Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world bleeds back into focus slowly like light through a threadbare jumper, Charles blinking against it until the fog clears. Doesn’t even realise it has cleared, at first—it’s dark enough in the room to feel like he’s still squinting at it through a veil. He groans, his head sodding killing him, and curls in on himself like a dead spider.

Clink.

Oh. Fuck.

Charles lurches, and there’s the sound again, complete with a cold dig into his wrists and stomach. He looks down. Chains, wrapped round his torso, lashing him soundly to a sturdy wooden chair with his hands trapped behind the back.

“Shit,” he rasps, wriggling against his chains. “Shit—how’d—? Who the fuck—?”

“All excellent questions.”

Charles isn’t exactly proud of the sound that escapes him—somewhere between a grunt and a stamped-on rubber chicken. He squints into the gloom. “Who’s there?” he demands, aiming to pitch his voice a little lower to compensate for the squawk, but there’s not much he can do about the wobble in it.

“I might ask you the same thing.” It’s a crisp, clear voice, light and not a little bit bloody posh. As Charles’ eyes adjust he makes out a shape on the other side of the… classroom? Looks like a classroom anyway, an old one. And there tucked into the opposite corner from Charles there’s another chair, another bloke, chained up about as thoroughly as Charles is. White bloke, tall, slim—probably would have been neat as a pin, if whoever had put him in that chair hadn’t roughed him up a bit first. His neat hair is escaping over his forehead and his button-up shirt is crumpled and dirtied. Good looking lad. Familiar.

Very familiar.

Charles swallows nervously. “Asked you first, didn’t I?”

“Hm. True.” Posh bloke is shifting in his chair, as if he’s testing the give of the chains. If they’re anything like Charles’, he won’t find much. “My name is Edwin. And you are?”

Charles has never met an Edwin before, but he reckons this bloke looks like one alright. “Very bloody confused is who I am.”

Even from across the room, Charles can see the eyebrow go up—Edwin has very visible eyebrows and apparently knows how to use them.

“...Charles,” he introduces himself properly, taking a moment to squint around the room. Yep, definitely a classroom. Wood panelled walls, great big chalk-scrawled blackboard, few rows of desks. Obviously not one that’s been used in ages; there’s dust everywhere and the windows are scabbed over with planks nailed in place. There’s a little weak sunlight slipping through the cracks between boards, barely enough to take the edge off the gloom, but otherwise they’re about as sealed off from the outside as they could be.

“Hello, Charles,” says Edwin, Charles’ name sounding like something fancier than it is in his mouth. “Might I ask what brings you here?”

“Fuck if I know, mate,” Charles snorts.

“You remember nothing?” Edwin prods. “I must confess, I find my memories somewhat addled as well; I was on my way to work, and then…”

“Yeah. Yeah, same,” mumbles Charles, shifting guiltily. “Well, not—was just home from work, actually. Dunno what happened after that.”

“Neither do I. But I should be very interested to find out.” Edwin’s bushy brows furrow as he wriggles against the chains. “Some range of motion wouldn’t go amiss…”

Charles rips his gaze from the strangely smooth motions of Edwin’s shifting—and deceptively broad—shoulders, squirming against his own chains. “Yeah.” He laughs. “Of all the times to be caught without a bloody lockpick, eh?”

He feels Edwin’s eyes snap to him like a magnet. “You can do that? What would you require?”

“Um—well, I’ve got tools that’re the best thing for the job. Might be able to work with a hairgrip, though, in a pinch. Or—”

“A paperclip?”

Charles considers. “S’not ideal, could break. But yeah, could give it a go.”

“I have one. In my back pocket.”

Charles grins. “Mate. You’re my new best friend.”

Edwin ducks his head, just briefly, not quite tucking his little smile away before Charles catches a glimpse of it. “Right. How do we…?”

“Only one thing to do, yeah?” says Charles, wrapping his bound hands round the back slats of the chair and bracing his feet. “Get shifting.”

Not exactly dignified, the bit that follows. Charles sort of drags himself along with a semi-continuous scrape across the floor, occasionally bashing into tables and chairs. Edwin, apparently a bit stronger than he looks, goes for picking the heavy chair up for a few seconds at a time and sort of awkwardly waddling with it, setting it down every couple of steps to catch his breath.

By the time they’ve met in the middle, Charles has desk-inflicted bruises down his arms, and Edwin’s pale face has gone an interesting shade of pink. Charles offers him the best smile he can muster before he braces himself again and hops round in a dozen small but deafening thuds of his chairlegs, ‘til he has his back to Edwin, and waits and listens as Edwin pulls the same maneuver. Soon enough, there they are—the tips of Edwin’s fingers, brushing against Charles’ own.

“Right. Let’s be having it, then,” says Charles.

“I’m afraid I cannot reach it. But perhaps you might be able to.”

“Which pocket?”

“The back right.”

Charles scoots himself sideways a bit, and gropes blindly for the right pocket. He finds it quickly enough, but it’s not all he finds.

“Ah!” Edwin half-squeaks, as Charles more or less gropes his arse in the hurry.

Charles is glad they’re back to back—he must be bright red to his bloody chest. “Sorry,” he mumbles, trying to dig around a little less eagerly. Why he thought diving right in with his hand in a sort of cupping position was a good idea…!

“That’s—that’s quite alright,” says Edwin with a clear of his throat. “It may have fallen right to the bottom, I’m afraid.”

“Comes of bein’ in a back pocket, don’t it?” Charles jokes.

Edwin sighs. “Let us crack on, shall we?”

Charles has more arse jokes he could make off the back of that one, too, but he lets it slide for now. Doesn’t wanna start this relationship off on a bum note.

art by tumblerislovetumblerislife

He digs it out, eventually—little bugger’s wormed its way right down to the seam of the pocket lining.

Once he’s got it bent into shape, though, he’s in a bit of a pickle. Because thanks to the way their chains and padlocks are arranged, it’s almost a given he’ll drop or break the paperclip if he goes for his own; he’s gonna have a way easier time of it if he picks Edwin’s lock, first. Which is fine, ‘til you consider he doesn’t know the bloke from Adam, and really who’d blame him for bolting for the door the moment he’s free, anyway, leaving Charles and his probably bent-beyond-usefulness paperclip to rot here—

“Charles?” Edwin prods, gently.

Taking a deep breath, Charles shifts again. Leap of faith, innit? Gotta give it a go now and then. “Hold still, yeah? Get you out in a tick.”

Trust falls are bloody terrifying—been a while since Charles took one without getting dropped. Edwin does glance at the door when he’s free, rubbing the feeling back into his wrists, and Charles doesn’t know whether to curse or cry.

But a glance is all that door gets. Instead, Edwin dashes to the front of the room, to the old teacher’s desk in front of the blackboard, and starts rooting around. “Perhaps there is a key somewhere,” he says, opening and closing the drawers so fast he kicks up clouds of dust. “Or something else I can use to free you. I’m afraid I haven’t your skill with a paperclip. Where in the world did you learn to do that?”

Charles laughs and shrugs, papering over his too-obvious relief with it. “Dunno, was a while ago. I think. Probably picked it up to impress someone, though.”

Edwin darts a smile up at him. A real, wild little thing, a flash of bright teeth in the dusty gloom. “Well, do consider me impressed.”

Charles’ heart thuds with a sort of too-much feeling in his chest, all sloshy and squidgy, too real and too close—like he hasn’t felt it in a long time.

Charles wasn’t actually expecting Edwin to find the keys, but he does. Tucked under a little glass pencil pot on the bookshelf.

“Dust disturbance,” says Edwin, as he slips behind Charles to undo his chains with slightly trembling hands. “Someone didn’t put the pot back exactly where they found it. Are you quite alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, cheers, mate,” Charles mumbles, standing up and wincing as his chains fall loudly to the hardwood floor. “Be better when I’m out of this bloody room, though.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” says Edwin, straightening his clothes out with a brisk little tug. He’s got a natty little cardigan on over the rumpled shirt—Charles hadn’t noticed, it must’ve slid down his shoulders. It’s dark green and it brings out his eyes, even in the murky room. “Come along, then. Perhaps we might discuss this most peculiar meeting over tea.”

Before Charles can tease Edwin—hopefully—about asking him out, Edwin turns smartly on his heel and marches, with a bloody shocking level of unearned confidence, slap bang into the door.

Charles winces sympathetically. “Um. You alright, mate?”

Rubbing his nose, Edwin gapes at the door, looking betrayed. “I—yes, yes I’m perfectly…” He shakes his head. “Goodness. I do not know why I thought that would work.”

He shakes his head and tries the handle—it doesn’t budge.

“Door locked? Might’ve figured,” says Charles, sidling up to Edwin for a look. He frowns when he realises the keyhole has been sealed over with some kind of filler, and a shiny new keypad has been screwed to the wall. “Might have a tough job cracking that one with a paperclip, to be honest.”

“No matter. There must be a code tucked away, somewhere,” Edwin breezes, turning around to assess the room.

“Doubt it, mate—don’t make much sense leaving your prisoners with a key to get out the cell, does it?”

“Generally not, no. But they already did,” he said, gesturing to the disturbed pencil cup. “It would have been the work of a moment to take the keys to the chains away with them. No. Either whoever locked us in here is confident, which has made them careless, or they intend for us to escape. I suggest we search for a code, or anything unusual which might point us to one.”

And with no other plans and Edwin looking and sounding proper clever in that daytime telly posh detective voice, what’s Charles gonna do except agree?

“So,” says Edwin some minutes later, as he worries the edges of a moth-eaten window drape like he's hoping to find secrets concealed in the seams. “Might I ask if you know of anyone who may wish to imprison you in an old schoolroom with a man you've never met?”

Charles worries at the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Somewhere in the whole kidnapping palaver he must've bitten it; scabby, little bit of a copper tang. “Ask you the same question,” he parrots unhelpfully, yanking a drawer out of the desk and shaking it upside down, turning up nothing but dustbunnies big enough to give Bugs a run for his money.

He hears Edwin's frustrated huff from across the room. “Very well. Let us focus on the hows, shall we? The last thing I remember before everything went black was being parked under a tree. It was dark---well, apart from the flash.”

“The—the flash?” Charles mumbles.

“Yes. Peculiarly bright, there and gone in an instant. It happened before I got into my car, actually. I searched some for the culprit but never found it. I suppose I reasoned it must have been a power surge in a nearby streetlight, or a passing motorist flashing their headlights further up the road. I got into my car, and had a sip of my… tea…” He groaned. “Which I thought tasted strange—blast. Drugged, it must have been. That flash must have been a person after all, my door was open a moment, they could have slipped something into my cup while I was distracted. Careless of me.”

“Bit quick of them, innit?” Charles turns out another drawer, disturbing a very leggy spider. “Might be onto something, though. With the drugging. I'd just got home from work, had a swig of milk from the fridge—I just thought it'd gone off a bit, but…”

He shivers, sticking the empty drawer on the table to rub his arms. Whoever snatched him didn't grab him a hoodie or anything. He's still in just his vest, half undressed for sleep, and there's a right chilly draft in this old ruin. He supposes he ought to be glad he'd not got round to kicking off his jeans, too.

“Are you quite alright?”

Charles snorts. “Yeah, yeah. Bit underdressed, is all.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

Footsteps creak towards him over the old wood floors. Charles' eyes snap up—and he starts waving his hand the moment he sees Edwin start to shrug his cardy off his shoulders. “Oi, now, you don't have to—”

“Please. I insist,” says Edwin, holding it out at arm's length. His lips twitch in what might, maybe, be an awkward attempt at a smile. “I have more layers to spare.”

Charles fidgets. He doesn't exactly do charity—and the lads would proper take the mick if they saw him in a bloody cardigan. Then again, no one about to see him but Edwin, is there?

He reaches out. The bottle green wool is softer than anything his fingers have ever touched. “Cheers, mate,” he says, already feeling warmer. He glances away as he shrugs it on—and his eyes catch on something almost as interesting as the little dusting of pink on Edwin's high cheekbones. “Oh, ‘ello—notice that?”

“Notice what?”

“That clock,” says Charles, gesturing. It's hanging above the blackboard, about where you'd expect a clock in a classroom to be, but that's not what's odd about it. “Brand new, like that keypad. Spick and span, still ticking away.” He tosses Edwin a grin. “Reckon same lot who want us to get out of here want us to know what time it is, too.”

Edwin looks at him, colour high in his cheeks, something like glee in those stormy eyes. “Excellent spot, Charles.”

Bloody hell, but this posh wool's good stuff—Charles feels bright red and glowy all over already.

Charles takes a proper gander at the clock by climbing up on a wobbly chair—which Edwin steadies with both hands on the back. It’s just a clock, though, no handy hints or codes stuck behind the back of it, so they hang it back up to crack on with the search. Edwin sticks around next to the blackboard, though, clever eyes darting across the markings.

“These are new,” he says, thoughtfully, dragging the pad of his finger through a cloud of chalk. “Someone has smudged them somewhat, tried to make them look aged, but the chalk of the writing is of a different type to the older residue.”

“Know what they mean?” asks Charles, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s all Greek to me.”

“You’re off—but only by the span of the Adriatic. It’s Latin. Quite sloppy Latin, as it happens,” says Edwin, with a lip curl of distaste.

“And you can read it?” says Charles, grinning. “And you thought it was funny I could pick locks.”

“One of these skills is not generally taught in schools,” says Edwin.

“Neither of ‘em are if you didn’t go to Eton. Go on, what’s it say, then?”

“I think that it says ‘follow your heart’,” Edwin mutters, tracing the blurred letters with his finger. “Though the spelling is atrocious, and these u’s look like v’s.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, then…?” Charles mumbles, brow furrowed. “Unless…” He snaps his fingers. “Oh!”

“Oh?”

Charles plants a hand on the teacher’s desk and vaults it, making a beeline for the smaller desks all knocked out of kilter by his drag across the floor earlier. “Thought I saw… yes! Have a look!”

Edwin hurries over, joining Charles in looking down at the crude, scratched-in heart shape on the corner of the desk.

“Well observed! But what could it mean? Is there something inside this desk, or under it?”

Charles sets to checking out both of those things. Nothing inside the little lift-open desk compartment but a few more spiders—which Edwin flinches away from and then looks a bit confused and annoyed at himself about. As for underneath, pretty much what you’d expect—chewing gum, and lots of it. “Urgh,” Charles groans, snatching his hand back from the rock-solid caked-on lumps and wiping it on his jeans. “Wish I’d looked first.”

“There must be something,” Edwin muses, tracing his finger around the heart and down, past the top of the table leg. He looks down and cocks his head. “Charles. Does anything seem strange about that board to you?”

It’s hard to tell with all the dust they kicked up shuffling about on the chairs earlier, but Edwin’s right—there’s breaks in the dust coverage on the board under the table leg, mostly round the edges. Oddly similar to fingerprints.

Charles grins. “Let’s have a shufty, yeah?”

They find a lockbox under the floorboard. Edwin holds it out to Charles expectantly, eyebrows raised, and Charles preens a little bit at already being the go-to bloke in his mind to get through a tricky lock.

But the paperclip is already looking a bit flimsy, and Charles knows a shit lockbox when he sees one, so he chucks finesse out the window and whacks the thing open on the corner of a desk like a chocolate orange instead.

“I could have done that,” Edwin grumbles.

“Were you hopin’ for a show?” Charles teases.

Edwin’s eyes dart to Charles’ hands, and he clears his throat and doesn't answer. “Well, do go on. What do we have?”

Charles levers aside the dented lid and pokes through the contents. There’s not much. Just a little tape recorder, and a bottle; glass, few inches tall, full of some sort of weird green liquid so dark it’s almost black. Charles picks it up and uncorks it, taking a sniff—and immediately regretting it. “Ugh. That is rank.”

He holds it out to Edwin, who takes a much more cautious sniff. His entire face still scrunches up at the force of the whiff. “Euch. Put the stopper back, Charles, please—before the whole room becomes uninhabitable."

No arguments there. Charles plugs it up and puts it back, and picks up the tape player instead. “Right. This seems more like it.”

He presses play and holds it up, next to his ear, Edwin leaning in close to listen. There’s a few moments of crackling empty tape and then, finally, a voice. A smug, smoky purr of a voice, a bit digitally distorted.

“Well, well, well. You found my little note. Colour me impressed, boys. Hello, Edwin. Charles.”

Charles points to the player and mouths “mate of yours?”, which Edwin just shrugs at.

“Congratulations. I’m sure you’ve been frustrated for quite some time now—I can only imagine how many hours you must have wasted already in escaping your chains.”

Edwin raises his eyebrow, as Charles quietly snorts.

“So you can imagine it brings me no pleasure at all to tell you that your time is rapidly running out. Take a look around you, darlings. This is your prison, but not for much longer. At precisely six p.m. this room, this whole building, will be blown sky high. A tragic accident—the gas supply lines in these old buildings are quite the death trap, don’t you think? You have until then to escape the room you’re in; that is, if you don’t want to be buried under it.”

Edwin’s fingers light softly on Charles’ hand; which is when he realises it’s shaking.

“Very well done on making it as far as the lockbox, dear boys. I doubt you’ll make it much further. I’m sure your time is ticking away, so I won’t keep you. Before I sign off, a little word to the wise; Edwin. You find yourself cellmates with a man you do not know. But oh, he knows you.”

Charles’ blood runs cold.

“He’s a liar. Oh, I’m sure you already guessed—he has a shifty look about him, doesn’t he? I wouldn’t trust him if I were you. If he becomes too much of a bother, do avail yourself of the tincture in the bottle; I used it to fetch you here last night and it’s really quite effective at keeping someone quiet for a few hours. Best of luck to you both.”

The tape runs on, rattling like Charles’ nerves, but there’s no more voice to be heard.

Numbly, Charles clicks it off. He looks at Edwin, and Edwin looks at him, those clever eyes scouring him down to the bone.

And then he looks past Charles, over his shoulder, and nods. “Eleven thirty,” he says. “Well. Thank goodness we expedited procedures with that paperclip. Plenty of time to decode the rest, don’t you agree?”

The force of Charles’ relief almost crumples him. “Yeah. Better get a wiggle on, eh?”

“That voice give you any hints, then?” Charles asks some time later, as he’s perched on the teacher’s desk and faffing about with a Rubik’s cube. Not just for the fun of it, mind—some bastard’s scribbled on the sides and now he’s got to solve it to see what it says.

“I have my suspicions…” says Edwin, carefully, from the chair behind the desk where he’s set up shop. He’s got a load of other puzzles and trinkets they’d hunted up from around the room and he’s approaching each one with the seriousness and care of an archaeologist reconstructing ancient pottery. He doesn’t seem keen to rush through any of them—or to answer Charles’ question.

Charles bites his lip, and takes a punt. “C’mon, mate. I know we don’t exactly know each other, but. Who’re you gonna trust, eh—the other bloke who woke up in the chains or the bloke who put us both here?”

Edwin eyes him shrewdly a moment, turning over a little sliding block puzzle in his hands. He sighs, and leans back in the creaky leather chair. “I’ve been on the trail of something. I’m an investigative journalist, by trade—and I have reason to believe that a certain… prominent political figure was mixed up in something unsavoury in his university days.”

“Weren’t they all?”

“Perhaps—but I have reason to believe this one resulted in the death of another student, and I mean to get to the heart of the matter.” Edwin slides the blocks around almost without looking. “The voice on the tape had been modified, somewhat, but I suspect it to be the man I’m investigating; he has a certain manner of speaking.”

“Like a smug twat.”

“A supercilious 'smug twat’ with mixed-American heritage who seemingly cannot quite keep his rhotic R’s under wraps,” Edwin expands. “Evidently, he knows I am on his tail and he does not want what I’ve found to come to light.”

“You seem pretty calm about it,” Charles points out. “For a bloke with a government hit out on ‘im, I mean. In’t you worried?”

“On the contrary, I feel rather vindicated,” says Edwin, with a flash of that sneaky smile. “If I were barking up the wrong tree, he wouldn’t be trying to hard to get rid of me.”

It’s about that moment that Charles realises that as well as being a clever little swot, this bloke is also a dagger of a man tucked into an unassuming cardigan sheath. And considering Charles is locked in a room with him, he probably oughtn't to be grinning about that as much as he is. “You’re nobody ‘til somebody wants you dead, eh?”

“Which does, I fear, raise the question of why you are in this powder keg with me.”

Charles flinches. “Ah.”

Edwin sets aside the block puzzle—which he’s only gone and managed to almost finish. Enough to reveal the number six scrawled over the oddly depressing little cartoon image of a fish opening its mouth wide around a pointy fish hook. “Yes, I feel we’ve tiptoed around the subject long enough. Quid pro quo, Charles. I have told you why I’m here, now tell me, why are you?” He steeples those long fingers on the desk. “And why are you, supposedly, a liar?”

Can’t argue with that, much as he wishes he could. Charles sighs, setting down the Rubik’s cube—he’s got two and a half sides of that solved and all. Don’t really need to solve ‘em all at once if they just jot down what’s on each side as they go, do they? “‘Cause I already knew. ‘Bout your job.” He lets his hands dangle between his knees. “Recognised you straight off, actually. When I woke up. Saw you recently.”

Edwin looks at him levelly. “Yes. I suspected as much. It was you that I glimpsed last night, on my way to the car.”

“Yeah,” says Charles with a wince. “Dunno what I was thinking. Been doing this gig a few years now—you’d think I’d remember to turn off the flash when I’m tryna cop a sneaky shot, eh?”

“Hm. And why, might I ask, were you taking pictures of me?” He doesn’t sound angry, at least. But maybe the really well brought up posh ones don’t—maybe they learn how to be polite first, stab you in the back later.

“Nothing personal, mate. Got hired, didn’t I? Dunno who by—people who come to me don’t usually want their name attached. More of a cash in hand gig, innit. Whoever he was, he wanted me to track you for a bit. Find some dirt on you if I could.”

“You’re a private detective,” says Edwin, watching Charles curiously. Like he’s interested—like he’s impressed.

Charles fidgets. “Giving me a bit much credit there, mate. I just take snaps and try not to get caught.”

Edwin hums—Charles has never heard someone say ‘agree to disagree’ so clearly without words before—and picks up another object from the desk, this one some kind of hand-folded paper fortune teller. “Well. I hardly need to imagine why someone would come to you to dig up the dirt on me. The very same man who wants my discoveries buried probably also wants me discredited as thoroughly as possible.”

He doesn’t even seem angry, which weirdly makes Charles feel worse. Most of the time, folks he gets hired to track down are a bit sketchy. Cheaters and crooks. Makes him feel a bit better about snapping some candids to pay the rent, even if the whole job still gives him a stomachache sometimes. “Sorry, mate. Like I said, nothing personal, just… money’s been tight. Have to take what I can get, don’t I?”

Edwin looks him over, quickly and quietly, and nods. “Well… thank you for your honesty.” The corner of his lip curls in a quicksilver smile, blink-and-you-miss-it. “As well as your company. Having you here has certainly made this impromptu imprisonment more diverting.”

Charles laughs, ducking his head. “Yeah, well. You’re not a bad bloke to be in the clink with, either. And…”

Edwin looks at him questioningly. Charles shakes his head. “Nah. Nothin’. Here, pass me that thing—haven’t seen one of these since school!”

He takes the fortune teller, fingers brushing against Edwin’s, and lets the ‘you seem like a bloke I wanna be honest for’ go unspoken.

Good news is they’d found loads of little puzzles around the place, and between the two of them even got them all solved. Not bad for a day’s work, Charles reckons!

Bad news is now they have half a dozen numbers and sod all idea what order to key them in.

“We could write down all possible combinations and work through one by one,” says Edwin, like the suggestion leaves a sour taste in his mouth. “With six digits we could be looking at... well, a great many, but we might strike lucky.”

“Could do—reckon we might not wanna chance it, though. Some of these keypad whatsits have timeouts, might lock us out if we do too many wrong ones,” says Charles, squinting at the keypad. There’s something odd about it, he can’t put his finger on it…

“Hmph. Well, then. I suppose we must hunt for any indication of their order—there must be something, a riddle, a cipher…”

“Yeah…” Something weird about it for sure…

“Well? Must crack on, Charles, if we’ve any hope of absconding before we’re blown to smithereens.” Edwin’s on his feet and fretfully sweeping the room again, pulling down each dusty book from the depleted bookshelf and riffling through, glancing at the clock now and then. “We are closing in on an hour ‘til detonation, and I hesitate to trust that man to be punctual with his assassinations. Charles? Charles!”

The keypad rips away from the doorframe with a quick, no-nonsense tug, nothing behind it but glue and chipped paint.

“‘Bout that,” says Charles, slowly, turning the dummy keypad over in his hands. “Think we might be barking up the wrong tree, mate.”

Edwin takes it, terribly quiet, turning it over to inspect the utter lack of wires on the other side.

“The numbers are a distraction,” he says at last, slowly, voice suspended on a tightrope. “Just another waste of our time.”

“No key, either,” says Charles, gesturing to the sealed-off keyhole. “Bastard must’ve boarded us up in here.”

“Charles,” says Edwin, delicately, setting the pad aside with a soft click on one of the desks. “Help me with the window.”

The planks over the windows are stuck fast, nailed in good and proper—brute strength and bare hands isn’t gonna do anything. But one of the nails went in at a bit of a funny angle, and there’s just enough head showing for Charles to work it loose, pinched between the two legs of a drawing compass he finds in the pencil pot. Takes him and Edwin together to pull on the plank enough to drag it down a bit, wedging it over the one below, just enough to clear a sliver of a view out through the window. The glass is intact, spotted with age, and it looks out onto some sort of quad. Posh quad, fancy old fountain that would've been beautiful once but that’s all still, stagnant water now.

