the bed to see her jaw and lips moving slowly, awkwardly prying themselves open and shut.
…as if she was speaking in her sleep.
For a moment, he considered returning to his desk. Finley talking in her sleep wasn’t new, especially considering recent events. It was hardly anything to worry about.
“He…lo…bro…ther…”
That, however, was.
Her accent had faded, rolling lilt replaced instead by a crisp dryness that his own voice shared.
Her slight underbite mitigated it, but the tight, malicious smile that had begun to creep across her face was brutally familiar.
The sliver of her eye that was visible beneath her eyelid shone a glaring sulfur that cast the rest of her face in a sallow glow.
“I know…you can…hear me. Be…polite…and say…hello back. We haven’t…seen each…other in so…so long.”
“Sliske,” he growled, letting himself assume his true form and baring his teeth. Finley’s mouth was stretched further into a wide, unnatural grin in response, some unseeable hand squeezing her lungs repeatedly in an attempt to crudely imitate laughter.
“Ha…ha…haaaaaa…I…could never…fool you, brother…”
“Get out.” He took a step toward the bed, verdant fire sparking around his knuckles. “Get out of her. Now.”
“Or…what?” Finley - no, the puppeteer using Finley’s unconscious body as a mouthpiece - asked, her head lolling to the side almost questioningly. “You’ll…tell everyone…I’m still…here? You know…you can’t…do that.”
“And why can’t I?”
A useless question, he chided himself. He already knew the answer.
“Because…who would…believe you? Who would…believe that the…World Guardian…sleeptalks with the…voice…of your…dead brother?”
Well, one answer, at least.
“Plenty would. Icthlarin and Death know souls better than anyone. They would see you slithering around in hers if they looked close enough.”
“Perhaps…they would…but others? They…would call you…crazy…paranoid…more so than…dear Bilrach…”
A low snarl, laced with a Freneskaedian curse, rattled the furniture. Finley’s body laughed again, spasming slightly from the raw sound of Wahisietel’s voice.
“Oh…ha…haaa. Are you…going to…kill me?”
“I could.” The fire crackled, overwhelming the sulfuric glow. “I should.”
“Be…careful…kill me…and you kill…her, too. We are…one…in the same…now. And you…you promised…never to…hurt…her.”
Wahisietel ground his teeth.
His brother - his still very existent brother - was right. Sort of.
“I promised myself that I would never stoop to your level and use a transient source of my anger as target practice.”
“Words…words…but the meaning…is the same. You made…a promise. A promise…signed by…your fist…through that wall.”
The hole. Fist-sized, marked by crumbling adobe and stone, it let both sun and moonlight through to remind Wahisietel of what had happened months before.
“Is that…why you never…patched it up? To…keep yourself…from doing…something…you regret? Useless…pointless. You made…your promise…but…you’ll break it. I…know…you will. I…promise…you…will…”
He lunged forward, snagging the collar of Finley’s tunic, and hefted her upright so that her puppeteer could clearly see the threat of his closed, thaumaturgically alight fist.
“Enough,” he hissed. “We may be of the same blood and of similar minds, but I am not you. Don’t you dare assume that I’ll ever let myself be drawn into that fetid state of being that you called home for your entire life.”
Again, her smile stretched unnaturally, her head drooping forward so that their foreheads touched. Narrowed eyes met half-closed, listless ones that still glowed that awful sulfur.
She laughed a third time, a low wheeze devoid of any humor.
A death rattle.
“I…don’t…assume…”
“Then leave.” His voice matched hers, a rattling duet. “Go back to feigning non-existence.”
The laughter stopped, blessedly. Yet, that smile persisted as she spoke again.
“Very well…I will…see you later. Oh…this…is going to…be so. Much. Fun.”
Her eyes closed, the light flickering out and her grin drooping away, and she slumped over.
Only when Wahisietel was sure she was back to being just Finley - when her snores evened out once again - did he allow his magic to dissipate.
Slowly, he lowered her back down onto the bed and fetched a blanket, which he then threw over her, head and all.
That done, he shoved himself back into his human form, gathered his bottle of gin, his pipe, and a packet of his best tobacco blend, and stalked outside, nearly slamming the door on his way out.
His night was spent outside, head hazy with smoke and drink as he watched the stars wheel above him and tried not to scream.