Edwin clocks the fountain, and swears a blue streak Charles would’ve thought he’d be too well brought up for.

“I am a fool,” he says, standing and pacing away from the window. “Of course. What did I think, that he’d be waiting outside to congratulate us on a cunning escape? Stupid, stupid.”

“Mate?” Charles prods, cautious.

“I was here. Last night.” Edwin gestures between them. “We were here. This is where you followed me to, I was—this isn’t a school, it is—was—a university. The university, where he—where the incident occurred. I’d obtained the keys to the old building and I meant to scour it for anything further that might build my case. Charles—on the tape, what exactly did he say would occur should we fail to escape by six o’clock?”

Charles feels ill. “‘Blown sky high’, that’s what he said.”

“Yes. You, me, this building, all of it. Remember when I said whoever put us in here was either careless or wanted us to escape? Well, it was neither. He was toying with us. We were never supposed to escape; we were supposed to burn with the rest of the evidence.”

Charles has always been the sort of bloke who gets easily bored, restless in his skin. Sort of bloke who can make an hour drag into three if he doesn’t have enough to keep his mind and hands occupied in it.

Christ, but an hour’s never felt shorter.

“There’s got to be something,” Charles mutters, shaking another book out like school bully mugging it for its pocket money.

Edwin—who was handling even these abandoned old textbooks with care and a light touch that made Charles’ skin prickle—doesn’t even scowl at the rough treatment, too busy pacing a trench in the floor. “They’ve taken everything. This was all a game. I imagine it gives him satisfaction to envision us chasing our tails, knowing it’s all for nought. I should have seen it earlier, but he knew I wouldn’t resist a puzzle…”

“Alright, yeah, so he’s played us for a couple of mugs,” says Charles, dropping that book with a thud and grabbing the next. “But he can be toying with us and careless, can’t he? I mean come on, bit slapdash, innit? There’s bound to be something he’s left behind—something he didn’t think through…” He shivers and scowls, dragging Edwin’s soft cardigan tighter round himself. “Be easier to bloody think of it wasn’t so—”

Charles stops short, and gives himself a good smack on the forehead. “Bloody hell. Now who’s the idiot!”

“Charles?”

“This door’s sealed off pretty tight, yeah? So’s the window—glass looks like it’s in one piece, too, yeah?”

“Yes, Charles, we are quite thoroughly trapped,” snaps Edwin, scowling. “To your point?”

“Then where the fuck is that draft coming from?”

Edwin stands to attention. “I—I don’t know. But I suggest we find out posthaste.”

They chuck books off shelves, tear down moth-eaten drapes. And in the end, they find it the same way Edwin found those bloody keys, the clean circle of displaced dust—’cept it’s a dark, rich rectangle of wood on the wall that’s never seen the sun, right next to the massive blackboard.

“This has been moved,” says Edwin, excitedly. “Charles! We need to get it off the wall!”

It’s been screwed back on, but not very well. Charles uses the trusty compass again; digs the screws out a bit with the point, before clamping them between the legs to turn them until there’s enough head showing for his fingers to grip. It’s too slow. He can feel each second as it slips through his fingers. He doesn’t dare look at the clock.

When he’s got the last screw just loose enough, he squares his shoulders, gives Edwin the nod, and they yank the board off the wall, revealing another few feet of untouched wall along with—

“A vent!” Edwin exclaims, pulling the wobbly chair up to get a closer look. His face immediately falls. “Damn. This cover isn’t well fastened, but I doubt I can get my head and shoulders through even if we remove it.”

He climbs down, and Charles takes his spot, sizing up the opening. He nods. “Maybe not. But reckon I can.”

“You can?”

Charles grins, shedding the bulky cardigan. “Knew being a skinny arse was gonna do me good one day. Hold this, mate. And pass us the compass again.”

The vent cover comes off without a hassle, and Charles sizes up the scramble he’s gonna have to do to get inside. Gonna be the hardest part, for sure—he’s crap at pull-ups.

“Right,” he mumbles, cracking his neck. “Wish us luck.”

A hand seizes his wrist. “Charles, wait—”

Charles looks down, and finds Edwin looking up at him, as scared as he’s looked since the moment they woke up here. Wide eyed and worried, staring at Charles like he’s never gonna see him again. Maybe he thinks he won’t. Charles could just leg it, couldn’t he? Get the fuck out of dodge before this place goes up in flames.

Charles looks at the clock. Quarter to six. He pulls his wrist from Edwin’s hand—just enough to return the squeeze.

“Loads of time left,” he says, with a wink. “Be waltzing out of here, won’t we?”

There’s something blinding about the way Edwin looks at him, then—like he’s something amazing, something bloody wonderful.

Probably won’t be looking like that when he sees Charles hauling his lanky, wheezing arse up half a wall, but at least Charles’ll have his back turned for that bit.

He falls from the squeeze of the vent into the next room like a sack of spuds, but there’s no time to waste lying around like one.

Springing to his feet, he lurches out of the room—thank fuck the door’s unlocked—and into the hall. He recognises the door he was just trapped behind immediately by the five sturdy planks nailed across it. “Edwin!” he hollers, hammering on the wood.

“Charles?” Edwin calls back, excited and muffled. “You made it!”

“Just about—door’s nailed shut, though! Hang about, I’m gonna run for something to crack it open!”

“Quickly, if you don’t mind!”

Charles grins. “Back in a flash!”

Charles bounds down the stairs four at a time and hurtles down what looks like a promising little corridor, type of place more suited to supply cupboards than classrooms and canteens.

He just needs something thin and sturdy to pry up the planks; or failing that, something heavy to bash them. How hard can that be, with a whole building to ransack? Doesn’t even have to be sneaky about it—no one here, no one keeping an eye out and making sure they don’t get out before it’s time. No bloody doors barred except the one to the room they were shut up in. Tosser who left them here must be pretty bloody confident in his plan working.

Charles throws open a cupboard door—and comes face to ticking timer with the biggest fuck-off bomb he’s ever seen.

“…Fuck,” he whispers—as if the bomb’s gonna bloody hear him.

It’s a big ‘un, alright. ‘Least he thinks so. He’s never actually seen a real one—but he’s seen enough of them on telly. Proper action hero would probably find some clever way to disarm it, but he’d be relying on what those movies showed him, and he doesn’t trust film directors that much, not even his favourite ones. Quick escape, then, that’s the ticket.

After he grabs the handy crowbar he just spotted sticking out of a toolbox on the shelf.

He’s turning round to leave, bar in hand, when another idea strikes him. Long shot, but it’ll take no time to check. There’s something there, see, stuck in his head like a catchy song. Something Edwin said, about confidence and carelessness. Something about the fucker who put them here being about the most bloody overconfident person Charles has ever come across. He crouches down, and takes a peek under the table with the bomb.

Bingo.

The last board wrenches free with a splintering crack, and Charles tosses the crowbar aside and yanks the door open.

Edwin visibly exhales, lips parted in a toothy, unfettered little smile. “Charles, I—”

“Alright, mate?” Charles picks up the cardboard box he'd salvaged and shoves it into Edwin’s arms. “Got you somethin’!”

“I—what—Charles, time is rather—”

“Everything you need in that box to nail that wanker for good, I had a look,” says Charles, brushing past Edwin to dig through the dented remains of the lockbox on the table. “Cocky bastard thought he could blow it up with the rest of the evidence.”

“He still might if we do not make haste—what in the world are you doing?”

Charles grabs the little glass bottle, pocketing it, before taking Edwin’s hand. “Got a theory. Let’s walk and talk, yeah? Well, run and talk.”

Charles couldn’t tell you when he started forming the theory. He hadn’t been trying to. Only theories he’d been interested in forming had more to do with getting him and Edwin the fuck out of this building before they got blown to bits.

But it’s the little things, innit? Strange little things that don’t ring right. Like Charles not remembering why, where, or even when he learned how to pick locks. Like Edwin trying to march, bold as brass, through a solid wooden door. Like the fact that Charles’ life is full of shit jobs and shit people he’s learned not to trust—but stick him in a room with Edwin, a bloke he’s supposedly never met, and trusting him’s easy as breathing.

And, of course, little things like the bloke who locked them up—the tosser so bloody confident in his cover-up working that he threw the rest of the evidence needed to lock him away at it.

“What’s his name?” Charles asks. “The politician bloke. You never told me.”

“Well, on the off chance you decided to stay on his payroll, I hardly wished to implicate myself in libel and slander as well as—”

“Pretty safe to say I’m not working for him after this, innit? Come on, what’s his name?”

Edwin opens his mouth, then closes it, a little furrow popping up between his brows. “Ah…”

“You don’t know, do you?”

Edwin stares at him, alarmed. “I’ve been investigating—how could I possibly—?”

“Forget his name? Easy—doesn’t have one, does he?”

The floor echoes as they jog into the lobby, the main doors in sight. Charles digs around in his pocket and pulls out the glass bottle.

“Charles…?”

There’s something there, in the dark green liquid. Something thin and wispy.

“Bloody weird thing to leave in there, innit?” Charles thinks out loud, giving it a shake. “I mean, did he really just put it in there to fuck about with us, try and get us to use it on each other?”

“It’s possible—evidently, he’s quite mad.”

“And cocky. Proper cocky.” Charles tosses the little bottle and catches it in his hand like a flipped coin. “Makes me think anything he left with us is just more shit he doesn’t want to have in his house when the coppers come knocking—or something he wants to rub our noses in.”

“Charles!” Edwin exclaims, squeezing his wrist. “Do be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” says Charles, innocently—before dropping the bottle on the floor and crushing it with the heel of his shoe.

The world lists and lurches, or maybe that’s just Charles’ stomach—he feels seasick, or like he’s been tipped upside down and shaken all around. He bends double and catches himself on his knees as the wave crashes over him and leaves him gasping for breath.

“Fuck,” he wheezes, coughing and groaning, as about thirty years of memories wedge themselves rudely into his head.

“Charles…?” Edwin croaks thinly.

Charles looks at him, and this time he sees him—Edwin Payne. ‘Course it is. Who else could it be?

“Edwin,” he rasps—and wraps his arms around him, tight as a vice.

Edwin laughs breathlessly, fingers curling awkwardly in Charles’ vest. “Excellent theory, Charles.”

“Wasn’t about to go forgetting my best mate, was I?” He pushes Edwin back by the shoulders to get a good look at him. “D’you…?”

“Yes. I remember.” Edwin shakes his head slightly. “Well, that is to say I remember you, us. Although how we got in this situation, I haven’t the faintest.”

Charles steps back, the sound of crunching glass following him. Edwin crouches down to inspect the little puddle of spilled potion under his foot. Charles can see the wispy something that was inside it, now. Hair, two little tufts of it; one straight, one curly.

“Some sort of mind alteration compound, I'd wager,” Edwin theorises, picking up a shard of glass to inspect the liquid dripping from its edge. “It would have needed pieces of us in the mixture to sustain such an intricate fiction of our lives.”

“Right. If it’s the potion’s fault, though,” says Charles, sweeping a hand around them to the building that still very much looks like a dusty old college to him. “Shouldn’t all this be gone, too?”

“We were under the potion’s influence,” says Edwin, standing up straight, and steepling his fingers. “But evidently our physical space was not. There must be more at play—do you have any recollection, Charles, of why you and I might’ve have found our way here into this surely fictitious scenario of murder plots and political skulduggery?”

“Haven’t the foggiest, mate.” Charles crouches down to pick up the crumpled cardboard box of evidence from where Edwin dropped it. “Looks like we got one case solved, though. Job officially jobbed, yeah?”

“I am not so sure,” says Edwin, ruefully. “But either way, I shall feel much better outside the radius of any possible explosions occurring in the next two to three minutes.”

“Can’t argue with that!”

So, smiling at each other like a couple of giddy kids, they scurry across the main hall, grab a door handle each, and push through it together.

Chapter Text

Edwin startles at the thud when a wad of papers is dropped beside his elbow. A few seconds pass as he processes; his mind slowed by the tar of too little sleep. The state of almost-sleep he'd been hovering in had left him with an unpleasant taste in his mouth — something like elderflower and rot — but had done little else good. He blinks uncomprehendingly at the rough hand resting on top of the papers (a case file, because they’re–, of course), and the (surprisingly) hairy and muscled forearm attached to it. Eventually his gaze drags up the length of it to fix on Charles’ lined face, and he asks,

“New case?”

Just the thought of it is enough for his shoulders to droop further in anticipated exhaustion. Their current case has them putting in hours of overtime.

High profile kidnappings always make their superiors ansty. Time-sensitive, heavily scrutinised by the media, and now with one of their own involved… It is quickly turning into a nightmare. Even with their colleagues to assist and share the workload they had been struggling with finding leads. Adding to their caseload now will, if they are lucky, mean saying goodbye to his lunch break for the foreseeable future. The normally depressing breakroom and its store-bought offerings are singing a siren's song like never before.

“Don’t worry, it’s an old one. It’s meant for Chief anyway. I met the delivery boy on the way, said I could bring it up. But I took a peek — Don’t look at me like that! — and check this out! I think it might be our perp. The MO’s pretty much identical!” Charles’ voice is unbearably cheery. He recently went to re-fill his coffee mug for the 4th time of the night and Edwin suspects it is time to cut him off.

At least the news are uplifting. While Charles’ habit of snooping will need to be discussed, again, this time it has seemingly proven useful.

“Let me see?” Charles slides the file over and flicks it open. Skimming it, Edwin can feel excitement straightening his spine — a twinge reminding him of exactly how long he’s sat hunched over the desk. The similarities between this and their current case are striking: Female victim, in her early 20s, familial connections to law enforcement, abducted from a public space, and… …and something more. Some additional similarity that escapes him. Edwin can feel it, nigging in the back of his mind.

It is easily rectified. He reaches down to open the drawer where he placed the current case file. A quick comparison should be enough to put his mind at ease. When he closes his fingers around the handle and janks, it responds with a dull “thunk”. His second attempt goes much the same. The drawer remains stubbornly closed. He must be forgetting having locked it. Patiently, he puts his hand out, palm facing up.

“Sorry mate, I don’t have the key.”

“You don’t–” Edwin whips his head up to stare at him incredulously, eyebrows continuing the journey on his forehead. After a second he releases the pose with a sigh, pulling his hand up to tug on his hair, almost pausing when his hairline sits several centimeters behind where he expects it. His next words are heavy with exhaustion. “You don’t have it. Then where could it possibly be? I am certainly not carrying it.”

They both look despairingly towards their cluttered desks.

20 minutes of searching uncovers Edwin’s coffee mug; any number of pens; a load of loose papers, half of them covered in incomprehensible scribbles; a computer mouse; a concerning amount of food wrappers on Charles’ desk; a good amount of coffee stains on both of theirs; bent thumbtacks; a pair of crumb-covered glasses that Charles tentatively slides on; suddenly far fewer incomprehensible papers; and red string. No sign of the key. Their searching has slowly been getting more and more frantic. At this point Edwin is sprawled on his stomach, attempting to peer under the desks, and Charles is looking around for paperclips to use as a lockpick.

“You need some help over there?” Another detective is peering at them from the door, a look of feigned concern badly covering their amusement.

“You wouldn’t be able to tell us where our desk-key is?” It is a long shot, and Edwin knows it.

“Sorry, that I can’t say,” the officer says, bright yellow eyes shining. ”But if you ever get tired of looking around in here, there’s doughnuts in the breakroom. Seems like someone sent a condolences gift to the Chief.”

With that they turn and walk away, leaving the two of them alone once more. Charles instantly turns his puppy eyes on Edwin. The wide walnut-brown eyes peeking out from his riot of curls should look ridiculous on a man Charles’ age. The outsticking lower lip should look childish, the fluttering eyelashes should look mocking, Edwin has known him far too long to not have built up an immunity. And yet…

“We’re clearly not getting any closer here. C’mon Edwin~ what harm could it do?”

“Very well,” Edwin sighs.

Before the words have even fully left his mouth, Charles leapes to his feet with a joyous cry. A cry which swiftly turns into a muttered curse.

If his greying curls and deepening wrinkles aren’t sign enough, Charles’ once spry body makes his aging obvious. He still valiantly attempts to perform the same feats of athleticism that he used to show off when they were uniformed officers, but his body puts up just as valiant protests. So, with him approaching 50, and refusing to use the backbrace he’s been prescribed, it is not unusual to hear him swearing up a storm when a careless movement disagrees with his body. It should be uncomely. Charles is immune to any number of “should”s.

The breakroom is as deserted as the bullpen. Charles seems unconcerned, enthusiastically picking between the available pastries, but Edwin can feel a shiver working its way down his spine at the realization. It is not odd — a quick look at the clock confirms it is an ungodly hour of the morning — but Edwin cannot help but find the look of the empty office disconcerting. It looks almost staged under the bright fluorescents.

It was somewhat of a relief once the first day had passed and the Chief’s wife had ordered him home to worry there, instead of standing over their shoulders doing it. The relief had been tampered by the knowledge that, with the “critical 24 hours” behind them, the taskforce assigned to the case would follow him, dwindling to just Edwin and Charles. It was easier burning the midnight oil when the precinct was bustling with life. It felt less unnatural.

Of course, the two of them will not have to worry about it for much longer either. Soon enough even they will be taken off of the case, leaving it languishing in the ever growing pile of cold cases.

Edwin is not willing to let that happen without a fight. The Chief deserves to know what happened to his daughter. The victim deserves to be found. They have been going through the file with a fine-toothed comb, but to no end. And now they have finally found something.

“How can you just stand there! We have been working on this case for days, and now that we finally have something even resembling a lead it is out of reach because we cannot. find. a Key.”

“Hey..” Charles hastens to put down his rainbow sprinkles and walks to Edwin’s side. “We’ll figure it out, won’t we? I get it’s stressful, yeah, but we’ve been in trickier situations. We’ll get that drawer open, and we’ll figure out what’s going on, and we’ll get ‘em. Right now, all we need to do is take a breath and maybe eat a doughnut. Nothing’s gonna get better because we work ourselves to death.”

Charles lets out an amused huff that quickly tapers out into confusion. He raises his hands to right Edwin’s (bowt-) Edwin’s rumpled collar. His hands drift down Edwin’s body as he re-does the buttons Edwin loosened as the hours at the desk stretched on.

“Of course.” Air wooshes out of him in a slow breath. Charles is correct, as he so infuriatingly often is. This close Edwin can see remnants of the frosting clinging to Charles’ top lip. It is balancing precariously on the right side of his cupid’s bow. It would be so easy to reach out and stroke his thumb along the ridge to clean it up. The soft skin would yield so easily under the scrape of his nail. It is only fair to neaten Charles up as to return the favo–

“Oh, right,” Charles says, sounding embarrassed. He is staring over Edwin’s shoulder. Turning, Edwin easily spots what caused Charles’ reaction. There, in the keyhole activating the breakroom microwave, hangs Charles’ keyring. Amongst the keys is the reason for their search.

Edwin sends him an accusing look and gets an apologetic shrug in return. “The coffee in the pot was cold, I was trying to re-heat it. Must have forgotten about it.”

He grabs it and — to Edwin’s growing exasperation — his coffee mug, before leading the way back to their desks.

With both of the files in front of them it is easy to figure out what was nagging him. There is a great deal of overlap between the officers listed in either file. He shares a look with Charles. The chance that this many officers have transferred between the same two precincts in the in-between years is miniscule.

“Just me or are those names really weird?”

“No, I agree Charles.” Edwin turned the page on their current case. “What on earth sort of name is Larie Tena Meddos?”

“Wait, what? Let me see that.” Charles leans closer from his perch on the desk. Edwin can feel his wiry silver-peppered hair brushing against his own. The spots where it touches his skin tingle long after it’s gone. “I’ve seen that name before.”

He starts rooting through the papers they organised in their search for the key. Pulling a sticky note from the middle of the pile, he announces, “Here!”

The note reads “Larie Tena Meddos = St Madeleine road?”

“Wass’at supposed to mean?”

“I think–” Edwin starts striking out letters that show on both sides of the equal sign. One after another the letters disappear, until both words are fully struck out. “–it is an anagram.”

“Seems so. D’you think the rest are fake too?”

“Only one way to find out.” Edwin writes out the other duplicating names on a piece of paper grabbed from the top of the pile, rearranging the letters to create new words, muttering suggestions aloud, “That could spell road… boulevard maybe… no, not enough vowels left…”

They end up with 6 street names, spread out over the whole city. There is no clear pattern between them. Everything from residential streets to roads lined with abandoned factories to high streets are represented.

“I wonder…” Charles trails off. He grabs the list of places and the thumbtacks and red string still on their desk. A map of the city covers a large part of one wall and Charles makes good use of it. Thumbtacks are pressed into each end of all the roads. The string is strung and restrung in increasingly complex patterns between them, first in the order the anagrams appeared in the file, then in alphabetical order, then alphabetical order of the anagrams, so on and so forth. His wedding ring is discarded on a table after it gets tangled in the string one time too many.

When he slows down Edwin chimes in with his own suggestions, but it isn’t long before neither knows what to try next, what might finally make the scattered thumbtacks reveal their secret.

“Do you think we might be overthinking this?” Charles’ thumb is worrying his lower lip, picking at a scar he got on a stakeout years ago. “This seems insane. There’s got to be something obvious we’re missing.”

“We might very well be missing a part of the code which makes this comprehensible to the intended receiver."

“But, I mean, who’d even receive that? The names sat in a case folder. No-one but other officers would even see it.” They both grow very silent at the thought.

“Well, that got dark.” Charles shakes his head as if to unlodge the thought. “Shame we haven’t got any more string.”

“I fail to see how that would be any help.”

“Well, all the names came with partners in the original file, didn’t they? Maybe the pattern isn’t meant to use them all together, but two and two.”

“That certainly sounds possible.” Edwin went back to their desk and grabbed the original file. They do indeed all come with a partner, but it doesn’t seem particularly helpful. They are not partnered with each other, and while a few of the partners’ names could be references to streets, squares, or even addresses, they are few and vague enough to likely be accidental.

Charles comes up behind him. His arm drags against Edwin’s shoulder, leaving a trail of heat, as he points at the name of Lilyane Larrte — an already confirmed anagram —’s partner, “What about that then? Didn’t think anything of it, since it isn’t in the other file, but Wrellt’s a weird last name, innit?”

The excitement at discovering “Weller Street” is large, only to be immediately trumped by finding a place on the map where it crosses Artillery Lane.

“Let’s go!”

They step out through the door, peacoats fluttering in the wind. (‘When did they‘ ‘Of course they’re wearing coats, they are outside.’) The intersection is right in front of them. It seems an excellent place for illegal dealings. Looking around them Edwin doubts the area gets much foot traffic, even during more reasonable hours of the morning. The little greenery he can see is overgrown, the few windows that aren’t covered up show nothing but empty rooms painted landlord-white, both window frames and door hinges have rust creeping up on them.

At first glance, nothing separates the office building on the corner from its neighbours. It shares the same long abandoned exterior. It is the details which reveal its secrets. It is just a bit too well taken care of. The black plastic covering on one of the windows has gotten loose and flays in the wind, and underneath it the pane is pristine, not a crack in sight. The door has the same busted lock as so many others around, but there is a high end combination padlock taking its place, instead of the cheap, easily lockpicked, keyed padlocks the others have.

The padlock is a problem. Pressing his ear against the door, Charles insists he can hear scraping. They need to get inside, and quickly. The door itself is in bad condition, but it is still a large metal slab. They have no way of forcing that open. And with the padlock too difficult to pick, there is no way they are simply waltzing in. Even with only six numbers per dial there are over 200 different possible combinations.

Edwin feels ready to pull out the remainder of his hair, “There must have been something in the files telling us what the code was. They were clearly intending for the recipient to come here. Were they meant to knock?”

He looks to Charles, expecting his sniping comment to be met with his normal calm acceptance. His partner’s happy demeanour in the face of Edwin’s rudeness had been a very welcome surprise when they first started working together — that, more than anything else, had been what endeared Charles and his constant smiling to him — and Edwin had come to rely on it over the years. It is an unwelcome surprise to instead see his own expression mirrored, but Edwin can understand his annoyance. Something about a locked door standing between them and their goal chips away at him in a way their normal hinders don’t.

It’s stupid, he’s meant to be an officer of the law. Locked doors — search warrant requests unfiled, unread, refused — should not feel unfamiliar, and yet… (and yet…)

“Maybe it wasn't in the files. They could have had multiple ways to talk with each other.” Charles sends him an almost nervous glance. “I know we weren’t too keen to talk about it, yeah? But- I mean- That file was meant for the Chief.”

The quiet that settles over them is so oppressive Edwin swears he can almost hear the scraping himself.

“I’m not saying that he, like, knows about it, or is a part-”

“No, it’s a reasonable suggestion Charles.”

“Yeah, but- I know he can’t be guilty of anything, right? I’m just-” Charles insists.

“He was not even in the office to receive it. It was likely an odd ransom attempt.” Edwin is not so sure of that fact himself, but it seems to settle Charles. He is nodding to himself as he keeps talking,

“It’s the doughnuts. They were meant for the Chief too, yeah? I didn’t think much of it, but there was something off about ‘em.”

“Off how, Charles?”

“Well, the carton hadn't been opened yet, but there were already doughnuts missing, one in each row.” Edwin’s gaze is drawn, almost without his say-so, to the lock’s three dials.

“And how many rows were there?”

Charles seems to get more certain of his theory the more he speaks. It is always a wonder to see Charles solve something. All of him transforms when there’s a way forward. The stubborn furrow of his eyebrows, the determined set of his shoulders, the steel in his voice when he says, “Three, with six doughnuts in each. Or, y’know, five, cause one was missing.”

“It would fit with the inanity of the rest of this case. How fast do you think you can get back there to check which were gone?”

Charles pulls a slip of paper from his pocket. Cheeky grin lighting up his face. “Don't worry mate, I wrote it down, didn't I? Never know what might come in handy.”

“Ok, so first it's a three, then a five, then a two.”

Edwin turns the dials as he gets the corresponding numbers. There is no resistance. It is clear that the lock is experiencing regular use. At the first jank the lock doesn't budge. Nervosity spreads through him. He janks again, harder, shaking the lock a bit as he does. This time it lets go of its shackle.

He pulls the padlock from its place, pulling the chain it hung on with it, and moves back to let Charles lead the charge into the building.

“After you Detective Rowland-Palace.” The name still stings as awfully as if it were the first time he said it. Charles puts his hand on his weapon before pressing his shoulder — his right, the left seems fine today but it’s better to be safe with old injuries — against the door, forcing the heavy steel to move.

“POLICE! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

Charles’ yell seems to rattle the man inside, who takes off sprinting. Charles sets off after him, leaving Edwin to comfort the victim.

It’s something they've settled on after much deliberation. Charles is the faster of the two, but he is also the one civilians find most comforting. Edwin’s uptight demeanor and frown lines tends to make them clam up. But catching the perpetrator is always the priority, so Edwin forces his face to soften as he squats down beside the young woman.

It will be good to be finished with the case. The discoveries they’ve made warrant further investigation, but that can wait for another day. For now, the scene can be left to the people meant to be working night-shift and him and Charles can go home. Charles can kiss his wife before slipping into bed beside her and have breakfast together with her in the morning, and Edwin can… return to his empty apartment. On second thought it is just as well one of them remain to get started on the paperwork while it is still fresh in his mind. The first of their colleagues should begin trickling into the precinct soon, so the unpleasant emptiness should not be a problem for much longer.

He is in the middle of untying the victim’s hands when Charles comes bustling back through the still open backdoor with the kidnapper in cuffs.

“...questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be–”

The room transforms.

Charles stumbles as the weight of the man disappears from his arms.

Edwin sags in relief as the familiar weight of the uniform settles on his shoulders.

“What- what was that?” They rush towards each other, grasping at the features that only seconds ago looked so different.

“Is this going to keep happening?!”

“Oh, c'mon, it wasn't that bad this time. I think I made quite a striking detective. And you made a great blonde!”

“I'm fairly sure that was grey.” He can't help reaching out to touch his hair self-consciously. It was odd, seeing himself like that. At the university they had still been them. In different clothing and perhaps a bit older, but still easily recognisable. This time they were… It seems whatever is making this happen is attempting to make it as realistic as possible. Edwin chances a subtle glance at Charles’ left hand to confirm that everything has returned to normal.

“I don't suppose you have any idea on how to get us out of here?” There is only one door, identical to the one that got them stuck in the last story, and Edwin is fairly certain the walls are not any more ghost-friendly here than they were in the precinct.

“No way but forward.” Charles reaches out to open the door.

Chapter Text

The first thing Charles notices as he steps through the door is, oddly, a low hum surrounding them. It’s like the whine-buzz of summer cicadas, or maybe even the feedback of an amp. Whatever it is, the air is positively thick with it — syrupy and humid and undeniably enchanted.

The second thing he becomes aware of is trees. Lots and lots of trees.

Ancient, twist-gnarled branches weave together to create an intricate canopy overhead, amber glimmers of sun peeking through stubbornly like jewels. Soft moss covers the ground under their feet, and in the distance little balls of light seem to dance on the gentle breeze.

It's proper stunning, really, and somehow all the more eerie for it.

“Charles?”

He’s relieved when he turns around and sees his Edwin, not his mate wearing some other bloke's face. Only he's fairly certain that his Edwin wouldn't be caught undead in thigh-hugging forest green tights.

Which is kind of a shame, really, because his best mate does look quite dashing in this get-up — the tights, of course, but also a medieval-looking overcoat with delicate embroidered details, the color of which reminds Charles of the sweater Edwin was wearing when he was drug to Hell. Fastened up his legs are laced boots, and nestled in his dark hair is a silver circlet adorned with an emerald in the center.

So distracted by the outfit and that incessant humming, it takes Charles far too long to realize that for the first time, he remembers being in the prior rooms while seemingly in another. “Oi, no memory spell this time, eh?”

Edwin starts, as if woken from a trance. After a thoughtful moment, he says, “It does not appear so. Though if we were under some sort of a memory spell, we wouldn't very well know that there was anything to forget in the first place.”

“True,” Charles sighs, jumping when his hand brushes against something at his side — a sword, he realizes, affixed to his hip in some sort of leather scabbard. When he looks down, he realizes that his usual attire has been traded in for what looks like a costume they'd seen some of the actors wear at the Renaissance Faire during the Case of the Nabbed Turkey Leg of ‘08.

“A knight,” Edwin remarks on his crimson tunic and matching set of leather armor made up of a pauldron, bracers, and greaves. “I suppose it is quite fitting.”

Charles isn't sure why, but he grins, the sentiment a pleasant one coming from Edwin. “You look like some sort of elf prince!” he blurts. At Edwin’s expression, somewhere between bemused and shy, he adds, “It suits you, mate.”

Edwin blinks, tugging on the bottom of his coat thoughtfully. “We seem to have been assigned roles here too,” he reasons aloud, “though I don't believe we've been immersed all of the way for some reason or another.”

“Maybe we're getting used to the magic?” Charles guess with a shrug. “Or it's gotten less potent, yeah?”

“Perhaps,” Edwin agrees, though his frown suggests he's not yet convinced. “Regardless, if the pattern holds, we must solve whatever case this realm poses. Be mindful for clues.”

Charles snorts, his gaze sweeping around the forest broadly. “How can we look for clues if we don't even know the question?”

It's not comforting, the way his mate’s mouth pinches at the observation. In the absence of an answer from Edwin, the forest is preternaturally quiet.

“Wait a tick!” Charles exclaims suddenly. “When did that bloody humming shop?”

As if on cue, a twig snaps behind them, and they whirl around to find a group of five people have joined them in the clearing.

No, that's not right. Not people.

Creatures, with pointed ears and dewy skin and hair so long it nearly brushes the ground. Their features are ethereally androgynous, so beautiful it almost hurts to gaze at them for too long. They're dressed not dissimilarly to Edwin and him, though the flowers and branches and antlers and braids woven through their hair and clothing emanate an almost tangible sort of magic, one that seems to spread out endlessly in all directions.

“Fae,” Edwin breathes, falling just on the horrified side of wonder. He instructs in a low tone, “Whatever you do, do not utter our names.”

“Clever boy,” one of the creatures hums, reminding Charles inexplicably of a flowing stream. Maybe its the the pale blue of their garments, or the riverbed-mud tone of their skin. “But we know exactly who you are, Edwin Payne.”

The nearest creature’s chuckle crackles like campfire in the air. “Do not forget little Charles Rowland.”

All at once, the air around the dead boys seems to glimmer, little sunbeams fluttering around like butterflies. It holds no practical purpose that Charles can think of, which leads him to believe it is simply a flashy show of magic. He and Edwin exchange an equally wary glance. As beautiful as this world is on the surface, Charles can't deny the pin-prick sense of danger radiating from these beings.

It's Edwin, with his straight spine and his haughty tone, who says, “Then you no doubt know that we are the Dead Boy Detectives. What case do you have for us to solve?”

The smallest creature, the one on the end, tilts their head curiously. They seem to flit in and out of the shadows cast by the foliage above, and Charles thinks he may have missed them entirely if he didn't know to look in the first place. “We do not come to present a case to you, but a challenge.”

“A test!” Sparky — the name Charles has given the fire-y looking fae — roars.

Charles bristles, both from the sentiment and from the strange sensation of an uncomfortable warmth blasting into his face. He positions himself in front of Edwin, his hand brushing against the sword at his hip. “Oi, who are you to give us a bloody test?”

“The real question, little one,” Splashy, the sort of watery one, murmurs languidly, “is who are you to refuse?”

He can practically feel Edwin's brain churning behind him before he even speaks. “A challenge of what nature?” Edwin asks evenly, rising to the level of elemental prowess on display with ice lacing his tone.

Shadow whispers, scattered along the treeline, “A test of truth.”

A different fae creatures speaks now, their words carried to Charles’ ears on a gust of wind. “A series of ten questions, answered by two dead boys with not a lie uttered between them. Only then shall you leave this realm for the next.”

Edwin steps up beside him, eyes trained ahead. “If they are truly fae,” he explains guardedly, “they would simply be leveling the playing field. They cannot lie.”

Charles doesn't exactly love the hesitation in Edwin’s voice. “And if they're not actually fae?” he asks warily. Edwin gives a little shrug, as if to say that they would never know.

The detectives share a meaningful look, one that contains an entire conversation in its minutiae, before Edwin bargains, “Five questions, asked to both of us, answered in full honesty. After which you let us go, free and unharmed.”

Splashy appears to consider the terms, sharing a wordless exchange of their own with the other creatures. “It shall be as you state, Edwin Payne.”

The final fae, one with skin like bark and limbs as gnarled as the ancient trees around them, steps forward. In their trembling hand, they extend hold a vial containing a liquid that shimmers in the beam of light spilling into the clearing. “Drink,” Woodsy groans, and all of the branches overhead bend to listen.

Charles swallows down his nerves and takes the vial in hand. “Well,” he sighs, popping the cork out with his thumb, “cheers, mate.” He downs what he approximates is half of the vial, a bitter taste exploding on his tongue made only more intense from the decades he's spent without the sense. A shiver wracks his body as he hands the potion to Edwin.

Edwin takes the vessel as naturally as he takes everything else Charles hands to him, but an odd expression has darkened his emerald eyes. “Hardly sanitary,” he mutters, though he sounds strangely more breathless than annoyed. Without any fanfare, he knocks the rest of the potion back in one go, his throat bobbing as he swallows.

Charles is all at once struck by the realization that he's never seen Edwin do that. You know, being dead and all.

Maybe that’s why he's staring.

“Sit,” Woodsy’s voice creaks as five stumps emerge from the moss-covered ground behind each fae. Windy, Woodsy, Sparky, Splashy, and Shadow all sit in eerie unison, clearly expecting Edwin and Charles to do the same on the magical seats that have appeared close by.

As they sit, Charles can't help but feel a little comforted by the fact that Edwin won't be any farther than arm's length from him. The creatures haven't exactly done anything yet, but the whole thing still gives Charles the heebie jeebies. “Y'alright, mate?” he asks Edwin under his breath.

“No,” Edwin answers immediately, taking even himself by surprise. He goes to clamp a hand over his mouth, but instead he blurts, “I am terrified of what they may ask of us, and I worry I am missing some sort of trick.”

Charles hums. “Truth spell, eh?” he laughs nervously. “I don't like it much either. Makes me feel all hot under the collar, don't it?” At least this makes his partner smile a bit, that he's not the only one affected by the magic elixir.

Edwin takes a shaky breath, straightening his back in his seat and crossing his leg at the knee, looking for all the world like the prince this realm has dolled him up so fittingly to be. “Go on, then,” he states evenly, with all of the authority granted by the crown atop his head — not that he's ever needed his authority legitimized by an accessory before. “Let us get this over with.”

art by wordsinhaled

For the first time, Charles wonders what it is that these beings could possibly want to know from them. Were they spies from the Afterlife sent by someone who was unhappy with their assignments in the Lost & Found? Or, worse, were they after Edwin? After learning that his best mate is basically an endless ghost-powered torture battery, it's something Charles has thought about more than he cares to admit.

Or were they just some sort of bad guys who were going to enjoy seeing them squirm?

He's nearly worked himself up into a fit when Windy sucks in a gust of air, “What is,” and asks leisurely on the exhale, “your favorite color?”

Charles blinks, lips parting on his surprise. “Excuse me?” Edwin scoffs beside him. “What kind of a question is that? If this is a trick, I—”

“Red.”

Edwin’s head swivels toward him, a reprimand on the tip of his tongue.

“What?” he squawks defensively. “Red’s always been my favorite color, hasn't it? Just like you like a good blue, you.”

He doesn't understand why Edwin’s fighting it, the magic loosening their tongues. Out of all of the questions these weird buggers could've asked, this seems relatively harmless, doesn't it?

But for whatever reason, Edwin is fighting it, gritting his teeth against the enchantment forming a word with his lips unbidden. Finally, the detective gasps out, “Red! My favorite color is red.”

“Red? Since when is it red, mate?” Charles blurts automatically, unthinkingly.

The words tumble gracelessly from Edwin’s lips, “Since I've seen it look so sharp on you every day for more than thirty years.”

Charles sucks in a breath, one of those pesky living habits he never has quite been able to shake. He feels warm in the uncanny way that he's felt warm ever since he rescued Edwin from Hell and was given the incomprehensible gift of Edwin's heart.

If he's being honest, they haven't really talked about it much at all, the nature of Edwin’s desire for him. And though he said they had forever to sort it all out, he's found himself frustratingly short on time to figure out much of anything since then. Between Crystal going back to school, business at the agency booming, and the Night Nurse watching over them like a hawk, he's hardly had a moment to himself in months.

All that to say, the weight of Edwin’s honest affection hits him like a ton of bricks.

But Edwin looks pained by it, the words pulled unwittingly from his heart. Charles knows it must be jarring when he so often relies on his head. “Really? That's brills. Proper flattering, isn't it?”

His partner looks taken aback by the statement, though Charles can't quite suss out why. Why wouldn't he be flattered that just looking at his sorry mug made Edwin Payne change his mind on something?

“Next question,” Woodsy croaks. Charles jump a bit, having mostly forgotten about the fae. But there they all still sit, watching the ghosts with their ancient, knowing eyes. Their somber voice creaks with the effort it takes to ask, “What is your earliest memory from your life?”

For the death of him, Charles cannot figure out what it is that they're getting at. But once again, Edwin looks apprehensive about answering — though this time, he squares his shoulders and gives it a go. “I remember unpacking my bags at St. Hilarion’s after the summer holidays. That year, I had managed to convince my father to allow me to bring along my own copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles, the one with my notes and annotations. He thought it looked too worn to be becoming of a family of our status, but I insisted.” A small, wistful smile tugs on his lips despite his initial hesitancy to give an answer.

“Hold on a tick,” Charles says, tilting his head to the side in confusion. “How early were you reading Sherlock Holmes, mate?”

Edwin shrugs, his mouth moving faster than his mind in a rare, uncharacteristic reversal. “Oh, I don't know. Nine, perhaps? But I was in Year Eight before I crafted a strong enough argument to persuade my father.”

“Oh, bloody hell!” Edwin winces at Charles’ exclamation, but he can't help but press on and ask, “You don't remember anything from before you were twelve?”

He immediately wants to retract his shock, because Edwin’s face flushes both of their favorite color at his outburst. “No,” he admits softly, “not in anything other than fragments, at the very least.”

Despair sinks heavily in the pit of Charles' stomach — Edwin died at sixteen, which means he only remembers roughly four years of his life before he was dragged to Hell.

“Oh, mate, I—” Charles begins to say, but Edwin cuts him off.

“I do not wish to discuss this here.” Edwin juts his chin in the direction of the creatures, who watch on in eerie, silent judgement.

“Right. ‘Course. Guess that means it's my turn, yeah?” Charles runs a hand down his face, both to brush off Edwin’s last two answers and to scour his brain for the earliest memory he can think of.

With a jolt of dread, he realizes what it is.

“My earliest memory,” Charles begrudgingly begins, the truth spell fizzling acridly on his tongue, “is playing hide and seek with my mum. Couldn't have been older than three. I buried myself in the laundry basket, covered myself with all the dirty clothes all clever-like. Thought I found myself the best hiding spot ever, didn't I?”

His bitter laugh seems to echo in the clearing, and though he can only look down at his stupid costume-y looking boots, he can feel six pairs of eyes trained right on him.

“I thought it must have been brills, because I was waiting there forever. I was chuffed at first, before I started to get bored. That's when I heard my dad.” Charles forces himself to pause, though the enchantment doesn't give him much time to collect himself, to school the scrubbed-raw rage teeming in his voice. “Thought he’d finally joined our little game. He was hollerin’ something about finding my mum, so I thought she must not be hiding very well, was she?”

Edwin stands suddenly, and maybe the wankers dosed them with something other than a truth spell, because Charles actually flinches at the motion before he can stop himself. His best mate doesn't seem to notice, all righteous fury as he snaps, “Enough! I am tired of this pointless game. Tell us what it is that you are really after, or let us go.”

Woodsy is not moved by the impassioned demand. “What is your earliest memory, Charles Rowland?”

“He already told you!” Edwin cries out defensively.

“Not over yet, mate, is it?” Charles laughs harshly, face screwing up to the point of pain. “When my mum found me, she said we were gonna go have a sleepover at my aunt's. We left right away, and for so long, I thought it was the best day ever, yeah? Hide and seek with my mum and my dad, and then a weekend with my cousins?” He shakes his head, tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. “But eventually we went back, because oh, we always went back. And we never stayed with that aunt again.”

Hanging his head, Charles finally feels the mystic vice grip on his throat release, the higher powers apparently satiated by his honesty once more.

He doesn't need to look up at Edwin to tell he's trying to formulate some sort of response, one that Charles isn't sure he can handle right now. “Now that that's sorted,” Charles says with a clap, “let's get a move on, yeah? Two down, three to go, and then we never have to see you sorry lot again. Bring it on, will ya?”

Edwin scrutinizes him thoroughly before nodding and lowering himself onto his seat once more.

It's Sparky who gives them an almost manic grin, their teeth sharp as flint. “Tell me, Dead Boy Detectives, how many people have you kissed?”

Charles can't help but laugh at the absurdity despite the affronted little noise Edwin makes in the back of his throat. “Seriously?” he scoffs, shaking his head back and forth. “You blokes don't have anything better to do than ask us about some snogging, of all things?”

The fae predictably do not give him a response, though he's fairly certain the cheeky little breeze that ruffles his curls carries with it some amused laughter, like maybe they know a secret Edwin and he do not.

“I’ll take a crack at this one first, mate,” Charles assures Edwin, offering him what he hopes is a reassuring grin to counter Edwin’s nervous frown.

Edwin's always been so buttoned-up about this sort of thing. Charles initially chalked it up to the “virgin” bit of the “virgin sacrifice,” but it occurs to him for the first time that the reasons might have run a bit deeper than that. Had Edwin had someone he had wanted to kiss back in his day, a forbidden object of desire he held onto until his death?

“I've kissed six people, you nosy pricks,” Charles declares, eyebrows raised in a defiant challenge. He still isn't quite sure what they're after, but at least this question is an easy one. He nods to Edwin and says, “No shame in never being kissed, mate. Don’t let ‘em frazzle you over nothing, yeah?”

Edwin’s eyes flick up to the sky, like maybe he’s hoping to find an escape amongst the treetops — or maybe he’s trying to think of a spell that would help him fly away and avoid this whole thing.

“One.”

Charles blinks a few times, because surely that can't be right. “Oi, you’ve kissed someone before, mate? You never told me that!” he huffs. Edwin shrugs almost sheepishly, and oh. Well. Maybe Edwin had his own reasons for not disclosing this either. There's a smile tugging on the corner of Charles’ lips, though he can’t put a finger on why. “Well, ‘least you can tell me about it now, yeah?”

Edwin sighs, resigned. “I—very well, then. It was Monty.” Charles doesn't even have time to process that little tidbit before Edwin blurts out, “You've only kissed six people?” and throws him for yet another loop.

“What, is that a problem?” tumbles out of Charles’ mouth before he can even give it a good think.

“No!” Edwin rushes to answer. “I just—well, given your proclaimed…fondness for the act,” he manages to say, though it clearly feels unnatural on his tongue, “I assumed you would have had many such sweethearts.”

Charles suddenly feels warm again, because hearing Edwin speak openly about these things is kind of the the most delightful thing he's ever heard.

Driven to giddiness, he says playfully, “So. Monty, eh?”

Edwin groans, burying his face in his hands, which Charles now notices are adorned with rings. “Not here, I beg of you.”

Charles chuckles, proud that they've managed to power through this stupid test so far, no matter how heavy or awkward it's gotten. “Two left now, mate. We can do this, can't we?”

His best mate lifts his head and offers him a weak smile. “We shall see, will we not?”

“Edwin Payne,” Splashy’s voice ripples out and startles them both. “Charles Rowland. What is one thing you have told someone else, but not one another?”

So much for softball questions. Charles worries this doozy may not bode well, given the deceptively simple questions that seemed to trip them up.

“Very well,” Edwin says bravely, clearing his throat to prepare. Having once again refocused himself to his usual poise, he directs his answer to Charles. “Charles. I—well, I have never told you this. But my motivations behind our work are not all,” he struggles for a moment before deciding on, “altruistic, as such. In truth, they are rather selfish indeed.”

“What are you talking about, mate?” Charles can't help but ask. “You're, like, the best person in the whole world. Surely you gotta know that?”

Edwin shakes his head dismissively. “In the back of my mind, I was hoping that the work we do at the agency would grant me some leniency should I ever find myself in Hell again. That it might provide some leverage, a catalogue of good deeds done.” After a moment, he adds a bit haughtily, “It didn’t work, of course. But the shame remains.”

Charles considers this new information — a secret that Edwin must have despaired over for decades. He wonders briefly who Edwin could have told about this shame. It must have happened in Port Townsend, given the uncharacteristic amount of time they spent apart. Niko, then? Maybe even Monty?

Regardless, Charles can't let Edwin go a second longer thinking that way about himself. “Well, mate,” he says, “I don't think that's selfish at all, do I? I mean, you never belonged in Hell in the first place! Not your fault you wanted to tip the scales in your favor a bit — just to even things out, eh?”

Edwin regards him with an open sort of wonder, like he can't quite believe that Charles truly means what he's saying. Charles is momentarily glad for the truth spell, if it leaves Edwin with no question about his honesty. “Perhaps,” the detective concedes softly. “Though I do suppose it is your turn now.”

Charles doesn't much like it, the way Edwin seems to steel himself in preparation to hear his answer. That displeasure must reflect on his face, because Edwin’s expression softens considerably.

“Nothing you can tell me will change how I feel about you, Charles,” Edwin admits with such raw sincerity it takes Charles' habitual breath away. He only wishes Edwin didn't look so sorry about it, because it's one of the most brilliant things he's ever heard.

Inspired by Edwin’s bravery, Charles squares his armor-clad shoulders and murmurs, “I, um, still check on my parents. From time to time.” He thought he might be able to stop there, but the magic coursing through him pries open his mouth once more. “Every week, actually, pretty much since I died, I—I find a mirror and just watch them. I can't help myself, can I? Need to make sure they're okay. That she's okay.”

Any white-hot iron in Edwin’s demeanor dissipates completely. “You didn't think I would understand,” he poses, though it's not much of a question.

“You never really mentioned your parents,” Charles explains, “though now I suppose now I know why, yeah? And, you know. Sometimes I feel like shite, because they are okay, relatively speaking. I’m dead and their lives didn't change much from it. Maybe got better, even.”

Edwin reaches over to cover Charles’ hand with his own, the first time they've touched during this whole ordeal. Edwin feels corporeal in this enchanted realm, full of warmth and texture. “There is no world in which anyone is better without you, Charles Rowland.”

It's almost ironic, when Shadow springs the final question on them. “What is your greatest fear?”

Charles snorts, not even bothering to look over at their observers. He reckons he can get through this if he just locks in on Edwin. That's how he's gotten through his whole afterlife, after all. “It’s just that, actually,” Charles states simply.

The other ghost’s brow furrows in that endearing little way it does when Edwin is trying to put together some puzzle pieces or clues in his brain.

“What you just said,” Charles is compelled to clarify. “That maybe everyone would be better off without me, y'know? Or, well, that you'd be better off without me.” Once the words start flowing, they can't be stopped, no matter how much Charles wants to put his foot in his mouth. “That one day you'll finally realize that you don't want me around, and—and you'll tell me to go with with Death when she comes ‘round, ‘cause you see how bloody angry and—and scared I am all the time.”

Edwin chuckles almost wistfully. “What a pair we make. Here I am, afraid that you will realize you have squandered your chance at paradise by spending your afterlife with me.”

Before Charles can even think to form a rebuttal about paradise and Edwin, the endless foliage around them begins to blur and dissolve. He sees Edwin stand up swiftly out of the corner of his eye just as he drops flat on his arse when the stump disappears. It startles a laugh out of him, one that has him scrambling to his feet once more.

By the time he does, Edwin is back in his normal attire, no pretty crown or wicked fae in sight.

“You know, I am not sure I would be too remiss to forget about that realm, at least for the time being,” Edwin admits with a full-body shiver. Though Charles can no longer feel the truth spell coating his tongue, he can't help but wonder if its effects might just linger in other ways.

Charles agrees readily. “I know what you mean, mate. It’s a shame I never got to use the sword, though, innit?”

Edwin shakes his head, a soft sort of fondness coloring his expression. “On to the next?” he asks, eyeing the now-familiar door with a healthy dose of suspicion.

“Ready or not, here we come,” Charles declares, swinging the door open in front of them.

Chapter Text

It happens in a breath.

One moment, Edwin is deep in his thoughts, trying to figure out if some unknown magic will muddle their memories again, and the next—

"CHARLES!"

The answering "EDWIN!" echoes and is swiftly swallowed by the ground opening up below Charles' feet and then closing again like nothing happened.

"What, where—" Edwin stops. Counts to ten. Blinks twice. Charles does not reappear.

Looking down, the surface appears completely solid. It is cubical in shape and coloured in a bright neon pink, flashing with light every couple of seconds. He tries to phase through the material with one foot but it refuses to let him, which could suggest they are corporeal in this place as well, or that the cube itself is enchanted.

"Charles…?" he calls again, more hesitant this time, because this CANNOT be happening. Charles can't be just— gone.

A low vibration makes him jump back, and he has to thank his Hell-honed quick reflexes because a split-second later the pink cube he was standing on disappears again, leaving in its place only a dark abyss. As far as the eye can reach, there is no sign of light, and no Charles at the bottom. Before he can think of a spell to investigate it better, the cube reappears, hiding the void from view.

"What is this place?" he asks, to no-one in particular.

There are more similar bright-coloured shapes in the otherwise empty space surrounding him, all of them alternating between glowing brighter and dimming at different intervals.

Edwin waits for the following appearance of the pink cube — he counts six seconds between a disappearance and the next — before jumping on top of it and moving forward to a longer and flatter green platform on the other side.

"Charles?" he whispers. He can hear how hopeless his voice sounds as he keeps walking and Charles does not answer.

He passes another disappearing cube, suspended in the air, and he finds a spongy-looking sphere, roughly the size of his head. When he tries to phase through it, unexpectedly, this one gives in. The texture feels like a nightmare on his skin, but he does not have time to spare on hating his temporary corporeality, because his fingers graze against a bottle. Edwin shivers, thinking about the truth vial he and Charles shared not an hour prior — or was it longer? How does time even work in these rooms? Perhaps he should find a way to count the minutes, or draw a map of the place.

Like the rest of the room, the content of the bottle has a shimmering, almost fluorescent colour. He shakes it a little with his hand and notices the particles inside moving at an odd speed, not quite like a liquid would nor a solid, and at the bottom of the vial a painted red heart.

"Well, any outcome is better than the alternative," he considers out loud. He would like to have the chance to run more tests on the potion, or at least do some research about its content or the symbol on the vial, but there is no time to lose, and no price would be too high to pay if it gave him a clue to Charles' whereabouts. He dares to take a tentative sip and he is immediately hit with the most peculiar sensation: his entire body tingles as if it has been electrocuted — a sensation he is regretfully familiar with, thanks to his second owner in Hell — but without any of the pain.

Then he hears it: "EDWIN!" said with the exact same urgency as the first time. His eyes snap up to the pink cube, where he sees Charles standing, awkwardly patting his sides and looking around in confusion.

"Charles! Jump! Jump to the platform!"

"Wha—" the cube disappears again.

Edwin has to bite back a swear word that he is sure would make Crystal proud. But he thinks he understand the game this time.

He counts to six, then to six again for good measure, hoping to give Charles the longest slot of time he can, and takes another sip of the potion.

"Jump to the next platform, now!" He yells, over the "EDWIN!", "Wha—" the other is forced to repeat by the time loop.

Luckily, they have over thirty years of blind trust in each other on their backs, so Charles doesn't question the force of the command, he just jumps forward, with even one second to spare before the cube vanishes.

Edwin rushes to him, gripping Charles' shoulders in a bone-crushing vice. "Charles, you're here," he says, uncaring of the uncharacteristic manner of speech in favour of expressing his feelings faster.

"'course I am. What happened? Didn't we just pass through the door?"

Edwin explains the little he learned about the room so far: the cubes disappear and reappear at regular intervals, the flat platforms seem to be stable, and the spheres contain other objects.

"Wait a tick, did you just say you— Drunk an unknown potion?"

"I—" Edwin feels the tips of his ears warm, but after everything he admitted in the truth-room, might as well. He takes a deep breath. "Whatever might have happened, it would have been better than the alternative of you being gone."

"Oh," Charles says. He doesn't sound uncomfortable, but Edwin cannot read his expression.

"Shall we go then?"

After another long moment, Charles finally nods. "It looks like a video game, doesn't it?"

Edwin appreciates that he accepted the obvious distraction without pressing further on the topic of the potion.

"Is it that plastic box you play with sometimes?"

"The Game Boy," Charles corrects. "Yes, like that! This type of game is called a 'platform', we have to reach the other side with tricks and agility."

Edwin is, apparently, not quick enough to hide his expression of disgust at those words because Charles laughs. "Come on, mate, some physical activity will be good for you."

"If we must."

They count the seconds before climbing up the next cube, then they jump to another, and to another, before reaching one of the green check-point platform (as Charles called them).

"Wait," Charles says. "This next sequence is impossible."

Edwin looks up and it takes him a second longer to figure out what he means, his brain being less wired for this specific type of puzzle.

"The cubes disappear at the same time," he says when he does.

Charles nods proudly. "That's right. No matter when we jump to the first, we won't have time to reach the other before it disappears."

"The potion," Edwin turns, raising the bottle he was still holding and presenting it to Charles. "When you appeared the second time, you were stuck in a time loop for a moment. I think we can use it to our advantage. We shall test if it works going one at a time, so we have the chance to rewind the game if it does not."

"Brills, I'll go," Charles predictably offers.

"No, you understand this sort of place far better than I do. I will go."

Before Charles can open his mouth to protest, Edwin looks straight in his eyes, showing all the desperation he felt when he thought Charles was lost in the abyss and adds: "Please."

"Alright, then." Charles' voice is low, soothing, and Edwin offers a small, grateful smile in return.

"Here's the plan," Charles says after Edwin reaches his position at the edge of the platform. "These things reappear every four seconds. You jump to the first, stay still until it disappears again, and I'll rewind the time while remaining at the check-point, so I won't be affected by the change."

"Yes, I am ready."

Edwin jumps, counts to four—

"Yes, I am ready."

"Bollocks," says Charles as he falls down again.

It takes them three separate attempts to get the timing right but it works. During the time loop, Edwin is frozen in place even without the cube to stand upon, while the room keeps moving, and only when reality resets itself he can interact freely with his surroundings again and is, as such, affected by them.

Edwin lands on the next check-point and turns to Charles with a smile.

"Just one problem, mate."

This time, Edwin realises it too. "We only have one potion."

"You said you found the bottle inside a sphere, right? Maybe you can find another one on that side?"

He has to climb up a different cube to reach it, but he does find another potion. They repeat the process to allow Charles to join him, and when he does, he looks charged, almost like—

"Charles, are you having fun?"

The grin he wears is unmistakable. And in more ordinary circumstances, it would be easy enough for Edwin to be affected by it, too. To let Charles guide him in enjoying the playful moment together, but Edwin cannot forget the terror he experienced at the beginning, when he found himself alone, not knowing what to do or think.

Charles can probably read it in his face, because he takes both of his hands and squeezes them reassuringly. "I'm sorry for what happened, should have been more careful when we entered. But I'm here now, we're safe."

"Are we?" Edwin asks, his tone a touch more high-pitched than it probably should be in their circumstances. "We keep going through strange rooms, which change our appearance, make us corporeal, play with our minds. It is a maze, and a very powerful one at that, if it is blocking my access to magic."

"I know. But we have to move forward, and if I have to choose a challenge, I prefer to jump up and down colourful blocks than to risk getting tricked by faeries, or have my entire memories rewritten."

Edwin's shoulders slump. "Yes, I do concur that the previous one was a lot more emotionally demanding."

"Let's go, I see a ladder over there."

They walk side by side, their shoulders brushing slightly together. Edwin is sure Charles is doing it on purpose to reassure him of his presence, and he is definitely not complaining about it.

The ladder — of course — is in free fall. It goes down and into the void, disappearing from view before a new one appears in its place.

The only saving grace is that there is nothing following them, so they can take their time in counting the seconds, planning their next move.

"What now?" Edwin asks, seeing Charles frozen in place over the next green platform.

"Rafts."

The deeper meaning behind the single-word answer clearer than if he actually said it out loud. Water. Of course. Edwin is so done with this game, already. He fervently wishes he'd let Charles have his fun earlier.

"Do you think we will have to jump from one to the next until we reach the other side?" Edwin asks, hoping that focusing on the dynamics of the challenge will help Charles distract himself from having to deal with water.

"I thought so, but… Look!" he says, following the direction of one of the rafts with his finger as it floats, reaches the end of its track and disappears into nothing. "I think we have to go in the opposite direction."

Something clicks in Edwin's brain. "A different time loop?"

"Think so, yeah. There's no way we would be faster than the current otherwise."

They start searching the space around them until (down a platform and up a ladder) they find several spongy spheres in a mix of yellow, red, blue, and oranges. They find three bottles in total, one of them looks the same as the two potions they already had, but the others are different, still with that same odd consistency, but coloured in a dark silver.

"I'll try it this time," says Charles, his tone not leaving room for debate.

He takes a small sip, and the rafts change direction for a moment, before resuming their normal float towards the void.

They look at each other in triumph.

"You will have to drink it all, Charles. I will be ready."

Edwin has lost count of how many times he jumped, or climbed, or ducked inside a tunnel, rewind their relative time or the room's in turn to solve the puzzles. It is both an exercise in agility and a brain-teaser, every new challenge more complex than the previous one.

"It's like we're levelling up," Charles has said.

They have just reached a section where the only path forward is made of trapdoors that open and close seemingly at random. They are taking turns in making hypothesis to figure out if there is a pattern they can take advantage of, when a loud noise echoes in the room. It is a low pitched sound, almost musical in nature, even if not exceedingly pleasant. It sounds again, and again, five times in total, and then a deep voice says:

"Time is up. Game over."

Charles groans, loudly, but Edwin doesn't have time to ask if he knows what it means because a moment later they find themselves on top of the blasted pink cube again.

"This bloody thing has a time li—" Charles tries to explain. Before he can finish, Edwin grabs him by the arm and jumps, dragging them both to the check-point platform, from which they watch the cube disappear and take a simultaneous breath of relief.

"It appears we have lost all of our potions," Edwin says, looking down at his empty hands.

"We'll have to be faster, you remember everything we did?"

"Like you said, only one way to find out?" he suggests, and Charles' answering smile is blinding as they start to run. The view of his cheeks darkened by the strain — apparently, their bodies were not restored after the first round —, his messy hair and his eyes glinting from the excitement of the challenge is almost enough to make Edwin forget that they are trapped.

"Backwards, four sips."

"Yes. You go first, Charles."

"Bloody hate the fucking rafts."

"Do not worry, it will be so quick you will not even notice it."

"Should we slide down?"

"If I remember correctly, we have to go up here. The silver potion."

"Ah, yes. You're right."

They are much quicker this time, knowing what to expect at every turn, but they still haven't figured out how to pass the trapdoors when they reach that section again.

"There does not seem to be a pattern at all," Edwin says dejectedly, catching his breath. His current corporeal body seems to be weaker somehow, which is another mockery on top of not having access to his magic.

"Wait, there's a button there, maybe I should press it."

Without waiting for a response — and, really, how many times do they have to talk about impulsive behaviours? Edwin clutches the shimmery vial to his chest, and looks around for the closest check-point just in case — Charles steps over the large purple button on the ground and, immediately, all the trapdoors close.

"Brills," he says, but as soon as he removes his weight from the button, the random opening and closing resumes.

"One of us will have to remain there," Edwin supplies, saying out loud what they are both thinking.

"Do we have more of that silver potion?"

Edwin shakes his other hand to show the item in response, and Charles nods. When Edwin reaches the check-point, he drinks the silver potion, making the room move backwards, to the moment the trapdoors were closed, and allowing Charles to pass as well.

"What now?"

"We have to reach that platform over there, I assume," Edwin says, pointing up.

"There's a very strong wind, maybe we should reverse it?"

"Whose turn is it to stay back?" They have started keeping track, to avoid having a very long and animated discussion about it every time the need arises.

"Me," Charles says, not without gritting his teeth.

"Good, so shall I jump?"

"Reckon so, yeah."

He waits for Charles to give him the sign and jumps forward. He hears Charles yell "EDWIN!" before finding himself back at the starting point, with the light-headedness they have come to associate with the time loop restarting. His mind catches up and he realises a second before it happens that he is about to fall again, unable to change track and interact with the room before the loop ends.

"Charles!" he yells from the void, but he is helpless to do anything but fall a second time, and faster because the wind has not been reversed — did they even have enough potion for another loop?

"Wind's not enough!" Charles yells, unhelpfully.

When he reappears on top of the cliff again, Charles tackles him with his body to stop him from going forward, but he cannot fight the loop.

"Charles!"

The third time, he hears another string of curses.

"Charles!"

The fourth, Edwin reaches the high platform.

He looks down at his corporeal body, finding it unchanged, then at Charles.

"You okay, mate?"

"I seem to be unharmed. What happened?"

"It was not working, so I had the idea to drink both potions at the same time. You gained momentum with each fall, until you finally managed to have enough to reach the top."

"That was brilliant, Charles."

His eyes have lost their glint again, though.

"Should have been me."

"I am not sure I would have figured it out as quickly as you did. As you know, I have never played one of these games before."

"Let's just get out of here."

Edwin looks around to see if there are any more potions. He has to climb up a ladder, and jump to another disappearing cube to reach them, but he finds three. He barely gets back to Charles in time to hear it.

Five sounds.

"Time is up. Game over."

"Ugh."

They remember to jump off the pink cube immediately, but when they stop at the first check-point, they are both too exhausted to start running.

"Can we use one of these rounds to rest?" Edwin suggests, looking at Charles with pleading eyes.

Charles bites the inside of his cheek. "Sometimes these things have a limited number of 'lives'. I wonder if there's a way to stop the timer, like, checking our stats or something."

The moment he says it, a big button appears in front of them with the label "Go to settings".

Charles presses it and the room around them changes completely. Instead of the colourful blocks and platforms, they can now see written text everywhere. It is a bit difficult to make out words while walking between their letters, but they figure out it's a description of the rules and options of the game. They see a timer at the centre, mercifully frozen at 00:00:10.32.

Edwin sits, resting against a large 'T'.

"Found it!" yells Charles from a couple of lines further. "We have four lives in total, which means we'll only have one more after this one. And, look, our characters have stats! You’re good at jumps, and fast, I’m resistant and strong. It seems we don’t have any special powers, though."

He seems a little disappointed by the fact.

For the second time Edwin wishes he had his notebook to draw a map of what they've seen so far, but none of their possessions seem to have followed them here.

"Let us take this moment to rest, and go over everything we learned so far."

"Good idea. We'll have to be more careful with the potions, because we need a ton to go over that cliff and we don't have time to find new ones there."

"We can both jump at the same time, so we will only need one bottle of each."

Charles looks at him like he has grown a second head. "And you say I'm the reckless one?"

"You explained we need to build momentum, did you not? If we drink both potions when we jump, the room will do the rest for us, the silver potion will be restored by the loop so we do not need more."

"And if it doesn't work, who will restart the time loop?"

Edwin shrugs, but he is looking at Charles with his best defiant expression. He escaped Hell, he is not afraid of one little game.

"If it does not work, we will be more careful with our final life."

For a moment, Charles seems to be struck with something Edwin does not understand. Then he nods in agreement. "Fine, let's do it."

"We climb up and then… The silver potion?"

"That's correct."

"Remember we are almost at the rafts, just breathe through, it will be alright."

"I know, I know. Still hate them."

Charles offers his hand when they reach the cliff, and Edwin does not waste any time before taking it.

"You drink the silver potion, we jump and I'll drink the time loop potion before we reach the bottom," Charles reminds him. He is anxious, Edwin can sense it in the way his fingers tremble slightly against his own.

He nods, trying to look as sure and encouraging as he can.

He tips the vial in his direction, as if in a toast.

Two iterations, and they build enough momentum to reach the check-point.

They exchange a triumphant grin, before starting to run forward again. Neither of them says anything about their hands still being clasped together.

"Last stretch, mate! I can see the door! We have to go faster."

"This corporeal body is not made for running long distances, Charles. I am doing my level best."

The same low, musical sound from before starts playing.

"No, no, no, no, we are here, we are here!" Charles yells, and with a swift move that Edwin thought he would ever, in his life, only see in Niko's manga, he uses their entwined hands to stop Edwin, pick him up bridal style, and rushes the last few steps towards the door, touching the handle before the final note can bring them back to the beginning again.

They slump ungracefully to the floor.

"Did it work?" Edwin asks, if only to avoid thinking about the other, far less appropriate, feelings being awoken by Charles carrying him.

A different kind of music starts playing then, and the room fills with confetti while all the neon-coloured blocks, the water, the ladders, trapdoors and cliffs disappear.

"Think we did it, mate," Charles says, still out of breath.

"Shall we go out, then?" Edwin says urgently, almost afraid the room will somehow change its mind before they can leave.

The door opens.

Chapter Text

The Payne Castle stretches across the hill like a fortress grown from the very stone itself.

White marble towers pierce the sky, surrounded by impenetrable walls guarded by armour-clad knights. Payne-crested flags and banners flapping in the harsh wind. Within its walls, life moves with the rhythm of tradition: the clatter of armed guards on stone corridors, the hushed footsteps of servants carrying trays of food, the echo of distant prayers in the chapel, the buzz of life of the town beyond the castle.

Prince Edwin walks through these halls with a careful tread, not because he fears those who reside, nor the stones beneath his feet, but because he knows the eyes that watch him, loyal and suspicious alike. His deep navy cloak brushes the floor, hemmed with gold that marks him unmistakably as the heir to the throne. 

But despite the weight of his heritage and of the expectation that befalls him, his shoulders carry a quiet ease, the ease of a boy accustomed to observation, armed with his own curiosity and subtle rebellion, within the confines of etiquette.

As he walks, for the briefest of moments, there’s a haze that sits heavy in his mind, seemingly clouding the fields of his vision, and the faintest flicker of ‘how did I get here?’ runs through the back of his mind. 

The sound of a door slamming shut down the lengthy stone corridor seems to reset him, though, and any confusion fades as Edwin goes about his duties. If everything before now seems tinged with a faint haze of surrealism, then Edwin doesn’t question it. 

Because this is how things always have been…

Right? 

In the great hall, Charles moves like a shadow along the walls, quiet and efficient. His tunic is plain, his boots worn but polished, and his hands steady from years of service. He does not step into the spotlight, and he does not seek recognition, but he notices everything, faces, movements, the shifts in the court’s moods. He has learned to read the air, to anticipate the needs of those above him, and to vanish from attention when necessary. 

They are not friends. 

Not yet.

Perhaps they never will be. 

Yet the prince and the manservant know of one another, as one knows the sun that rises outside a castle window: constant, present, impossible to ignore. Charles has watched Edwin grow from a boy eager to chase sparrows across the courtyards to a young man whose gaze lingers on maps and letters, and books more often than the world outside the keep.

Edwin, for his part, notices the servant’s careful attention, the way his posture never betrays surprise, and the faint tension in his shoulders, like a taut bowstring ready to be released. He notices the longing in his eyes every time the knights gather to train in the courtyard, every time the young nobles run and laugh and play through the halls, kicking balls and wielding carefully fashioned toy swords. He notices how young he is, how it seems as if they’ve grown up together, lives arcing in parallel but so entirely separate. 

And still, despite the gulf of status, Edwin finds himself adopting a small ritual of acknowledgement. 

When his path through the hallways takes him past the servant, even if only for a moment, he lifts his hand in greeting. It is brief, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but not to Charles. A nod, a tilt of the head, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Charles returns the gesture, restrained, professional, almost as if the prince’s greeting is a part of the castle’s machinery rather than a personal choice.

It is enough. Not much, but enough. Enough for Edwin to feel that someone else notices him beyond the gilded expectations of his crown. Enough for Charles to understand that the boy who wears the gold cloak sees him, even if he does not truly know him.

In the courtyards, the sun falls in dappled patterns over cobblestones and rosebushes.  Servants scurry to perform their duties, and the occasional laugh of a young page pierces the afternoon air. Edwin pauses at the fountain, watching water spill over carved stone lions, and Charles, passing by with a tray of silver goblets for the evening meal, catches the prince’s eye. A brief, polite bow. A flicker of a smile from Edwin. Then Charles continues on his way, and the moment is gone.

And so, they exist in this careful orbit, passing each other day after day. Not friends. Not enemies. Merely two people aware of each other, aware of the roles they are meant to play, and aware of the fragile spark of acknowledgement that lingers between them. It is a spark that will not burn openly yet, but it waits, patient, for the moment the world demands it ignite.

The great hall smells of roasting meat, candle wax, wine – heady and rich and aged, tainted by the faint, sour tang of old stone. Fine, intricate tapestries line the walls, embroidered with scenes of battles and hunts long past, their colours faded but their authority undimmed. Torches flicker along the walls, casting long, shuddering shadows across polished wooden tables, where nobles in embroidered silks and stiff collars chatter over silver goblets.

Prince Edwin sits at the long table, draped in a cloak of deep blue trimmed with gold, a plate of untouched meat before him. He traces the rim of his goblet with a finger, watching the wine ripple, his expression carefully neutral. Around him, the voices rise and fall, laughter, boasts of land, of conquests, of marriages arranged and debts collected. 

It is all so tedious. 

He does not care for the men who sit here, puffed with their self-importance, nor for the empty grandeur of their conversation. He knows he must be seen, that he must nod politely when addressed, smile faintly when complimented, and above all, remain silent when the men speak of matters he has neither interest in nor authority to oppose.

Behind him, moving with quiet precision, is Charles. He carries a tray of silver platters, laden with steaming meats and crusted breads. His eyes flicker from plate to goblet. Subservient, obedient, invisible except when needed, he glides through the gaps between the nobles, depositing dishes without disturbing the conversation. He does not speak unless spoken to, does not move faster than necessary, and does not draw attention to himself.

The king, a broad man with a face flushed from both wine and age, laughs loudly at some tale of conquest, slapping the table with a hand heavy with golden rings. The nobles chuckle obediently, bowing heads, as if the sound alone were praise. Edwin feels the weight of expectation pressing against him, the invisible leash of etiquette keeping him upright, silent, decorous. He shifts in his seat, sighing imperceptibly, eyes wandering to the darkened corners of the hall where shadows gather behind pillars.

It is in that shadow, at the edge of the torchlight, that the first unease creeps. A chill, subtle at first, brushes against the back of his neck. The nobles do not notice it. The king does not notice it. Charles, as ever, does not with words, but with instinct.

The air thickens, and the torches flare as if a wind has passed through the hall. The clatter of silverware falters, conversations halt mid-laugh, eyes dart to corners where movement seems impossible. 

The moment stretches thin as the torches flicker violently, and the hall seems to shrink under the oppressive shadow of the black-robed figure. The smell of burning herbs intensifies, thick and choking, curling into every corner of the stone hall. Nobles rise from their seats in alarm, their embroidered robes rustling like dry leaves, their silver goblets clattering onto the table. 

A figure, a witch – steps forward, her gaze fixed on Edwin, a cruel curve of a smile on her lips. Shadows cling to her, twisting unnaturally, the air around her humming with a strange, dangerous energy.

The witch laughs, low and melodic, and the sound crawls along stone walls. 

And the moment breaks. “Guards!” the king bellows, but his commands are almost drowned by the screams rising around him.

The guards leap into action, boots striking the polished floor with thunderous echoes, and the hall erupts into pandemonium. Swords are drawn, shields raised. Some men attempt to form a line between the witch and the prince; others grab panicked nobles, dragging them toward the hall’s exits. The clang of steel on stone, the shouts of the frightened, and the scrape of armour against the walls create a symphony of chaos. 

One guard is thrown against the wall by an invisible force; another staggers backwards as a whispered curse leaves his lips, frozen with pain. Nobles trip over one another, scattering silverware and plates as they attempt to flee toward the doors. The King’s face is pale, lips trembling, as he struggles to maintain some semblance of authority.

But the witch moves through it all with terrifying purpose. Her eyes, gleaming with cruel light, are fixed solely on Edwin. Guards swing their swords, trying to intercept her path, but she sidesteps with unnatural grace, sparks flying where steel meets dark magic. A chandelier shudders and crashes to the floor, splintering wood and scattering glass, narrowly missing a group of fleeing servants. A torch topples, flames licking the edge of a tapestry, and nobles shriek as they step back from the sudden blaze.

Charles moves before Edwin can, instinctively positioning himself between the two. The hall narrows around them, screams echoing, shattered plates underfoot, guards shouting orders that barely register over the roar of chaos. The witch’s eyes snap to him, and for the first time, she pauses in her advance, as if sizing up this unexpected obstacle.

She raises a hand, black tendrils of magic curling and twisting around her fingers. The air hums, thick with power, and the hall seems to hold its breath. Charles tightens his stance, shoulders squared, eyes locked on the advancing threat. He does not have a sword drawn, does not even speak, but he’s determined, fierce in a way Edwin’s never seen from him.

The spell strikes.

It hits Charles full force, a wave of light and heat that sears through him. Pain blossoms across his chest, sharp and unnatural, and his knees buckle slightly as the world blurs. He grits his teeth, but he does not falter entirely; his hands shoot out instinctively, shoving Edwin back against the edge of the table. Plates and goblets crash to the floor, a spray of wine and shattered silver across the stone.

Edwin’s eyes widen in horror, and he tries to shout, but his voice is swallowed by the tumult around them.

The witch recoils, an unreadable expression twisting her face. Her spell seems to have achieved something, but instead of pressing the attack, she vanishes. One moment she is there, the next, a faint shimmer lingers in the air where she stood, and then she is gone, leaving only the echo of her laugh in the stone corridors. No trace, no smoke, no clue of her departure, just emptiness.

Charles staggers but remains upright, trembling with the force of the blow, his breathing ragged. He glances at Edwin, “Are you–?” he manages, voice rough, before the sharp chime of breaking glass distracts him and he sways. 

Edwin rushes forward, gripping onto his arm to steady him.

“I’m fine,” Charles says firmly, shaking his head to clear the dizziness, though sweat beads on his brow. “You stay back, just in case.” 

But no further assault comes. 

The witch is gone.

The chill which had enveloped the hall with her presence has dissipated, leaving smoke curling up into the rafters, and the foul stench of sorcery clinging to the wreckage, cloying and sickly-sweet. The hall is a ruin. Candles burn low, some guttering as smoke curls from scorched tapestries. Plates and goblets litter the floor, trampled underfoot. Servants move quickly to gather up what they can, muttering in fear and confusion. The guards are on high alert, swords still drawn, scanning every shadow, but no sign of the witch remains.

Charles is leaning against a splintered table, shoulders tight, chest heaving, every muscle taut with residual pain. The strike from the witch’s magic has clearly left him shaken, and now that the imminent threat seems to have passed, the tension he’d been holding himself together with seems to be fading fast. 

“Are you– uh…” Edwin falters as he takes a hesitant step forwards; he doesn’t actually know the other’s name, he realises. “Are you hurt?”

Charles shakes his head, though a flicker of unease passes over his face. “Charles, and no, ’m fine, mate,” he says again, though the sharp intake of breath betrays the truth. 

The force of the spell still throbs, a dull, aching sensation deep in his chest, mixing with a strange, lingering burning he cannot quite place. It hurts, but he’ll live. He’s had worse. 

So he swallows and straightens, forcing control back into his posture. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

Edwin’s chest tightens, gratitude and fear warring within him. He had known the other to be attentive, precise, loyal, as any servant of the Paynes must be, but to see him move without hesitation, stepping directly into the path of danger, is another revelation entirely. 

For the first time, Edwin feels the fragile weight of his own vulnerability, the realisation that perhaps he cannot rely on courtly politeness or noble guards alone. For only Charles had acted with certainty. 

Only Charles had kept him from harm.

Around them, the hall begins to stir again. Nobles murmur anxiously, some bowing nervously to the king as though the brief horror of the attack has reset the social hierarchy itself. Guards gather in tighter formations, checking the doors, scanning corridors, exchanging terse words in whispers about the nature of the magic they witnessed. None of it reaches Edwin in the way Charles' calm, unbroken presence does.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” Charles interrupts gently, though firm. His eyes flicker briefly to the shadows where the witch vanished. “No one else was going to. That’s all there is to it.” His hand brushes against a fallen goblet as he steadies himself, the burn of magic pulsing again through his chest. 

He does not want pity, and he certainly does not want thanks, yet the look in Edwin’s eyes stops him from retreating entirely.

“Thank you,” Edwin whispers nonetheless.

Charles inclines his head once. 

“Look – we need to make sure everyone’s safe. We should get you to your chambers. I guess we dunno if she’ll return.”

The corridors of the castle feel surreal after the chaos of the great hall. Servants scurry past, eyes wide and voices low as they murmur about the attack, while guards patrol in tight lines, whispering urgently to one another. The echo of shattered glass and screaming and the odour of magic and scorched wood lingers faintly, like the residue of a nightmare. Edwin walks beside Charles, his hands clenched together.

They reach the quiet of Edwin’s chambers, the heavy door closing behind them with a soft thud that muffles the distant panic of the castle. The room is familiar, filled with maps, books, and the faint scent of parchment and lavender. It should feel safe, a haven from the tumult outside, yet Edwin can feel the tension coiling in his chest, the sense that the danger has not passed.

Edwin moves to the window, drawing back the curtains slightly to peer into the courtyards below. Torches flicker where servants and guards are repairing the hall, but no sign of the witch. He shakes his head, almost in disbelief. 

“I cannot believe my father is already boasting about the attack,” he murmurs, voice heavy with frustration. “He thinks this was just some minor nuisance that we’ve overcome and won… But I disagree… I felt it, Charles. That wasn’t a simple raid or a trick. That witch… it felt as if she came for me. And she didn’t leave because she had to; she left because she chose to.”

Charles leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, his expression unreadable but attentive. 

“Then we’d be idiots to trust anyone else to understand it,” he says. “Your father, the nobles… they’ll frame this as a victory because it suits them. If the reality is that if she’s after you, then we don’t know what she wants, or why she targeted you, yeah?”

“Exactly. And I intend to find out. But I can’t do it alone. I… I believe I may need you with me.” His voice softens, almost hesitant, but the resolve underneath is clear. “You saw her. You know how dangerous she is. I need someone I can rely on, someone who can move, think, and act, especially if the rest of the castle is blind to what’s happening.”

Charles studies him for a long moment, the flicker of torchlight casting shadows across his face. His lips press into a thin line, and then, almost imperceptibly, he nods. “Okay,” he says. 

Edwin nods sharply. “Let us start with what we know. We should examine the hall, the traces she left. Then we follow whatever threads we can find.”

Carefully, Edwin sits and inscribes everything they know so far onto a scrap of parchment. It isn’t much, beyond the attack this evening, neither can recall any recent… offness around the Castle recently. In fact, neither can really recall much of anything. Everything’s just… been how it is. Easy, simple. Almost… false, in a weird way. 

Neither comments on it.

Neither really notices. 

“First, let’s begin by surveying the scene of the attack.”

The hall is quieter now, emptied of panicked nobles and bustling servants, though the worst of the wreckage remains. Edwin slips through the corridors with Charles at his side, boots echoing softly against the stone floor. He keeps his cloak drawn tight, hood shadowing his face, but the excitement and fear make him restless, quickening his step.

Charles moves beside him, surveying the hall. They note every shadow, every overturned chair, every scorch mark on the walls, attentive to details… the faint trail of ash along the marble, the scorch patterns on the tapestries, the subtle displacements of furniture that indicate where the witch’s magic had struck most fiercely.

Edwin crouches near a fallen candlestick, running a finger along the melted wax, tracing its uneven lines. “She… she passed right here,” he murmurs, voice low. “But Charles – look. See the way it’s dripped? Something must have happened just before it fell, something more than just… her turbulence.”

Charles bends beside him, eyes narrowing as he studies the mark. “Yeah mate– and look here,” he says, pointing to a faint black residue along the stone. “That wasn’t done by fire. It’s not… look, it’s not been burnt by any normal torch or brazier. It looks like something else entirely. Something unnatural.”

“Like her magic?”

Charles doesn’t answer immediately. “Maybe,” he says finally. “Whatever she used… ‘s not ordinary. And it got me directly,” he adds, tapping the side of his chest lightly. “I’ve never felt anything like it before. Kinda feels like… she left something behind, or… something, I dunno. I can feel it. Traces of magic, or whatever. We follow those, we might find her before she decides to come back.”

The castle is almost unrecognisable under the veil of night. Corridors that once seemed familiar twist strangely under torchlight, shadows stretching unnaturally across stone walls. The echoes of their boots sound too loud in the silence, each step amplified by the emptiness.

Their first discovery is small.

There’s a faint shimmer along the stone floor near the kitchens, like a ripple in the air, or a snail-trail, sparkling against the candlelight. It’s so faint they almost miss it, except its opalescence catches Charles’ eye.

“Look—”

Edwin crouches, the closest to it, and reaches out to touch it. His fingers find nothing but a strange warmth that prickles at his skin. “It’s… hot,” he murmurs, eyes wide. 

Charles leans in, examining the area. “It’s got to be deliberate. She’s gotta have left it for us.” His hand hovers near the ripple. “Should we… follow it?” 

Edwin nods as he stands. “It may lead us to something.”

The next clue is far more unsettling. 

In the servants’ quarters, the neatly stacked linens have been disturbed, twisted into shapes that seem… intentional, meaningful. They’re twisted into letters and symbols, but they warp whenever they blink, refusing to remain static or constant. 

Charles shivers, stepping back. “What… what is this?”

Edwin bends, tracing a finger along the twisted seam of one of the shimmering sheets.

“It’s magic,” he says simply, eyes narrowed. “It can’t be random. She’s leaving a trail for us… or she’s testing us. Could be both.” His voice is calm, but the tension in his shoulders betrays a faint unease. “Keep an eye out for any patterns, Charles. Let’s focus.”

They move deeper into the castle, through corridors lined with ancient stone and tapestries that now seem to writhe slightly in the flickering torchlight. A faint, acrid smell drifts along the walls, burnt herbs masking something foul and unnatural. 

Doors that should be locked swing open slightly on their own, hinges creaking like whispered warnings. Edwin’s heart beats so hard he can feel it in his ears, but he does not retreat. Charles stays close, shielding him with his presence.

In the library, the bizarre escalates.

Books have been pulled from shelves and stacked into precarious towers, their pages rustling as if moved by wind that doesn’t blow. Whispering, alive. 

Words shift on the pages, letters dancing into shapes and patterns that vanish when observed directly. 

Charles blinks repeatedly, disoriented. “I… I can’t read this,” he admits. “It… It’s moving. It’s like it’s… watching me.”

Edwin steps beside him, placing a steadying hand on the servant’s shoulder. “It is,” he says, low and steady. “But it looks like a message. Here – watch the movement, the flow, the gaps. There’s a pattern here. We just need to see it clearly.”

Hours pass, though it feels like minutes. 

The castle yields more oddities: chandeliers that sway though no wind stirs, mirrors reflecting moments that haven’t happened yet, doorways that open into corridors they’ve never seen before. Each discovery is stranger than the last, but together, Edwin and Charles press onward.

“We can’t stop,” Edwin says as they turn into another empty corridor. “Not yet. Not until we know what she wants.”

“And why she came for you,” Charles adds.

Edwin nods. Shadows stretch unnaturally along the stone walls, and the flickering light seems to reveal shapes that vanish when Edwin blinks. Every step feels charged, the air thick with the residue of the witch’s magic.

They reach the northern wing, a section of the castle rarely used except for storage of old scrolls and relics. 

Charles pushes open a heavy door, revealing a small, dust-choked chamber. Cobwebs hang like drapery, and crates of forgotten parchment litter the floor. But it is not the dust or decay that makes Edwin stop in his tracks; it’s the symbol etched into the wall opposite the door.

The design is intricate, twisting and curling like old vines… or maybe more like brambles, sharp and tangled, but at its centre is a shape he recognises instantly: the royal crest.

Except it’s impure, twisted and interlaced with unfamiliar sigils. 

“There,” Charles whispers, stopping abruptly. A faint shimmer, almost invisible, ripples across the floor ahead, leading up to the door. It moves like a mirage, twisting unnaturally. 

Edwin leans closer, squinting. “A ward,” he says quietly. “Not designed to kill, I don’t think… but to trap, to confuse. She’s leaving obstacles. I think… Charles, I think these are tests.” His hand hovers near the floor, and a faint blue spark dances along his fingertips. “We have to move carefully. Step wrong, and it could… anything.”

Charles leads the way, tracing a careful path along the floor, testing each step with his hand first. The shimmering heat pulses and ripples around him, but Edwin follows. 

He’s beginning to trust Charles' instincts more than his own.

Halfway across, the magic churns violently, leaking curling trails of smoke up into the air around them, hazy and thick. The floor beneath Charles glows with a sickly green light, and an invisible force rises up against him. He resists it momentarily before it throws him to his knees. Edwin yells, stepping forward instinctively, but Charles steadies himself, gripping the wall. 

“It’s fine,” he grits out, the pain in his chest flaring once more, that same, prickling burning sensation spreading across his skin. “It’s just… part of the trap, I think.”

Edwin hesitates, then moves closer. “I can help. Tell me what to do.”

Charles glances at him, expression unreadable for a heartbeat. “Watch the shimmer, follow my steps exactly, and don’t panic.” He tests the next few tiles, each pulse of magic fizzing under his fingertips. “Now.”

Together, they move slowly, step by careful step. The corridor seems to twist and shift, the walls narrowing, expanding, shadows lengthening unnaturally.

Suddenly, a faint whisper curls around them, cold and melodic, echoing off the stone: “Why do you follow, little prince? Why do you interfere?”

Edwin freezes, goosebumps rising. Charles places a steady hand on his shoulder. “Ignore it, mate,” he murmurs. “It’s an illusion. Focus.”

The corridor hums, the shimmering tiles flickering under their feet. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the pulse fades, the hall returning to its normal chill. 

“We’ve passed the first test, I believe.” Edwin glances at Charles and catches the flicker of a smile dancing across his lips.

They move deeper into the forgotten northern wing, each corridor colder than the last, as though the very stones leach heat from their skin. Their torches sputter in protest, their flames shrinking to thin threads of light. Edwin pulls his cloak tighter, but it does little to stop the shiver prickling down his spine.

At the end of a narrow hallway stands a heavy oak door, older than the rest of the castle’s structure. The hinges are blackened with age, and strange carvings mar its surface, lines and curves that echo the symbols they’ve already seen.

Edwin stops short. “This door… I don’t believe I’ve ever seen it before.”

He studies the carvings, tracing one with his finger without quite touching the wood. “It’s been sealed for years. Maybe centuries. Look — these wards are layered. This isn’t just a door. It’s a prison.”

Charles frowns. “And she’s like— broken into it?”

Edwin shakes his head. “No. Not yet. But I think she’s trying.” He pushes carefully, and the wood groans. It gives way, just slightly, enough to slip inside.

The chamber beyond is small, almost bare, except for a stone pedestal in its centre. 

Upon it rests a cracked mirror, its frame silver tarnished with age. The surface of the mirror ripples faintly, as if stirred by an unseen hand. Etched into the glass itself, carved deep into the reflective surface…

Is Edwin’s face.

He gasps, stumbling back. “That’s— Charles, that’s me.”

Charles steps forward. “It’s not just you. Look closer.”

Edwin forces himself to look again. The face in the mirror is his, but twisted, older, gaunter, eyes shadowed with darkness that doesn’t belong to him. Around the reflection swirl the same curling sigils they saw earlier, binding and encircling his image. Beneath it, written in jagged script: 

The Prince is the Key.

“The key to what?”

Charles shakes his head, “I don’t know.”

Edwin steps away, “We were right. Whatever this is, it won’t stop. Not until she has me.”

Charles turns sharply, eyes meeting his with fierce certainty. “Then we make sure she never does.” His hand presses briefly to his chest, where the witch’s magic struck him earlier. “…she’ll have to go through me first.”

For a moment, neither speaks. The mirror continues to ripple faintly, Edwin’s distorted reflection staring back, silent and menacing.

Edwin swallows hard, forcing strength into his voice despite the dread coiling in his stomach. “Then we’ll keep following this trail. We find out what she means by key. And we stop her.”

The chamber door shuts behind them with a dull thud, muffling the quiet hum of the castle beyond. Edwin exhales sharply, slumping into the chair by his desk, one hand pressed against his temple. The torchlight flickers across the stone walls, casting restless shadows that make the room feel smaller than it is.

Charles doesn’t sit, not at first. 

He lingers near the door, listening, as though half-expecting someone to approach. His gaze sweeps the corners of the room, the ceiling, and even the floor. Only once he’s satisfied does he cross to the desk, laying out the small scraps of parchment they’ve collected: sketches of the sigils, hurried notes from the hall, and now, a rough drawing of the mirror.

“So she’s after me,” Edwin says finally, breaking the silence. “Not just me, maybe something in me. Or about me. But what could it be? My bloodline?” He leans forward, tapping his fingers against the desk. “My father always talks about destiny, about legacy. But I never thought…” He trails off, frustration tightening his jaw.

Charles nods. “Your father. Your crown. Your name. It’s obvious those things matter to her. That much is clear.” He taps the sketch of the mirror, the jagged phrase etched beneath Edwin’s reflection: The Prince is the Key. “But this doesn’t feel like simple hatred. It’s not like a curse to destroy you or the castle. It’s… a plan. She needs you for something.”

Edwin shivers, remembering the gaunt, twisted version of his face staring back at him. “A plan that ends with me like that,” he mutters. “I don’t like it.”

“No,” Charles agrees, voice steady. “And that’s why we’ll stop her. But we need more than scraps and symbols. We need meaning.” He begins arranging their notes into patterns, trying to align repeated shapes and marks. “Look, she uses the same sigils over and over. Here, and here.” He points to two sketches, then draws a line between them. “Binding. That much I’m sure of. And the mirror… It’s a focus. It’s not the end, just a tool.”

Edwin leans closer, shoulder brushing Charles' as he peers at the papers. “So she’s binding me… to what?”

“That’s the question,” Charles says. His brow furrows, concentration deep. “Not to you. Through you, maybe? Whatever she wants to open, whatever she wants to release… It’s locked, and you’re the key. Without you, it stays sealed.”

“So I’m not just her target. I’m… her weapon?”

Charles' hand closes suddenly over his wrist, firm and grounding. “No. You’re you,” he says, voice sharp, almost fierce. “Whatever she believes you are, whatever she wants to make of you, it doesn’t matter. We decide what happens next. Not her.”

Edwin meets his eyes, startled by the intensity in them. For a heartbeat, the silence between them hums with something unspoken. Then Edwin nods, more to steady himself than anything. He clears his throat, “You’re right.”

“So… what do we do?” Charles releases his wrist slowly, his expression softening. He sits opposite Edwin now. 

“We keep searching. Quietly. We map the castle, track her marks, and learn her language. Piece by piece, we’ll uncover her plan before she acts again. And if she does act again…” 

Charles cuts in. “Then we’ll be ready,” he says. “Because she’s got to be underestimating us. She thinks we’re only a prince and a servant, mate. And she’s wrong.”

Their papers lie scattered across Edwin’s desk, edges curling in the torchlight, but neither boy is reading anymore. The intensity of their investigation has faded into silence, a pause drawn out by exhaustion and the weight of what they’ve uncovered.

Edwin leans back in his chair, head tipped toward the ceiling, eyes half-closed. “Do you ever tire of it?” he asks suddenly, his voice soft, almost drowsy.

Charles glances up from where he’s seated cross-legged on the floor, his back against the desk. “Of what?”

“All of this,” Edwin gestures vaguely with one hand, his sleeve falling back from his wrist. “The castle. The duties. Being ordered about, living as if every move you make belongs to someone else.”

Charles' gaze lingers on him for a moment before he answers. “I guess,” he admits simply. “But it’s different for you.”

Edwin’s lips twitch in a faint, tired smile. “Because I’m a Prince?”

“Because you don’t have the choice to be invisible,” Charles replies, eyes steady. “Everyone sees you, expects things of you. I can slip past. Nobles… they forget me immediately. I just blend into my surroundings. You never can.”

The words strike Edwin more deeply than he expects. He lowers his gaze, suddenly thoughtful. “Sometimes I wish I could,” he says quietly. “Just disappear. Be anyone but myself, if only for a day.”

Charles tilts his head, considering him. “And what would you do, if you could?”

Edwin lets out a small laugh, though it’s tinged with sadness. “I’d walk in the market with no guards at my side. I’d speak… without rehearsing every word. I’d sit at a table without worrying whether my father disapproves of how I hold a spoon.” His smile fades as quickly as it came. “I’d be… free.”

Charles watches him closely, then shifts, unfolding from the floor to perch on the edge of the desk, facing Edwin. For once, his posture is less precise, shoulders relaxed, hands resting loosely on his knee. It’s casual. Warm. And far too familiar for a servant and a Prince. “Maybe that’s why she chose you,” he says after a long pause. “Because you want something different. Because you don’t fit into the mould she thinks she can break.”

Edwin studies him, caught by the thought. Then, softly: “And what about you? If you could be free, truly free, what would you be?”

The question lingers between them, heavier than either expected. Charles looks away, lips pressed together. For a long time, he doesn’t answer, as though the thought itself is dangerous. Finally, he says, very quietly: “I don’t know. I’ve never let myself imagine it.”

Edwin frowns, straightening in his chair. “Then you should. You deserve to. Everyone ought to dream.”

Charles finally meets his eyes again, something flickering in the depth of his gaze, a mixture of surprise, hesitation, and something softer, unspoken. For a moment, the castle, the witch, the danger, it all fades, leaving only the two of them in the dim light.

“Whatever happens,” Edwin whispers, “you’re not invisible to me.”

Charles doesn’t answer, not out loud, but a smile tugs at his mouth before he bows his head, hiding it.

The silence that follows is not uncomfortable. It stretches, soft and companionable, broken only by the faint hiss of the torches and the whisper of the night wind pressing against the shutters.

After a long moment, Edwin leans forward on the desk, chin resting against his folded arms. His eyes roam over Charles. The looseness in his posture suits him, less the dutiful manservant, more… himself.

“You’re different to what I expected,” Edwin says suddenly, surprising even himself with the words.

Charles raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by the way the corner of his lip quirks up. “Different how?”

“You’re less… stiff,” Edwin says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “When you’re in the hall, you’re quiet, obedient. But here– ” His gaze lingers, curious. “You’re not behaving like a servant… Why?”

Charles tilts his head, considering this. “I don’t know… because you asked me to help you?”

Edwin shakes his head. “It’s not that. You could say nothing, and it would still feel different. It’s like…” He hesitates, searching for the words. “It’s like you trust me. I could punish you for misbehaving”

Something flickers across Charles' face, so quick Edwin almost misses it. He looks down at his hands, fingers curled loosely over his knees. “You won’t.” His voice is low, careful.

Edwin’s breath catches, a strange warmth pooling in his chest. “I won’t,” he says softly. “Because I trust you.”

Charles' head lifts sharply at that. His eyes search Edwin’s face, but when he finds only sincerity, his expression softens, though his voice remains measured. “That isn’t wise,” he murmurs. “I’m just—”

“—Charles,” Edwin interrupts, sharply. “You’re Charles. And you’ve already saved me once.” His words hang in the air, firm and unyielding. “So don’t tell me it isn’t wise.”

For a moment, Charles says nothing, then, slowly, his shoulders ease. 

Edwin lowers his gaze again, suddenly aware of the way his cheeks have flushed pink. “I know we’re supposed to hide this. The witch. Us teaming up, investigating and all that. My father most certainly disapproves of the notions that servants and… nobles could ever be friends. He’s so fixated on tradition and blood… He’d certainly punish me if he discovered I was associating with you.” He gives a rueful smile. “But I disagree with him, and I don’t regret this. Not just because we’re solving this mystery…. And saving my life, I suppose, but because it means I get to talk to you.”

Charles lets out a soft breath, but his brown eyes glitter in the light as he smiles.

“Your father would have me executed.”

The candles have burned low now, their wax dripping in languid rivulets down the brass holders. The notes and sketches lie scattered across the desk, half-forgotten in the quiet that has settled between them. Outside, the castle is hushed, the revelry of the nobles long gone, the corridors empty save for the distant tread of a guard’s patrol.

Charles stands, stretching the stiffness from his limbs as the spell of tender closeness breaks between them. “It’s late,” he says, voice low so as not to break the spell of the room. “You should rest. I’ll tidy all this up.”

Something in Edwin resists that. The thought of Charles slipping back into the faceless role of servant the moment he leaves the chamber sits heavy in his chest. He watches him move toward the door, and before he can think better of it, the words spill out.

“Stay.”

Charles pauses, hand hovering just above the latch. He glances back, brow furrowed. “Stay?”

Edwin straightens in his chair. “Yes. Just for tonight. I—” He falters, fumbling for a justification. “After everything that’s happened, it feels foolish to be alone. What if she comes back?”

It isn’t a lie, not entirely. But it certainly isn’t the whole truth, either.

Charles studies him in silence for a long moment. Then he smiles, his eyes glittering in the wavering light. Finally, he lets out a quiet breath and steps away from the door. “Very well.”

Relief washes through Edwin so intensely that it almost embarrasses him. He gestures toward the bed. “You can take the bed. I can take the chair. Or the floor. I don’t mind.”

Charles’ mouth twitches with something close to amusement. “You have your bed. I’ve slept in worse places than a chair, Your Highness.”

Edwin makes a face at the formality. “Don’t call me that. Not here.”

A pause, then a smile. “Edwin, then.”

The sound of his name, unadorned, spoken in Charles’ steady voice, makes warmth bloom in his chest. Edwin climbs onto the bed, propping himself up against the headboard, watching as Charles drags the chair closer, its legs scraping softly against the stone. He settles into it, his posture still upright, alert even in stillness.

“You don’t have to keep watch,” Edwin murmurs. “You could… rest. Properly.”

Charles glances at him, one eyebrow raised. “Would you feel safer if I closed my eyes?”

Edwin swallows, caught. “Maybe not,” he admits softly. “But I’d feel better if you weren’t wearing yourself thin on my account.”

Charles leans back slightly, arms resting on the chair’s arms, though his eyes remain half-open. “Then perhaps I’ll rest… Just a little, yeah?” 

Edwin smiles, settling against the pillows. The room is warm, cocooned in flickering light and the quiet presence of another. For so many years, solitude had been Edwin’s constant companion, lonely meals, awkward silences, every moment not spent alone suppressed by the weight of expectation. But tonight, with Charles seated only a breath away, he feels something wholly unfamiliar.

Not just safe. 

Seen.

He lets his eyes close, drifting in the space between waking and sleep. “Thank you… for staying.”

Charles’ answer is quiet, steady, almost tender in its simplicity. “Always.”

The days after the attack pass by in a blur of routine… on the surface. 

To the court, Prince Edwin is the same as ever, silent at meals, dutiful at ceremonies, a pale shadow at his father’s side. But behind closed doors, when the torches are dimmed and the corridors empty, he and Charles are something else entirely. 

Partners. 

Investigators.

Detectives.

They spend hours in the castle’s library, slipping in after dusk when the scribes and scholars have gone. 

Dust rises in clouds as Charles pulls down brittle tomes no one has touched in years. Edwin flips through pages with patient precision, marking sigils that match the ones they’ve found, while Charles leans across the desk, candlelight painting sharp lines across his face as he pores over the margins.

“Here,” Charles murmurs one night, tapping a woodcut drawing of a cracked mirror framed by symbols. “This matches.”

Edwin leans closer, shoulder brushing shoulder, as his eyes skim the text. “It says the mirror can be used to amplify spells…”

They copy the passage into their growing sheaf of notes, Edwin’s handwriting small and efficient beside Charles’ uneven scrawl. Their collection grows with each night, scraps of lore, half-formed translations, sketches of wards and bindings.

When the books run dry, they scour the castle itself. Charles slips them past guards with uncanny ease, his instincts guiding them into wings no one visits. In one forgotten chapel, they find a fresco blackened by smoke, the prince’s crest painted into its corner, barely visible beneath centuries of soot. Edwin brushes the stone with his fingertips, his expression haunted.

“She’s been here long before us,” he whispers. 

Another night, they creep into the kitchens, Charles distracting a bleary cook while Edwin slips into the cellar. There, in the damp coolness, they uncover a line of symbols carved into the stone foundation. Edwin sketches them quickly, while Charles keeps watch, hand resting lightly on the hilt of the kitchen knife he’d borrowed.

It is exhausting work. 

Some days, Edwin nearly nods off at dinner, his father’s voice droning like an endless sermon. But whenever his gaze flicks up, he finds Charles across the room, discreetly watching him from his place among the servants. 

In the evenings, when they return to Edwin’s chamber to review their findings, the rhythm between them settles deeper. Charles lays out their scraps of knowledge in rows, sorting patterns from chaos, while Edwin questions, pushes, and forces connections where none seem obvious. They argue sometimes, Charles impatient, Edwin cautious, but always return to the same steady point: the witch’s plan revolves around Edwin, and they must untangle it before she strikes again.

Between the hours of study, there are small moments Edwin treasures in secret. The way Charles pulls his chair closer without being asked. The rare but genuine curve of his mouth when Edwin makes some sharply wry observation. The simple weight of his presence, steady and unwavering, as the castle grows stranger around them.

And grow stranger it does. 

By the third night, whispers echo faintly in the halls even when no one speaks. Tapestries shift when they pass, shadows elongate unnaturally, and Edwin swears he sees his distorted reflection in every polished surface. 

Each new discovery only sharpens their urgency.

It happens late on the fourth night, when the candle stubs have burnt down to wax puddles and Edwin is on the verge of surrendering to frustration. Their notes lie in chaotic piles across the desk: fragments of text, charcoal sketches of wards, lists of symbols etched into stone. 

He pushes a pile aside with an impatient sigh.

“This is hopeless,” he mutters. “Half of it contradicts the rest. We’re chasing shadows, Charles.”

Charles doesn’t look up, bent over a scrap of parchment. His brows are furrowed, lips pressed thin in thought. “Not shadows, mate”, he says. “We just haven’t got the pieces in the right order.”

Edwin rubs his temples, weary. “And what if there isn’t an order?”

Charles doesn’t answer at first. 

Instead, he shuffles through their stack of copied passages and pulls out three. He lays them side by side on the desk.

“Look,” Charles says, tapping each in turn. “They all point to the same thing: a ritual that requires a vessel of royal blood. Not to like– kill them outright, but to use them as like… a conduit.”

Edwin hesitates. His eyes flicker over the last passage again, then he exhales slowly. “... or a summoning.”

Charles pulls out Edwin’s hasty sketch of the symbols from the cellar wall. He sets it beside a woodcut illustration from one of the oldest tomes they found. The shapes match, crooked stars, jagged spirals, a lattice of intersecting lines. Beneath the woodcut is a single word in a language Charles cannot read.

But Edwin can.

His face pales as he translates aloud. “Gate.” He stares at the paper as if it might catch fire. “She’s not trying to kill me,” he whispers. “She’s trying to use me. To open a – a gate of some kind.”

The room feels suddenly smaller, the air heavy with the weight of the revelation. 

Edwin pushes back from the desk, pacing to the window. Beyond the glass, the night is dark and still, the moon barely a sliver. “And my father sits in the hall boasting of victory,” he says bitterly. “While she’s waiting for the right moment to return and finish what she started.” At last, Edwin turns, his expression tight but resolute. “Then we can’t wait for her to come to us. We have to find her. We have to stop this before she forces me into that circle.”

The castle changes after their discovery. 

More than just the little things. More than just warped paintings or whispering candles. 

Hallways seem to bend and twist in new directions. Doors appear to rooms that do not exist, the courtyard grows, then shrinks. The number of columns in the Great Hall changes every time Edwin tries to count.

Perhaps it’s been changing all along, but now Edwin simply notices every shift now, every shadow.

By day, life really continues as before, meals in the great hall, nobles bickering over trade, his father booming about victories that do not exist. 

But to Edwin, the air tastes wrong. The walls hum faintly with something he cannot name. When he meets his reflection in a goblet or a windowpane, it lingers a moment too long, as though the mirror-version of himself is slower to look away.

At night, the unease grows sharper.

The first time, Edwin dreams of the circle carved into stone, only this time he stands at its centre. The symbols glow red beneath his feet, chains of light climbing his arms like shackles. A voice whispers his name until he wakes in a cold sweat.

In the chapel, the fresco they uncovered shifts subtly every time they return; what had once been a blurred figure at the circle’s edge now clearly wears Edwin’s crown.

In the library, a book they left open on the desk is closed when they come back, but the page still bears the imprint of a hand pressed into its parchment, the outline darkened as if scorched.

Once, as Charles helps carry dishes past the great hall’s entrance, he swears he hears Edwin’s voice calling to him from the opposite end of the corridor. But when he turns, the hallway is empty.

The castle is alive with her games.

On the fifth night, Edwin doesn’t dream of chains or circles. 

He dreams instead of Charles standing across from him, arms outstretched, trying to reach him as shadows drag them apart. He wakes with a shout, only to find Charles in the chair by the bed, wide awake.

Edwin swallows, reaching out for him. “She tried to take you from me.”

Charles leans forward, resting a hand over Edwin’s, where it grips the blanket. His touch is warm, steady. “She won’t,” he says. “Not while I live.”

The days bleed together, indistinguishable save for the growing sense that the castle itself is unravelling.

Charles begins to notice it too. Carrying trays through the hall, he glimpses nobles whose faces flicker, one instant human, the next hollow-eyed, mouths stretched too wide in laughter. He blinks, and they’re ordinary again, chatting over wine. He tells no one but Edwin, whose face pales with relief at hearing he’s not alone in these visions.

At night, the walls of Edwin’s chamber creak and groan as if the stones are shifting in their sleep. Shadows coil in the corners, moving even when the fire burns bright. Sometimes, when Charles stirs from half-sleep in the chair, he finds the desk littered with pages they never wrote, parchment filled with looping, spidery text, ink that burns at the edges before their eyes.

They begin to question themselves.

“Are we losing our minds?” Edwin asks one night, voice taut, his hands trembling as he gathers their scattered notes. “Maybe this is what she wants. Maybe the circle doesn’t need blood. Maybe… maybe it just needs us broken.”

The paranoia seeps into their closeness. They begin testing one another. Edwin asks Charles to repeat words he’s said minutes before, as if to be sure the voice is really his. Charles watches Edwin’s reflection in the mirror, half-expecting it to move differently from the boy himself.

One afternoon, while crossing the courtyard, Edwin sees himself standing in the opposite cloister, same clothes, same posture, staring at him with eyes like polished glass. He stops dead, breath caught in his throat. Charles grips his arm, muttering a sharp “Don’t look,” and pulls him away before the double can react.

That night, Edwin doesn’t sleep at all. He sits by the window, eyes fixed on the moon, whispering, “She’s getting closer.”

Charles doesn’t disagree.

It happens on the seventh night.

Edwin sits at the desk, chin propped against his hand, eyes burning from lack of sleep. Charles sits nearby, half in shadow, sharpening a dagger he’d smuggled from the kitchens. The rhythmic scrape of stone against metal is the only sound between them.

Then the candles sputter. One by one, flames gutter and die, leaving the chamber in a shroud of dark. The hearthfire hisses and vanishes, smoke curling like a hand withdrawing.

Edwin stiffens. “Charles?”

“I’m here.” The scrape of the dagger stops. His voice is steady, but tight.

The air grows sharp, cold enough that Edwin can see his breath. Shadows ripple along the walls, lengthening, thickening until they peel themselves free, coalescing into a figure cloaked in darkness.

The Witch.

Her eyes glow faintly, a sickly green, and when she smiles, it’s all teeth. Her white-blonde curls were blowing up around her face in a wild tangle. “Little Prince,” she purrs, her voice echoing from everywhere at once. “You’ve been busy.”

Edwin’s heart dances in his chest. He wants to speak up, to fight back, to command her as his father would, but his tongue feels leaden. 

“What do you want from me?” he manages, though it comes out hoarse.

Her laugh is low and curling, as though she’s savouring the sound of his fear. “What is owed. What your bloodline has denied me for centuries. You have it, and I want it. You feel it, don’t you? The gate is stirring, Princey, and only you can open it.”

Charles steps forward, placing himself between Edwin and the witch, dagger raised. “You’ll not touch him.”

The witch tilts her head, her grin widening. “Ah. The loyal servant. Always so eager to throw yourself into fire for him. And yet—” She lifts one pale hand, fingers curling like a claw. “You’ve already been marked.”

Before either boy can move, a crack of energy bursts forth from her palm, striking Charles square in the chest, just like the blow the week before. He stumbles back, slamming into the desk, the dagger clattering to the floor as he goes limp, limbs floppy like a ragdoll. 

“Charles!” Edwin cries, rushing to his side. He grips Charles' shoulder, trying to prop him upright, but Charles' eyes flicker strangely, suddenly clouded, as though something is stirring behind them.

The witch laughs again, the sound rattling the glass in the windows. “He carries it now. My seed of forgetting. Soon, he won’t even know your name, Princey, and that’ll be… totally tragic, because when he is nothing but an empty vessel, you will stand alone.”

Edwin clutches Charles tighter, fury igniting where fear once was. “You won’t have him,” he snaps, voice breaking but resolute. “And you won’t have me.”

For the first time, her smile falters. The green glow of her eyes narrows, sharp with recognition of his defiance. It’s clear that she hadn’t expected resistance, and that fuels Edwin further.

But then, as suddenly as she came, she is gone. The shadows collapse into themselves, the cold air vanishes, and the candles flare back to life, as though nothing had ever happened.

Except Charles lies slumped against Edwin, breathing shallow, his skin clammy. His chest rises and falls, but he’s clouded with confusion, unfocused, as if he’s struggling to place the room, the candles, even Edwin himself.

“Charles?” Edwin’s voice is sharp, trembling with panic. He grips Charles' shoulders, shaking him gently. “It’s me. It’s Edwin. You’re safe.”

Charles blinks, once, twice. His lips part as though he wants to speak, but no words come. Instead, his hand rises, almost instinctively, and rests on Edwin’s arm, but with a hesitation that sends a shiver down Edwin’s spine.

“I… I—” Charles falters, voice thick and uncertain. “You… you’re…?”

“It’s me, Charles. Edwin! Don’t – don’t do this to me. Look at me, Charles. Please.”

Charles' eyes scan the room, unfamiliar, uncertain, lingering on the scattered notes, the sketches of sigils, the candlelight. 

Then his gaze returns to Edwin, and for a heartbeat, recognition flickers, then vanishes. 

His brow furrows. “I… I don’t… remember.”

Edwin grabs his hands. “Yes, you do. You have to. You just… You were hit by her magic, Charles. Come on. Focus! All of this, us, what we’ve been doing.”

Charles swallows hard, his hands trembling. He still looks dazed, eyes glazed over.. “I… I feel… I feel… Like… I don’t…” His voice cracks. “I… I don’t remember.”

A cold panic rises in Edwin’s chest, clawing at him. He takes Charles’ face gently between his palms, forcing him to meet his eyes. “We’ve been working together. Fighting her. You protected me. We’re friends, Charles. You remember me.”

Charles shakes his head, eyes widening in a frantic combination of fear and confusion. “I… I’m trying… but it’s… gone.”

Edwin’s knees hit the floor as he wraps Charles in an almost desperate embrace, holding him close. “I’ll help you remember,” he whispers fiercely. “You can’t forget, I need your help. I need you, Charles. Please… don’t leave me.”

Charles’ fingers curl around Edwin’s, but his hesitation is palpable. Every flash of recognition is fleeting, and the witch’s curse presses down on him relentlessly.

The boy Edwin trusts, the only person he trusts, the person who risked his life to save him, is vanishing before his eyes. They are racing against time.

If the witch comes back before Charles' mind can be anchored, before he can remember, Edwin will face what comes next alone.

Edwin’s arms tighten around Charles, but the boy’s body is stiff, unyielding, as though he is a stranger in familiar skin. His eyes flick to Edwin’s face, then quickly away, gaze dropping to the floor.

“Your Highness,” Charles says softly, voice flat, measured, automatic. “You shouldn’t be here. I… I am not to speak unless spoken to.”

Edwin freezes. “Charles…” he breathes, “Don’t you remember? We’ve been—”

“I… I am a servant,” Charles interrupts, voice wavering, caught between instinct and the rigid lines of the curse. “My place is to serve, not to… not to be here. You must…You must return to your chambers.”

Edwin’s hands fall away from him. “No, no, no. Charles…”

Charles shakes his head slowly, as if clearing fog. “I… I am… only a manservant. I am not to question, not to interfere. My duty is obedience. That is… all I know.”

Every shared glance, every secret plan, every whispered argument over candles and parchment: it’s all gone. Effaced. 

Edwin can see the glimmer of recognition he’s begging for flash across Charles' eyes, but it dies instantly, replaced by cold, dutiful neutrality.

“Charles, please,” Edwin whispers, voice breaking. “I need you. You have to remember me. Anything. Please.”

Charles' expression softens only fractionally, but immediately his posture stiffens again, deferential, hands folded. “I… I cannot, sire. I am… nothing but a servant. You must command me, Your Highness, and I shall obey.”

Edwin falls into his chair, burying his face in his hands, chest heaving with a grief almost physical. Despite the fact that Charles is physically unharmed, the devastation the witch has wrought has stripped Edwin of everything. Charles has done just as much as Edwin, if not more, to understand and fight back against the witch’s magic. Without him, Edwin is helpless.

And yet, even as despair coils around him, a spark of determination ignites. Even if the curse has taken Charles' memory, then perhaps, perhaps, Edwin can rebuild it, piece by piece, just as long as the witch gives them enough time.

But something deep down tells him that she won’t.

This is a part of her game, her trap. She’s taken Edwin’s only support from him and left him swaying helplessly in the intensity of her power. 

Every shared glance, every whisper, every moment spent searching the castle or the library or the piles of books secreted beneath Edwin’s bed… Every single act of unthinking loyalty Edwin has taken for granted now feels impossibly distant, trapped behind the walls of obedience and duty the witch has imposed.

He looks up at Charles, who stands motionless, waiting for instruction. He’s present, physically, and yet the Charles he knew is utterly absent.

The corridor is quiet now, the echoes of their brief encounter fading into the stone walls. 

Edwin rises slowly, brushing dust and sweat from his tunic. Their notes lie scattered at his feet, each sigil and line a testament to the work he and Charles accomplished together. He gathers them carefully, pressing them to his chest.

He steps into the torchlit hallway, every shadow a reminder that the witch may return. She may have disappeared, but she’s not gone. Her presence lingers like a chill in the castle’s bones. 

Edwin cannot face her again without preparation.

So, first things first: Charles.

Edwin makes his way toward the servant quarters. Charles had escorted Edwin back to his chambers, then bid him farewell, perfectly civil, perfectly subservient.

It made Edwin’s stomach churn.

He pauses outside Charles' door, hand on the latch, and takes a breath. He knocks once, then pushes it open. 

As soon as Charles sees him, he bolts upright, hands folded, posture perfect, eyes clear but empty of all memory save for the strict bounds of service.

“Charles,” Edwin begins softly, stepping just beyond the doorway, careful not to break the rigid boundaries the curse has imposed. “I need your help. Please.”

Charles tilts his head, expression cautious but dutiful. “Your Highness?”

Edwin swallows hard. “I know you don’t remember… us, the things we’ve done together. But you can learn again. I need you. Not as a servant, not to be obedient, but as you. Charles.”

Charles' eyes flicker, hesitation breaking through just slightly, but he stifles it immediately. “I… I am to obey. That is my duty.”

Edwin nods. “Then obey this. Help me fortify the castle. Help me prepare for her return. And… help me bring you back. Together.”

Charles studies him, the smallest pause, and then inclines his head. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

Edwin exhales. 

It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.

Over the following hours, Edwin organises their research. 

He revisits every sigil, every counterspell, every detail of the rituals they discovered, explaining everything. He begins drafting wards along the corridors, marking safe spaces, crafting protective circles wherever the witch could breach. He works tirelessly, running through combinations, imagining how she could attack next and how he could counter it.

Charles moves beside him, obeying every instruction with precision. He fetches materials, holds candles for tracing sigils, arranges papers, moves silently and efficiently, but always deferentially, always distant. 

Yet even in obedience, there are tiny sparks: Charles hesitates over a symbol Edwin’s laid out incorrectly, looking to Edwin for guidance, just as he would have before. His hand lingers over a mark, unsure. A fleeting pause, almost recognition, but the witch’s curse still grips him.

Edwin seizes it. “There. That’s right. See? You remembered something.”

Charles glances up, expression blank, but his hands shift, the paintbrush deft as he corrects the lines precisely. “I… I am following instructions,” he says, but Edwin doesn’t let himself focus on the words. The movement, the instinct, it’s something.

By the time the first light of dawn seeps through the high windows, the castle is dotted with wards and counter-signs. Corridors that once seemed vulnerable now pulse faintly with protective energy, a lattice of light and symbol forming a fragile bulwark against the witch’s return.

Edwin collapses into a chair, exhausted, eyes on Charles as he adjusts the last candle. “We did it,” he whispers, more to himself than anyone else. “We’ve protected the castle… and I’ll bring you back. I swear it.”

Charles straightens, nods, his hands neatly folded again. “I am to serve.”

Edwin smiles, bitter and soft at once. “For now.” 

The castle library is a tomb at night.

Rows upon rows of high shelves laden with books towering above them, the scent of leather and dust thick in the air. Edwin sits hunched at a desk, a single candle guttering beside him, shadows flickering against the parchment he has already scrawled with notes. His eyes sting from the strain of reading, his fingers blackened with ink. He has searched through three volumes already, none more than vague references to curses of the mind: “cloudings,” “bindings,” “veils.” But nothing precise. Nothing he can use.

The library has always been Edwin’s sanctuary. Since boyhood, when the clang of swords rang too loudly in the training yard and the hunts left him cold and ill at ease, he had slipped away into these four walls. Here, among the yellowed pages, he could breathe. He could be himself, not a prince, not his father’s heir, not a ruler expected to fight and conquer, but simply Edwin, curious and academic and ever-hungry for knowledge. The library never demanded he be brave with a blade or ruthless in command. It only asked that he listen, that he turn the page, that he learn.

Charles is not far. Always near, as a servant must be, but distant enough that he is unobtrusive, posture perfect, eyes vacant. Edwin steals glances at him between lines of cramped text.

It is funny how quickly he has grown to long for the peals of Charles’ laughter, his clever remarks during their research, the quickness with which he saw through Edwin’s impatience. 

All of it is gone now, replaced by polite silence.

And Edwin misses it. 

He misses him. 

Right now, the library feels different to its normal sanctuary. The hush presses heavily on him, not comforting but suffocating, oppressive, almost as if the books themselves are keeping secrets out of reach. For all its endless tomes, all the brittle wisdom of ages, none of it gives him what he needs: a way to undo the witch’s curse. 

His safe place, once boundless and forgiving, has become a prison of emptiness, absent of the one thing he truly desires. And Edwin hates it.

He slams the book before him shut, jaw tight. “There has to be something, Charles. There must be a way to undo this.”

That’s when he remembers Tragic Mick.

The castle physician has always been an oddity, half healer, half tinkerer, with a reputation for attempting remedies no other scholar dared. Mick was often laughed at by the nobles, muttering strange formulas and brewing potions that smelled of ash and herbs in equal measure. But Edwin knows that if anyone could point him toward an antidote for stolen memory, it would be him.

So Edwin gathers his notes, tucks them under his arm, and slips down the winding corridors toward the physician’s chambers. 

Charles follows in silence, a dutiful shadow at his heels.

Tragic Mick’s rooms are cluttered with jars, dried herbs, old bones, and vials glowing faintly in the lamplight. Mick himself looks up from a bubbling pot, eyes heavy-lidded. 

“Ay’up. If it isn’t His Highness. What can I do for you?”

Edwin doesn’t waste time. He spreads his notes on the workbench, pages and pages of the sigils they’d studied, the witch’s trails, the fragments of information he’d found in the old books. 

“A witch cursed Charles,” Edwin blurts out, voice cracking. “He’s — he’s sort of here, but he doesn’t remember me. Doesn’t remember us. He’s just… empty.” His throat tightens, the words sticking sideways. “I need something. Anything. Please. Tell me there’s a way.”

Mick peers at Charles, who stands a few paces behind the Prince, then back at Edwin. He strokes his beard, expression grave. 

“Memory spells aren’t child’s play. They root deep, not just in the mind, but in the spirit. They tear away what makes a person them. To undo it…” He rummages through the shelves, pulling down jars of strange powders, dried flowers, and vials of shimmering liquid. “…you’ll need something strong. Something dangerous.”

Edwin leans forward, desperate. “What kind of something?”

“An elixir,” Mick says finally, holding up a flask that glows faintly blue. “Base of moonwort and belladonna, bound with silver salt. But it won’t work on its own. To anchor memory back into the body, you’d need a tether, something he cannot deny, even cursed. Something of his heart. A bond.”

Edwin’s mind flickers back to their shared nights of study, Charles’ fierce loyalty, their shared laughter, the way he’d catch Charles smiling at him in a way too soft for a master and servant. 

A bond. 

Their bond. 

He looks at Charles, his expression still politely neutral, so different from the Charles he’d been.

“I’ll do it. Tell me what I need to make it work.”

Mick chuckles, shaking his head. “Stubborn, aren’t you? Just like your mother was. Very well. I’ll prepare what I can. But listen to me, boy: it will only work if you can make him want to remember. Without that, the potion will be nothing but a bitter wine.”

Edwin swallows hard, his gaze flickering back to Charles. “Then I’ll make him want to.”

Edwin gathers his belongings. The culmination of this prolonged battle with the witch is coming; he can feel it pressing closer and closer with every breath. 

But now he has a chance, slim though it may be. 

If he can fight her off and keep Charles at his side, they might just win.

The flask from Tragic Mick sits on Edwin’s desk, stoppered and glittering iridescently in the candlelight. 

The instructions are clear: the potion will not work unless Charles himself wants to remember. But the doubt of it gnaws at Edwin more than the witch’s threats ever could. He cannot force it; he can only coax. But what if Charles doesn’t want it? What if this is what he prefers? What if his familiarity with Edwin was simply just another act of servitude? What if what Edwin had thought was something real was merely Charles entertaining him like a servant should? 

Edwin had liked that Charles had dropped the act so quickly, that his deferential servitude had been so easily replaced with personality and charisma and a willingness to speak his mind. When he was with Charles, he hadn’t felt like a Prince and a servant, but like they were friends. Asking Charles to do things hadn’t felt like ordering him around; it’d felt like they were equals. 

But what if Charles had just been pretending? Contorting himself into the sort of shape he’d assumed Edwin had wanted? 

What if he hadn’t felt that same sense of connection that Edwin had? 

It was deeply, shamefully humiliating to admit, but Charles was the first person Edwin had ever considered a friend. He’d never cared for the other royals his age when they came to visit, and his father had insisted that private schooling was the best way to receive a royal education. And by the time Edwin had found himself old enough to make decisions surrounding his free time for himself, the hole that loneliness had left had become a permanent, unfillable ache. He’d become so used to it that he hadn’t bothered with friendship, vastly preferring the peace of his own company. 

Or at least that’s what he told himself. 

The truth of it was, every time Edwin saw the camaraderie of the knights, every time he saw the servants gossiping between themselves, hiding laughter with the palms of their hands, even when he saw children playing in the courtyard, it frightened him. 

Because he knew, deep down, that he was not that kind of person. He was awkward and blunt and deeply unlikeable. He knew that. No one had to tell him because he’d realised it by himself. So why bother? Why try and form a bond with anyone? They’d either put up with him because they had to, or discard him quickly enough. He despised small-talk, so he didn’t make it, he didn’t understand most jokes, couldn’t find it within himself to engage in petty gossip… There was just nothing to make him desirable to someone else. 

Except… Charles hadn’t seemed to have felt that. 

Charles had smiled at him and agreed with him, and also disagreed with him. He’d laughed at things Edwin said in a way that didn’t feel like he was mocking him, but like he was genuinely humoured by him. He completely disregarded any norms of how a servant ought to act, and he’d called Edwin by his first name instead of by honorifics, he’d breached the very strong walls of Edwin’s personal space and had clapped him on the shoulder and the back, and left a burning imprint of his palm against Edwin’s skin. He hadn’t made Edwin feel awkward or weird, but human. Being around Charles had made the confines of Edwin’s skin feel a little less rigid. He made it a little easier to breathe. 

And if all that hadn’t been real…?

Who was Edwin to try and force Charles to do something he didn’t want to? He valued the fact that when they were together, Edwin wasn’t Prince so much, so if Charles didn’t want to remember who he’d been the past few weeks, then how dare Edwin try and command him? 

Edwin looks over at where Charles stands by the door, posture perfect, hands clasped neatly in front of him. 

There is no way Charles could want this. 

This Charles would never greet Edwin like he used to, before they’d ever shared a genuine word. This Charles didn’t get in trouble for sneezing during one of the Autumn Harvest feasts and ended up in the stocks for a night. This Charles wasn’t, objectively, a little bit of a bad servant, like the Charles Edwin remembers. They may not have spoken until the night of the witch’s first attack, but they’ve existed in the same space for so long that Edwin has seen him. 

And he knows him. 

In some weird sense of the word. 

And this is not Charles. 

Edwin steels himself, pushes his notes aside, and takes a breath. “Come here, Charles.”

Charles obeys at once, stepping forward, head bowed slightly. “Yes, Your Highness?”

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite. Charles hesitates; servants don’t typically sit in the prince’s chambers even with an invitation, but eventually he obeys, perching lightly on the edge of the chair. He looks stiff, awkward. Not like the Charles who had sprawled back in the very same seat only days prior, brown eyes lidded as he’d watched over Edwin. 

For a long moment, Edwin just looks at him. The familiar angle of his jaw, the way his dark curls fall untidily no matter how he tries to smooth them, the faintest little crook to the bridge of his nose. 

All the same, and yet completely not.

“You’ve sat here before,” Edwin starts softly. “With me. We argued over translations, and you made fun of my handwriting for looking like scripture. Do you… remember that?”

Charles frowns slightly, and it seems as if he’s reaching through the fog of his mind, before he shakes his head. “I… no, Your Highness. I have no memory of such things. I should not sit here. I should not speak unless—”

“Unless spoken to,” Edwin finishes for him, voice bitter. “Yes. I know. But that’s not you. Not really.”

Charles stiffens, lips pressing together, as though uncertain how to respond.

Edwin leans forward, desperate. “What about the gardens? You snuck me figs from the kitchens after we skipped dinner to search the library. You told me once the kitchens are more dangerous than the battlefield because of how much the cook hates you. You… we… do you remember? Please, Charles.”

Charles’ eyes flicker. A pause. His mouth opens slightly, then closes again. 

“I… no, sire. I am a servant. That is not… That is not my place.”

Edwin feels the sting of tears prickling at the back of his eyes, but he forces them down, shaking his head fiercely. “It is. It’s who you are. You’re more than this curse, Charles. You’re more than what she’s made you.”

Silence stretches. The candle sputters.

Finally, Edwin pushes the flask closer, the glass catching the light. “This can help. But only if you want it to. Only if you reach for it. I can’t make you.” His voice softens. “I don’t want to force you. I just want you back.”

Charles’ gaze fixed on the flask, unreadable. For the first time, his carefully controlled mask seems to crack.

Just a little.

His fingers twitch on the table, restless. He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t look away either.

It’s not memory, not yet. But it’s a spark. And Edwin seizes it like a drowning man, a rope.

The next evening, Edwin tries again. The library is empty save for them, the hush of old parchment thick around them. Charles stands dutifully at his shoulder as Edwin pretends to read, though his eyes barely skim the page. His mind turns instead to what Tragic Mick told him: he needs a ‘tether, something of the heart.’

“Charles,” Edwin says suddenly, closing the book with a snap. “Fetch me another candle. These always gutter out too quickly.”

Charles bows his head and moves to obey, lifting a new taper from the wall. He places it neatly before Edwin, strikes a flame, and steps back into silence.

“You don’t normally light them that way,” Edwin says casually. “You cup your hand against the flame, even though I tell you it’s going to burn. And you say, you’d rather get burnt than have to strike another match. Do you remember?”

Charles freezes. His hand hovers over the snuffer. His jaw works, as though forming words, but then it’s gone, and then he straightens, tone careful. “I don’t… Your Highness, I cannot recall saying such a thing.”

Edwin’s heart lurches. 

It might have only been small, but that was something. Just a flicker, but a memory nonetheless.

The next night, in his chambers, Edwin tries again. He tosses an apple across the table. Charles catches it easily, a reflex. 

“We picked those from the orchards,” Edwin says, a smile tugging faintly at his mouth. “You climbed the tree to pick the best ones after we found the witch had marked the closest trees.”

Charles stares down at the fruit in his hand. Slowly, his fingers curl around it. “I… do not…” His voice is unsteady, halting. “…I do not remember that.”

But he doesn’t put the apple down.

Edwin leans forward, softer now. “You laugh with me. No one else does, not really. You aren’t afraid to tell me when I’m being pompous, or rude, or… lonely.”

For the first time, Charles' lips twitch. Just the barest ghost of a smile, gone as quickly as it came. He looks away, jaw tight, eyes shadowed.

Edwin’s chest tightens. He presses on, voice low, urgent. “You’re still you, Charles. I can see it. She couldn’t erase all of it. You are not just a servant. You’re my—” His voice cracks, but he swallows hard. “You’re my friend.”

Charles doesn’t answer. His breathing is uneven, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. There’s a tick in the muscles of his brow, and Edwin sees it, the faintest tremor in his hand, the apple still clutched tightly against his palm.

And briefly, just for a moment, Edwin dares to hope that Charles is beginning to remember. Or at least, that this might be what he needs to want to. 

It is late when Edwin tries again, far past the hour when the castle transitions into sleep. 

Edwin paces his chamber, the potion from Tragic Mick still shining there on his desk. Charles stands near the door, still and silent, eyes averted as always.

Edwin stops pacing. 

His eyes are drawn to where Charles stands, and for a moment, he just looks at him, really looks, and something inside him breaks. 

The witch, the curse, the hours of research, they are nothing without Charles himself.

The man, not the servant.

“Charles,” Edwin says, his voice deceptively strong in the quiet.

Charles straightens. “Yes, Your Highness?”

Edwin swallows. He steps closer, until they are only a breath apart. 

“Do you know what’s worst about this curse?”

Charles blinks, the smallest crease of uncertainty in his brow. “I… cannot say, sire.”

“It’s not that you’ve forgotten what we’ve been doing,” Edwin whispers. “It’s not that you’ve forgotten the danger we’re in, or even how you tried to sacrifice yourself for me. It’s…” His throat tightens, the words sticking. “It’s that you’ve forgotten me. And I—” He falters, then pushes forward, heart in his mouth. “I haven’t forgotten you.”

Charles' eyes widen, just a fraction.

“You are not just a servant to me,” Edwin presses, desperate now. “You — you became my closest companion. My truest ally. The one person who made me feel less like a prince and more like… like a boy. You were – are, my only friend, Charles. No one else has ever — no one. Do you understand, Charles? You made me feel seen. And I— I miss you, Charles, I want my friend back.”

The silence is suffocating.

Edwin takes a shaking breath and reaches out, brushing his fingers against Charles’ hand. His touch is feather-light, tentative, but electric. Charles doesn’t pull away. 

“I—I care for you. More than I think I was ever meant to. More than is proper, or right. And maybe that’s what she tried to take from you. Because if you remembered me,” His voice cracks. “…you’d understand that I— I love you, Charles.”

The words hang in the air, fragile as glass.

It’s a stupid, reckless declaration, one Edwin hadn’t quite realised until the words escaped him, but he means it. Somehow. 

Because they only spent seven days together, but now that it’s gone, Edwin knows it to be true. He’s happy with Charles. He cares so much. The way Charles’ mouth twists up into that crooked smile, the way he throws his head back when he laughs, the way his brown eyes glitter in the candlelight…

Edwin can’t live without that. 

Not now he’s tasted it. 

And maybe it’s not love in the way a man loves a woman, or two brothers care for one another, maybe it’s something special and different, and love is the wrong word, but it’s the only thing that comes to mind when Edwin truly thinks about what this time they’ve spent together feels like. 

So at least for the moment, it’s true. 

Charles doesn’t move. 

His hand trembles beneath Edwin’s touch, his gaze locked on their joined fingers. For one agonising heartbeat, Edwin thinks he’ll pull away.

But then, Charles inhales sharply. His shoulders twitch, his composure splintering. “I…” His voice falters, low and hoarse. “…I see…”

And though he doesn’t say that he remembers, Edwin sees it in his eyes, the flicker of warmth, the ghost of something deep and aching, straining to surface through the curse.

The tether is there now. 

A spark, raw and fragile, but real. And Edwin knows, with fierce certainty, that that spark might be enough to pull Charles fully back to him.

The potion sits on Edwin’s desk. 

But Charles doesn’t drink it. 

Not yet. 

The night continues to pass quietly. 

Too quiet. 

The moon hangs pale and watchful over the castle walls, and Edwin lies restless in his chamber. At his order, Charles stands by the door, rigid and silent, but something in him has shifted since Edwin’s confession. 

His gaze lingers longer, his posture less mechanical. His mind hasn’t returned, but something has.

The air turns suddenly, the pleasant warmth that had surrounded them is replaced suddenly with a prickling, icy feel. The candles blow out, though no wind stirs. 

Edwin’s head snaps up. He knows that chill, that tingling in the tips of his fingers.

And then she is there. 

The witch, shrouded in smoke, her voice a hiss that echoes off the stone. “Still meddling, Princey? Did you think I’d let you play scholar forever?” Her eyes gleam sickly green. “No servant to hide behind this time. Only you, and your death.”

Edwin throws himself out of bed, grateful for the fact he’d elected to wear sensible clothes to bed, and forces himself to stand tall, though his knees threaten to give way. 

Against the wall, Charles is perfectly stiff, his brown eyes now black. 

He’s under her control. 

“You’ll find me harder to kill than you think.”

The witch laughs, a jagged, scraping sound. “Ooo, what bravado. How charming. You’ll scream like the rest.” She raises her hands, power coiling in her palms.

But before she can act, Charles lunges forwards. The movement is jerky, like that of a puppet, and his skin glimmers with something not-human, magical, the same stuff as the sigils they’d found. 

Despite it, he plants himself between Edwin and the witch, dagger drawn, shoulders squared. His voice is steady, but it seems to disappear into the air around them. His chest does not rise or fall. “You will not touch him.”

The witch startles, her grin faltering. “What—? No, no, no, I bound you. You’re mine, you’re supposed to do what I tell you.”

She waves a hand in dismissal, and the shimmering web of magic encasing Charles burns a little brighter, but Charles does not flinch. His stance is unyielding. His eyes are wide, still black, but lit with something burning through the fog. Something defiant. Something human. 

Something Charles.

Edwin feels the tether between them, stronger now. The bond Tragic Mick had spoken of. 

He darts over to the desk and snatches up the flask, “Charles! Drink this! Trust me!”

The witch screeches. “No!” Green fire lashes across the room, striking the walls, the floor, the ceiling. “He cannot choose you! He cannot want you! He’s mine.”

Charles does not hesitate. He reaches out and takes the flask from Edwin’s hand. 

And before the witch can act, he drinks.

The effect is instant. Light bursts through him, searing and silver, burning away the witch’s magic in a plume of sickly green smoke. He stumbles, gasps, and then, his eyes clear. 

Sharp. Fierce.

Alive.

“Edwin,” he breathes, voice raw, but his own. “I remember.”

The witch howls, reeling back as the bond shatters her hold on him. “No! Impossible!”

Their tether holds fast, unbreakable.

And for the first time, Edwin knows for certain that they are not master and servant, not even prince and protector, but equals.

The witch’s scream rattles the stone walls, a sound halfway between fury and fear. Her body twists unnaturally, shadows writhing from her cloak like serpents. Given the faint hissing echoing through the chamber, Edwin’s not entirely convinced she doesn’t have a serpent. 

“Fine, fine! You dare break my binding?” she shrieks, green fire streaming from her hands. “You chose love, like a coward, so I’ll just kill you both.”

Charles doesn’t hesitate. He steps in front of Edwin again, and his dagger gleams as he slashes through the first wave of shadow, the steel sizzling as if the magic itself recoils from him.

Edwin moves behind him, pulling from his notes and memory, chanting words in the old tongue. The air trembles with each syllable, invisible threads weaving together into sigils that pulse faintly in the air. 

The witch’s fire slams against them, sparks flying, the wards barely holding.

“Left!” Charles shouts, and Edwin ducks just as another lash of green fire hisses over his head, scorching the wall.

Charles lunges forward, dagger flashing, slicing through a tendril of shadow reaching for Edwin’s leg. “Keep chanting!” he shouts. “I’ll keep her busy!”

Edwin’s voice rises, stronger, steadier, his palms burning with the strain of channelling energy. The symbols glow brighter, spinning around them in a loose circle. His heart pounds, but he forces the words out, every phrase biting into the witch’s magic in retaliation.

The witch snarls, retreating a step as her shadows recoil. “You think you can defy me with children’s tricks? You cannot defeat me.” Her voice is a venomous roar as her power surges. The green fire builds into a roaring storm, coalescing into a spear of pure energy. “You will die, Edwin Payne!”

She hurls it straight at Edwin.

Charles doesn’t think; he just moves. He throws himself in front of Edwin, dagger raised in one fist, the silver plate from the table somehow clasped in his other hand. 

The spear strikes the dish, shattering against the blade with a deafening crack. The impact sends Charles sprawling, but the magic disperses across the room.

Edwin cries out, rushing to his side. “Charles!”

Charles brushes him off as he grits his teeth, forcing himself to his feet. “I’m not leaving you, mate.” His eyes blaze with a fierceness Edwin has never seen, raw and unshakable.

The witch recoils, unsettled. 

“No. No, this is impossible. You cannot have broken—”

“We did,” Edwin cuts her off, his voice ringing clear, fierce, and proud. “Because he is not yours. He never was.”

Together, they surge forward: Edwin chanting, Charles armed with his blade. 

The symbols flare into brilliance, spinning faster, wrapping the witch in a circle of searing light. 

Charles strikes at every shadow that lashes out, his movements precise, graceful, and unyielding.

The witch screams, her form beginning to fracture under the combined assault. “I’ll return! I’ll always return!”

“Not here,” Edwin retaliates, voice steady as the last line of the incantation leaves his lips. The sigils explode in light, collapsing inward, binding her.

Charles seizes the moment. He lunges forward, driving his dagger through the heart of her smoky form. The blade pierces with a terrible shriek, and the witch’s body shatters into a storm of sparks, dissolving into nothing.

The chamber falls silent. 

The green glow is gone. 

The room is dark. 

Only the faint yellow flicker of candlelight peeking in from under the door, and the sound of their ragged breathing remain.

Charles stands, chest heaving, and his dagger drops to the floor with a clatter. Edwin sinks to his knees, exhausted, his voice raw.

For a moment, neither speaks.

Then Charles kneels beside him. His hand hovers uncertainly, then settles on Edwin’s shoulder, so painfully warm and so steady. 

His voice is soft, but filled with certainty as he speaks. “I remember now, Edwin. All of it. You — it worked.”

Edwin looks at him, his throat too tight for words. Relief crashes through him like a wave, mingled with something deeper, more fragile, more terrifying.

He doesn’t think. 

He surges forwards, burying his face in Charles’ shoulder as he hugs him. There’s no hesitation before Charles’ arms wrap around him, strong, purposeful. 

“It worked.” 

The air is still.

For the first time in what feels like hours, no — days, there is no screaming, no fire, no shadows clawing at their heels, no magic whispering in their ears. 

Just the fading smell of smoke and the echo of their footsteps.

Charles pulls the heavy oak door of Edwin’s bedroom open, the hinges groaning. 

Beyond is only the corridor: long, dimly lit, utterly ordinary. Empty.

Normal. 

Edwin hesitates on the threshold, his eyes darting across the flagstones, the corners, the ceiling. 

There’s nothing.

Charles glances back at him, steady and sure. “She’s gone, mate,” he says quietly. His voice carries no hesitation now, only conviction. “For real this time.”

Edwin exhales shakily, but he trusts Charles. He knows it’s true, but it still feels hard to believe. 

He steps through the doorway. The chill of the chamber falls away, replaced by the simple warmth of the torchlight in the hall. Behind him, Charles follows, closing the door with a final thud.

And then… nothing follows.

Only silence.

Edwin stops walking, his shoulders sagging. For a long moment, he just stands there, staring at the blank stone wall ahead as if it’s some miracle. Then, with a shuddering breath, he says, “We did it.”

Charles comes to his side, close enough that their shoulders nearly brush. He doesn’t say anything at first. He simply looks down the empty corridor with him, as if to confirm the quiet, the safety. Then he nods once. “Yeah, we did.”

Edwin turns his head, meeting his gaze. There is only Charles, whole and real, standing beside him.

They walk on, side by side, down the torchlit hall. 

Nothing follows.

Chapter Text

The first thing Edwin is aware of is the music. Violins play a sweet, slow melody. It’s a lovely tune, but there’s something about it that sends a shiver up his spine, something… off in a way that he can’t quite put his finger on. He opens his eyes to find that he’s standing on a balcony, overlooking a dance floor filled with elegantly-clad dancers. At first glance, the dancers look perfectly ordinary, dressed like they’ve stepped out of a Regency film, with masks of all shapes and colors covering their features.

But the longer Edwin looks, the longer he sees the signs that something is amiss: a flash of too-blue eyes from behind a swan mask, a neck that’s a shade too long, antlers peeking out from under an elaborate updo.

Not again, he thinks. Because Fae like the ones they encountered before, Fae that announce themselves as such and lay out the rules they live by, are one thing. Fae like this, who clearly want to disguise what they are, are another thing entirely. There’s a malevolence in the air that makes him feel like a mouse waiting for a trap to snap closed on his spine.

He needs to find Charles.

Turning, Edwin finds himself looking up at a fair-haired young woman standing on a pedestal. She’s standing perfectly still, one hand stretched out in front of her, as if to tap someone on the shoulder. There’s a faint shimmer to her that coats her skin, her hair, and her clothes. For a moment, Edwin wonders if she’s just an incredibly realistic statue, until he looks up and meets her eyes. They’re staring back at him, bloodshot and frantic, tears that don’t fall gathered in the corners. With a sickening lurch in his gut, he’s reminded of the souls trapped in Limbo.

Looking around, he sees that the young woman isn’t the only one in this predicament. Every three meters or so, there’s a frozen figure on a pedestal. All are young, lovely, and appear to be human. Swallowing back the sick feeling in his throat, Edwin begins to weave his way through the crowds mingling on the balcony. Like the dancers below, they appear perfectly human at first glance, until he sees the too-wide smiles or the hooves peeking out from beneath layers of skirts. Edwin keeps his eyes averted, attempting not to draw any notice as he searches.

A flash of movement to his left draws his attention and he looks up to see his own reflection staring back at him from an ornate mirror hanging on the wall. It takes him a moment to  recognize himself. His outfit is a strange imitation of something that would be worn in Regency times. The coat and breeches are lovely, but unexceptional, both cream-colored and embroidered with tiny pearls. But the waistcoat underneath is made entirely of a shimmering, pale blue lace and doesn’t appear to have a shirt underneath, a fact that would have surely gotten him kicked out of any proper ballroom. His entire torso is visible through the lace and he has to resist the urge to pull his coat tighter around himself to shield his bare skin from view. A matching lace mask covers the upper half of his face. 

For a moment, Edwin can only stare. It’s so unlike anything he would have worn in life—or even in death—that he almost looks like another person entirely, like some sort of Fae creature that’s stolen his face, but can’t quite get the imitation right. Finally, he drags his gaze away, shaking his head at himself. There’s no time to spend gazing at his reflection. Charles is here somewhere in this den of vipers.

It doesn’t take much longer until Edwin catches sight of a familiar earring dangling from one of the human statues. He rushes towards the statue, heart leaping in his throat. There’s a burst of giggles from a cluster of Fae he passes and a hand tries to snag him by the sleeve, but he pulls away, heedless of the possibility of causing offense. Nothing matters except getting to Charles.

He finds Charles standing frozen on the pedestal, his face tilted upwards towards the stained glass ceiling. Like the others, his eyes are wide and frantic. He’s wearing a beautiful red coat embroidered with a pattern of swirling green and gold vines, as well as a matching mask. The golden lace waistcoat he’s wearing is just as see-through as Edwin’s, a fact that Edwin is trying quite hard to ignore.

“Ch—” Edwin bites back the name, remembering the presence of his face. Instead, he asks, “Can you hear me?”

Charles’s eyes flick to Edwin, the fear in them not diminishing when they land on Edwin. He tries to speak, but it comes out a muffled whimper. Again, Edwin is reminded of Limbo.

“It’s alright.” Edwin fights to keep his voice steady as he kneels down next to the pedestal. “I’m going to get you free.”

How, he has no idea, but he won’t tell Charles that.

He examines the pedestal, which is made of smooth marble. When he peers closer, he sees that the swirls in the marble seem to form some kind of pattern. Runes, he realizes. He doesn’t recognize whatever language they’re in—the Fae have countless languages, most entirely indecipherable to mortal ears and eyes—but this isn’t the first time he’s encountered unfamiliar runes. He spares a thought for his lexicographic spectacles, somewhere in Charle’s bag of tricks, wherever they left that.

Taking a closer look at the runes, he notices that they each have two tiny notches in them, almost as if whoever carved them did an incomplete job. But only a fool would be so careless when casting magic, and the Fae are many things, but they’re rarely fools.

“There’s something off with these runes,” he tells Charles’s silent, frozen form. “I believe these notches may be significant. I’m just not certain how.”

Charles makes a choked little noise that twists something in Edwin’s chest.

“It’s alright,” he assures Charles. “I’ll figure it out.”

The runes look so close to something he should recognize, but just a bit off, almost like a…

“Mirror image,” he says and leaps to his feet. Hoping his host doesn’t notice and take offense, he lifts one of the heavy mirrors off the wall. His arms burn at the effort—dear lord, he misses being incorporeal—but he manages to drag it across the floor to the pedestal, holding it up with one arm as he kneels down to examine the mirror image of the runes. Still, they don’t look quite right. Edwin traces his finger over the mirror image of the runes, pausing at every notch.

And then it occurs to him that if he takes the bit of each rune that’s between the two notches and combines them, that they would form the shape of a rune he knows quite well. He traces it on the mirror just to be sure, but yes, this is nothing more than a simple illusion charm. A powerful illusion, given the fact that Charles seems fully convinced that he’s frozen in stone, but an illusion nonetheless. Setting the mirror down carefully—broken mirrors bring nothing but trouble—Edwin reaches up, grabs Charles by the arm, and pulls.

Charles makes a surprised noise as he stumbles off the pedestal. Edwin catches him, breath punched out of him as Charles falls against him. He grips Charles’s arms to steady him as he gets his legs underneath him, all too aware of the fact that their chests are pressed together, thin layer of lace all that’s between his skin and Charles’s.

“You can speak,” he tells Charles. “It was just an illusion.”

Charles opens and closes his mouth gingerly, as if testing that he can, and clears his throat. “Thanks, mate.” His voice is rough, as if it’s been ages since he last spoke.

“Are you alright?” Edwin takes a step back to hold him at arms-length, looking him over anxiously.

“Yeah, I’m aces.” Charles looks back at the pedestal that was recently his prison and shudders. “I thought I’d be stuck there forever. I owe you one.”

“It was a simple matter, once I deciphered the runes.”

Charles turns to Edwin, brow furrowing in confusion. “Runes?”

“In the marble. It turned out that I just needed to look in their mirror image, and then it didn’t take long to realize that the true spell was hidden within false runes.”

“Right.” A strange, self-deprecating sort of smile flickers across Charles’s face. “Guess I should have paid more attention in school, shouldn’t I?”

Edwin frowns. “They hardly taught Fae languages at St. Hilarion’s.”

Charles draws back a little, visibly tensing. “How do you know about St. Hil’s?”

“What?” Edwin looks into Charles’s eyes and sees no recognition there, just wariness. It almost reminds him of the night they met in the attic, when Charles still thought that Edwin was one of his tormentors. “Do you know me?”

“Should I?” Charles asks.

Edwin weighs his options. He could come right out and tell Charles that they’ve been best friends for decades, they’re ghosts, and they appear to be stuck in some kind of strange series of tests. But this Charles who doesn’t know Edwin will have no reason to believe him. “I suppose not,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “But I went to St. Hilarion’s as well, a long time ago.”

“You did?” Charles’s gaze flicks over Edwin. “I don’t recognize you.”

“Like I said, it was a long time ago.” Edwin keeps his voice gentle, just like the night he brought a lantern to warm up a dying, frightened boy. “But I assure you, I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Is that how you got here? Did St. Hilarion’s give you to…” Charles trails off, gesturing at the Fae around them.

“Is that how you got here?” Edwin asks.

“I think so.” Charles’s throat bobs nervously as a pair of Fae pass by. “It’s all a bit of a blur, innit? But I think my mates gave me to them. There was a fight and the cricket team threw me in the lake and then I was here.” He looks around with wide eyes. “I keep trying to escape, but they catch me every time. That’s how I ended up there.” He gestures to the pedestal. “So I wouldn’t try to escape again.”

Charles looks so very young and uncertain and Edwin despises the fact that this illusion has somehow made his memory of the night of his death even worse. He wants to assure Charles that that isn’t what happened at all, that none of this is real, but he knows how convincing whatever magic is affecting them is. Not long ago, he was absolutely certain that he was a prince and Charles his loyal servant. He’s not sure what will happen if he tries to convince Charles that none of this is real, but he gets a feeling that it won’t help.

“Then it’s fortunate we ran into each other,” Edwin says. “Because I’m also trying to escape. I also came here unwillingly and would very much like to not be here anymore.”

“You are?” Charles’s expression brightens. “That’s brills, mate! I mean, not the coming here unwillingly. That sounds rough.”

Edwin fights a smile. Charles is Charles, no matter the world they’re thrust into. “It will be much less rough if I have help escaping. I’m afraid I’m quite lost on my own.”

“Well, I owe you one, don’t I?” Charles grins at him. “And by the way, I’m Ch—”

“Don’t!” Edwin says sharply. When Charles’s eyes widen with alarm, he hastens to add, “Don’t give your name away freely here. It’s dangerous.”

“Right.” Charles grimaces. “Sorry, mate, this is all new to me.”

“Then I assure you,  I’ll make sure nothing happens to you,” Edwin says, gratified when Charles’s beaming smile returns.

“Thanks,” Charles says a bit shyly. “Right, so how do you think we can get out of here?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Edwin looks over the railing at the dance floor. The dancers move in perfect synchrony to an almost eerie degree. As he watches, a pair of dancers break off from the crowd and move towards a set of tall ivory doors at the other end of the ballroom. The doors swing open of their own accord and the couple vanishes through. “My supposition is that we need to get through that door.”

“I tried, mate. They kept catching me on the dance floor.”

“Were you dancing, or did you simply try walking across?”

Charles ducks his head in a self-depracting sort of way. “Didn’t have anyone to dance with, did I?”

“Well, now you do.” Edwin holds out a hand to Charles. “May I have this dance?”

For a moment, he feels a thrill of anxiety that a Charles who thinks it’s still 1989 and who hasn’t known Edwin for all these years will balk at the thought of dancing with another boy, that he might even shove Edwin away in disgust. Instead, Charles smiles at him and takes Edwin’s hand in his. His fingers feel almost delicate in Edwin’s grasp and Edwin feels a surge of protectiveness for this Charles, thrust into a terrifying situation that he can’t entirely understand. Until he has his partner back, Edwin is going to ensure that not a hair on this Charles’s head is harmed.

“Lead the way, mate,” Charles says, entirely trusting. Too trusting for dealing with the Fae, but Edwin can hardly lecture him on that, when that trust is working for his benefit.

Together, they descend the stairs towards the dance floor. The closer they get, the less human the elegantly-clad dancers appear. Hooves and tails and horns and claws are everywhere and Edwin can feel too many eyes on them, as if they’re being sized up. Charles’s hand tightens in his and when Edwin glances over at him, he can see the fear under his bright smile. Edwin squeezes his hand, the only reassurance he can offer.

“I’m not a good dancer,” Charles says as they approach the dance floor.

And Edwin knows that that’s not true; he’s seen Charles move about their office on evenings where they have nothing to do but listen to old records and read. He’s as graceful when dancing as he is when swinging a cricket bat. “I’ll lead.”

Charles nods, looking grateful. “You look like you know a way around the dance floor, yeah?”

Edwin can’t help but snort. “My dance instructor would have disagreed with you.”

“Well, you had dance instructors, so you’ve already got me beat.”

“I think he would have disagreed with that as well.” Edwin turns to Charles, steeling himself before settling one hand on Charles’s waist, right over the jut of his hipbone. “Shall we?”

Charles nods. “Lead the way, mate.”

And Edwin pulls Charles into the fray. As bodies swirl around them, Edwin holds Charles close, terrified to release his hold for even a moment, lest he lose him forever. He tries not to look at other dancers—drawing too much attention here could be dangerous—but he can’t help but feel that they’re being observed, that if he steps a single toe out of line, something hungry will pounce.

“See?” Charles murmurs in his ear, breath tickling Edwin’s teeth. “Your dance instructor was full of shit, mate. You’re a natural.”

Edwin hopes Charles writes off the blush that rises to his cheek as from the heat. “This is a simple waltz. Anyone could do it.”

As if to disprove his point, Charles trods on his foot. At Edwin’s pointed expression, he smiles sheepishly. “Right, a simple waltz.”

“If it makes you feel better, St. Hilarion’s dancing instructor informed me that a dead man would have more enthusiasm on the dance floor. Which perhaps was prescient, since…” Edwin trails off before he can say, “Since I’m now a dead boy.”

“Sounds like our cricket coach, Mr. Waller. Wonder if he used to be the dancing instructor.”

“I doubt he was mine, unless he’s a very old man.”

That earns him a searching look from Charles. “Well, when we get back to St. Hil’s, you can teach me properly, yeah?”

Edwin feels the corners of his lips twitch, though melancholy twinges in his chest. Charles can’t possibly know that he’s a dead boy dancing with another dead boy and that they have no future at St. Hilarion’s. “That would be lovely.”

Charles beams at him.

Something behind Charles draws Edwin’s eye, despite his best effort, and he can’t help but glance over at the figure. He startles at the sight of a pair of slit-pupiled golden eyes watching him. The dancer smiles at him with a red mouth that stretches wide across a pale face, and then they vanish into the crowd, lost among bodies.

Edwin nearly stumbles, seized with the uncanny feeling of almost recognizing someone, but not being able to put his finger on who they are. Charles’s grip on his shoulder tightening grounds him.

“Alright, mate?” Charles murmurs in his ear.

Edwin nods, turning his gaze back to Charles’s earnest, trusting face. “I just thought I saw someone I recognized, but I was mistaken.”

“Anyone I need to worry about?”

Edwin huffs a small laugh. Even frightened and uncertain, Charles’s first instinct is always to protect. “I don’t believe so.”

“Good,” Charles says. “Just tell me if that changes, yeah?”

Edwin’s next glance over Charles’s shoulder tells him that they’re mercifully close to the edge of the dance floor. He lets out a relieved breath. “I certainly will.”

As they approach the ivory door, it swings open and Edwin feels a leap of triumph. The chamber beyond is dimly lit, a strange haze in the air. As they step through, their path is blocked by a tall Fae with curling ram’s horns and iridescent wings that flutter behind her like a hummingbird’s. In her hand she holds a bowl of softly glowing liquid.

“You cannot enter without paying the toll,” she says, a strange echo in her voice.

“And what is the toll?” Edwin asks.

She smiles, showing a mouth of sharp little teeth. “A kiss.”

Even if Edwin did have any desire to kiss women, the teeth would give him no desire to do anything of the sort. Luckily, Charles says, “That’s all that you need? A kiss?”

She inclines her head in a nod.

“Right, then let’s have it, then.” Charles steps forward.

The Fae giggles. “No, the kiss must be with the one you truly desire.”

Charles stops in his tracks. “Right, well, not saying you’re not fit…”

Edwin is ready to throw himself between Charles and the Fae before his partner manages to cause offense. “And if there’s no one here he desires?”

The Fae looks at him with unearthly eyes of a color his own mortal eyes can’t quite discern. “But there is, child.”

Charles turns to Edwin, throat bobbing as he swallows. “Right, uh, looks like this is the only way through, yeah? So…”

Edwin blinks, bewildered. “You want to kiss me?”

“That okay?” Charles reaches up to scrub a hand through his hair, looking sheepish. “If not, that’s fine. We can find another way.”

“Not into this room,” the Fae says. “Like I said, the price of entrance is a kiss.”

“No, that is quite alright,” Edwin says, feeling his cheeks flame. He misses not being able to blush. “A kiss is a perfectly reasonable price to pay.”

It’s not a price at all for him, but from the way the Fae smiles at him, she surely knows that. Edwin can only hope that once Charles has all his memories and is in his right mind, that he’ll forgive Edwin this. Surely, he’ll know that Edwin never would have taken advantage, had there been another way out.

“You sure, mate?” Charles’s gaze falls to Edwin’s lips, his tongue flicking out to wet his own.

“Yes,” Edwin says, and no sooner is the word out than Charles’s lips are on his.

It’s a searching thing at first, barely a brush of lips, but Edwin feels it down to his toes, like he’s just taken a sip of a warm drink on a cold day. Charles lets out a shaky little breath and kisses Edwin again, more surely this time. His mouth is soft and warm against Edwin’s and Edwin’s lips part at the first brush of his tongue, welcoming Charles in, because how could he do anything else, with Charles’s body pressed close and his hands sliding up his back, dancing over his skin?

And Edwin could do this forever, but they have a goal, so he pulls his mouth away from Charles’s, unable to resist the urge to brush one last, feather-light kiss over his lips. Charles blinks at him with hazy eyes, looking like he’s thinking of leaning in for another kiss, but Edwin turns back to the Fae before he can.

Edwin meets the Fae’s amused eyes, hoping that looks more dignified than he feels. “Was that sufficient?”

“More than.” She holds out the bowl of liquid. “Take a sip and then you may enter.”

“What is it?” Charles eyes the bowl with trepidation.

“Nothing that you won’t enjoy,” she says.

Edwin and Charles exchange looks. Charles lifts his shoulders in a helpless sort of shrug, as if to say, “Well, we’ve come this far.”  Before Charles can reach for the bowl, Edwin steps forward and takes the bowl from the Fae’s hands.

“Mate—” Charles starts to protest.

“It’s alright,” Edwin says, because there’s no way he’s going to allow Charles to be the one to drink first. Raising the bowl to his lips, he takes a sip. The potion is rich, sweet, and warming, and Edwin can’t stifle a little gasp of surprised pleasure at the taste. He’s almost tempted to take a second sip, but the Fae takes the bowl from his hands.

“One sip is more than enough, child.” She gives him a knowing little smile.

“You okay?” Charles asks anxiously.

Edwin considers. He doesn’t feel any ill effects. In fact, he feels rather…nice. There’s a strange energy that buzzes through him, but it doesn’t seem harmful. “Perfectly alright. I think it’s safe to drink.”

The Fae passes the bowl to Charles, who takes a sip. The sound that Charles lets out causes a surge of heat to go through Edwin. He looks away quickly. When did this room get so warm? It’s making it hard to think.

“Now you may enter.” The Fae takes the bowl back from Charles and smiles beatifically as she steps aside. “Enjoy.”

Edwin and Charles exchange looks, nod, and step through the doorway into the darkened room, where the air is hot and oppressive, smelling oddly sweet. Through the dimness, Edwin can see shapes moving together in a strange sort of dance. It’s only when he takes a closer look at the nearest couple, who move together in a frantic rhythm, that he realizes that they’re not dancing. For a terrible moment, he’s reminded of the Lust room, but the only scents in the air are sex and sweat, no blood. The cries that fill the room sound like pleasure, not pain.

“Ah.” Face flaming, Edwin steps back. “Perhaps this wasn’t the way to go after…”

He trails off when he turns to see Charles’s face very close to his. Even in the dim lights, Edwin can see that Charles’s attention is riveted on him.

“What—” Edwin starts to ask and then Charles is kissing him.

And Edwin knows that he should push Charles away. He knows that they were on their way somewhere, but he can’t quite remember where, and it doesn’t even matter, because Charles tastes like the potion, rich and sweet. And God, his hands, they feel so good on his skin, his strong, nimble fingers stroking his back, his shoulders, his neck, his face. Edwin wants them everywhere.

“Bloody hell,” Charles breathes in his ear. “I feel like I’ve wanted to do this forever. That’s weird, yeah? Just met you, but it doesn’t matter.”

Edwin tries to formulate a reply, but then Charles sucks his earlobe into his mouth, which shouldn’t be half as erotic as it is. The noise Edwin makes would be humiliating, if it weren’t swallowed up by the moans and cries around them.

Charles huffs a laugh, his teeth grazing the side of Edwin’s neck. “You’re beautiful. So fucking beautiful.”

But Edwin doesn’t want to hear this, he just wants to kiss Charles. He turns to capture Charles’s mouth with his and lets his hands explore, roving over every inch of Charles he can reach, as if he means to make a map of him. What a way to spend his afterlife, examining every inch of Charles’s topography, every line and curve, every freckle, every scar.

His afterlife. Yes, of course, he and Charles are ghosts, not living schoolboys trapped by the Fae. They don’t belong here. They’re trying to escape.

But why would he want to leave this place, when he can feel Charles’s warm, strong hands on him and taste the potion on his tongue.

The potion. What was in it?

Any thoughts of the potion flee his mind as Charles’s hands slide up his stomach towards his chest. Through the thin lace of his so-called waistcoat, his thumbs brush over Edwin’s nipples, circling them as they harden. It’s another place that Edwin wouldn’t think would be particularly sensitive, but his entire body lights up at the simple touch.

And then Charles’s mouth replaces his fingers, his tongue lapping lightly at Edwin’s nipple through the lace, and Edwin cries out, his body jerking against Charles’s. He feels Charles’s triumphant little puff of breath as he kisses across the plane of Edwin’s chest, his hands slipping under the thin waistcoat, leaving nothing at all between Charles’s fingers and Edwin’s skin. Charles’s hands settle gently, almost reverently on the curve of his waist.

Would it really be so bad to stay here? You could finally have all you desire.

Edwin has never been so aroused in his life—or his afterlife—and he wants to chase all the sensations rushing through him—Charles’s mouth, his hands, the warmth of his body pressed so close, the taste of him that still lingers on his tongue. He can’t quite stifle a gasp as Charles starts to bend, kissing a trail down Edwin’s belly as his hands slide down to grip Edwin’s thighs.

“Charles,” Edwin moans as Charles drops to his knees, unable to resist the urge to run his hands through those beautiful curls.

He only realizes his mistake when Charles goes still, his hands reaching for the front of Edwin’s breeches. “How do you know my name?” Charles asks, thick with desire, yet wary.

“I…” Edwin tries to focus through the haze of lust, but Charles’s hands are still on him and it’s hard to think. “I’m not…”

“You said that names are dangerous here.” Charles scrambles to his feet and takes a step back from Edwin.

“Not between us,” Edwin says quickly. The loss of Charles’s hands on him makes him want to cry. “Please, I swear, I’m not going to hurt you. I would never. You must know that.”

Except, Charles can’t know that, because Edwin is a near stranger to him.

“Please—” Edwin starts to say.

Charles turns and runs.

“Wait!” Edwin shouts, but Charles is always darting through the mass of writhing figures. Not going back the way they came, thankfully, but towards the other end of the room and another set of ivory doors. Calling after him frantically, Edwin gives chase. He has a terrible feeling that if he loses Charles here, in this strange place with these strange creatures, that they’ll never find each other again.

He trips over a couple writhing together on the floor, stammering out an instinctive apology, though they hardly seem to notice him. Hands reach for him as he passes and again, he’s reminded terribly of Lust, of being dragged down into  a writhing mass of flesh and blood. He cries out, shoving the hands away, and laughter follows him as he flees. He’s lost sight of Charles now. He can’t lose Charles here. He can’t.

It’s a good thing there isn’t an attendant blocking Edwin’s way this time, because he would be tempted to curse them into oblivion and damn the consequences. Edwin shoves his way through the ivory doors, and is hit with a blazing light, as if he’s staring directly into the sun.

He throws a hand up to shield his eyes, face screwed up against the light. The music around him has changed, becoming something almost frantic. When he lowers his arm tentatively, he sees that the dance has changed as well. Instead of the elegant dance of the first ballroom or the orgy in the second, he’s looking at an almost wild, frantic dance, limbs jerking and bodies moving as if yanked by strings.

Most bizarrely, every single one of the dancers looks like Charles.

Brown eyes gaze at him from a thousand faces, golden earrings glint from a thousand ears, a thousand mouths smile widely. A familiar hand catches Edwin, dragging him into the depths of the dance floor. He turns in place, trying to pick his Charles out of the mass of them. The potion is still burning through him, making him want desperately. It’s so tempting to just grab the nearest Charles and lose himself in pleasure. There are so many lips to kiss and hands to touch him.

No. Edwin shakes his head, forcing himself to think. These are not his Charles, just pale imitations. He won’t find true pleasure with them.

But where is his Charles? Is he lost in this mess of bodies, surrounded by what looks to him like a room full of Edwins? Has he wandered off with one of the imposters? Or is he terrified, thinking himself surrounded by enemies? Edwin needs to find him before something terrible happens. He’s not sure if he and Charles are in real danger here, but he can’t risk anything happening to this achingly vulnerable version of his partner.

Edwin only knows of one surefire way to make sure that Charles always comes to his side. He doesn’t know if it will work on a Charles who barely knows Edwin, and surely won’t feel compelled to defend him, especially now that he thinks Edwin a liar. But Edwin can’t spend all night here, waiting for the real Charles to reveal himself.

Edwin falls.

The dance continues around him, even more wild from this angle. The false Charleses don’t even seem to notice that he’s fallen. They dance over him, trodding on him without care. A foot grazes his cheek at the same time that another steps down on his ribs. Edwin doesn’t think he could stand up if he tried, helpless against the tide of bodies. He tries to curl up to protect his vulnerable middle, hands coming up to block his head. The false Charleses dance and dance and dance and he has the sudden, terrible certainty that he’s made a mistake, that he’ll be crushed into nothing under a tide of uncaring bodies.

And then hands grip him by the shoulders and haul him up. Gasping, Edwin looks up into Charles’s face. His Charles’s face, he knows as soon as he claps eyes on him.

“I’ve got you, mate,” Charles says, pulling Edwin against his side, as if he means to shield him from the chaos. They move through the sea of false Charleses, the real Charles shoving aside anyone who strays too close. Edwin can’t resist the urge to lean against him more than necessary, aching for his touch.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says, voice shaking. “Shouldn’t have left you, should I? Lost my head a bit.”

“It’s alright.” Edwin can’t hold anything against Charles right now. “This place is designed to make anyone lose their heads.”

“You haven’t lost yours.”

Edwin laughs a bit hysterically, because he’s fairly sure he lost his head the moment they stepped onto that first dance floor. “I’m afraid I really have.” Leaning towards Charles, he whispers in his ear, “My name is Edwin.”

Charles turns to look at him with wide eyes.

“It seemed fair for you to know,” Edwin says. “Since I know yours.”

Charles’s throat bobs as he swallows. “And how do you know it?”

Edwin looks ahead, to the last ivory door looming at the end of the room. “Can you just trust me until we get through that door, Charles? Then I’ll tell you everything. I mean it when I say I would never, ever hurt you.”

Charles must see something in his expression, because he nods. “Okay. Can you just tell me one thing?”

“Of course.”

“Why are you helping me?”

It breaks Edwin’s heart that he has to ask that, as if Edwin would ever not help Charles. “Because I know that if our situations were reversed, you would do the same for me.”

They reach the last door. Edwin reaches to push it open, but he finds himself shoved against it, Charles’s mouth finding his again, hot and desperate. His body presses Edwin’s against the door, trapping him against the smooth wood behind him. Every bit of Edwin wants to stay in this moment forever, the frenetic music and the disconcerting dancing seeming to fade around him. All that matters are Charles’s lips on his and Charles’s hands on his waist and Charles’s body pressed against his.

Would it be so bad to stay in this place forever, a place where Charles wants him?

“Edwin,” Charles breathes against his lips and his voice is so familiar, but the way he says Edwin’s name is different. It reminds Edwin that this may be the real Charles, but it’s not really his Charles. This is a Charles that hasn’t known Edwin for years, who hasn’t spent countless days solving cases and evenings reading and playing Cluedo in their office. This isn’t the Charles who drifted off into eternity to the sound of Edwin’s voice and walked into Hell to bring him back.

There’s nothing Edwin wants more than Charles, but he wants the Charles he knows and loves.

Reaching behind himself, Edwin shoves open the door and drags Charles back through it.

The music dies as the door swing shuts behind them with a resounding thud and Charles’s lips still against his.

“Edwin?” Charles stumbles back, blinking. Edwin knows the moment he meets Charles’s eyes that this is his Charles, with over thirty years’ worth of memories back. “Oh, bloody hell…”

“It’s quite alright.” Edwin adjusts his gauzy coat, feeling his face flush. The effects of the potion are gone, leaving him feeling raw and exposed. Dear lord, did he really throw himself at Charles like that? “We were under the effects of quite a strong lust potion.”

“Bloody hell,” Charles says again, covering his face with his hands.

Edwin’s stomach plummets. Of course Charles has regrets. Why wouldn’t he? “I—”

“I’m so fucking sorry, mate,” Charles says through his fingers.

“Sorry?” Edwin parrots.

“I shouldn’t have done that. I practically mauled you, didn’t I?”

If that was  a mauling, it was certainly the most pleasant one Edwin has ever endured. But Charles looks so miserable that Edwin can only step close, putting his hands on Charles’s shoulders. Charles lowers his hands to look Edwin in the face.

“We were under the effects of a potion,” Edwin says. “I hold nothing that just happened against you, just like I hope you don’t hold it against me.”

Charles’s eyes go wide. “Course I don’t.”

“Then the matter is settled,” Edwin says firmly, glancing at the next door. This one is a simple brown wooden door and something tells Edwin that will be the door to take them out of here. Or to the next strange scenario, possibly. “Let’s not give it another thought.”

“Right.” Charles nods vigorously. “It never happened.”

Edwin smiles and nods, swallowing back his disappointment as he turns towards the door. Because he doesn’t think he’s ever going to be able to forget what happened here.

***

Chapter Text

Despite what he’s just said about putting it all behind them, Charles’s thoughts keep straying back to the previous room—specifically, the kissing. Kissing’s always mint, but there’d been something about kissing Edwin that had lit him up from the inside out. His lips are still tingling with it, a staticky kind of feeling that he keeps wanting to press his fingers to. If he’s honest, it’s getting quite difficult to think about anything else.

It was just the potion, though, yeah? It’ll probably wear off in a minute. He should focus on the next room.

There should be plenty here to distract him. They’re in a proper fancy place. He and Edwin are walking down a corridor that leads to a massive staircase, wide and gently winding round to a big landing so you can look down and watch whoever’s coming up behind you. It’s like one of those posh old houses you can go and visit, or a set from one of the BBC dramas he used to watch with his mum on evenings when his dad was at the pub. But no, instead of taking in the view, he’s stealing glances at his best mate—who’s striding ahead and avoiding meeting his eyes—and remembering what it feels like to snog him.

He catches his foot in the staircase carpet and is only saved from an embarrassing fall by grabbing onto the banister before he goes arse over tit all the way down. Edwin’s at the top already, waiting for him to catch up, looking anxious.

“Charles?”

“M’all right.” 

Their voices sound weirdly loud here, and then he clocks the massive door with a shiny brass handle, obviously the place they’re meant to go next, which has a sign on it that reads: Silence, please.

They just look at it for a minute, not saying anything, and Charles gets a vivid flashback to the little whimpering noise Edwin made when he nibbled on his earlobe back in the previous room. Not helpful. Then Edwin takes a deep breath, like he’s bracing himself, and starts to say, “Charles, I—” 

Oh no, I’m not ready for this conversation. 

Luckily, this next room seems to be on his side. Charles taps the sign, giving his best cheeky grin.

“C’mon, Edwin, meant to be quiet, aren’t we?”

Before he has to think too much about the stricken look on Edwin’s face, he shoulders the door open.

As soon as they’re inside, there’s an explosion of some kind of green smoke. Charles breathes in a couple of lungfuls of the stuff before he can stop himself, and he coughs and splutters, doubling over, eyes watering at the bitterness of it. He can’t see anything at all for a minute—too busy trying to stop hacking away like he’s been on twenty a day for the past thirty or so years—but when his vision clears, he sees that Edwin’s in much the same state, leaning on the wall for support. At last, it passes, and Charles rubs at his streaming eyes and straightens up to look around him.

Whatever that was, it felt like pretty powerful stuff. He works his tongue around his mouth, trying to get rid of the bitter taste, until Edwin catches him at it and then quickly looks away. Hastily, he stops. His mouth’s feeling better, at least, but it’s a hollow victory: the fumes have stolen the last traces of Edwin’s kisses, and he’s surprised by how much he misses them.

Anyway. Now that he’s not trying to peer through a cloud of smoke, he can get a proper look at where they are. It’s an enormous library, lit by lamps like the ones in the stairway, with a huge chandelier in the centre. It must have at least fifty bulbs, but the light isn’t overwhelming, more like a warm, soft glow. Bookshelves line the walls, some stretching right up to the ceiling, and there’s a gallery above with yet more shelving, reached by an ornate spiral staircase in the corner. At one end of the room, there’s a long wooden desk. It’s so silent you could hear a pin drop, and there’s nobody else here except for him and Edwin.

He turns to Edwin to ask him if he’s all right, but his voice won’t come. He tries again. Nothing. 

Whatever was in that smoke has made him completely lose his voice.

Well, that’s aces. Not like there’s something I’m desperate not to talk to him about, is there? Whoever’s in charge here’s got a great sense of humour.

Edwin’s looking at him, wide-eyed and mouthing something, gesturing to his throat. Doesn’t take a genius to work out that the smoke that nicked off with Charles’s voice has stolen his too. Unhelpfully, the memory of the feel of Edwin’s skin against his lips chooses this moment to pop up in his brain, and he hastily presses it down again, trying to force his face into a neutral expression.

Above them, the lights flicker once or twice.

Charles turns and checks the door behind him, just to see if they can get out, but predictably, it’s locked. Should’ve figured that out by now, shouldn’t I?! Not gonna be that easy. He looks around, searching for other options, and finds nothing.

Looks like the only way out is through.

There’s another of those signs on the wall that says: Silence, please. That explains that, then. It’s a library, you’re quiet in libraries, so the potion shuts you up. Looks like he might’ve got more than he bargained for when he was hoping to swerve whatever Edwin was trying to say.

Though they do say silence is golden. Let’s hope that one holds up.

He taps Edwin on the shoulder and points to the sign, and Edwin gives a grim little nod, like he’s not at all surprised. Maybe he’d already got there. He’s always so quick. In fact, he’s looking around now, probably trying to work out what it is they’re meant to be doing. 

Charles should be doing that too. On a quick scan, there doesn’t seem to be anything dangerous here—nothing obvious, anyway—but they’ll need to start somewhere and something’s bound to happen in a minute that they’ll need to deal with. The first, glaring problem is the communication thing. He wishes he had his bag of tricks, with its stack of paper and a dozen pens. Or that Edwin had his notebook.

Edwin’s on the same page (haha), miming writing and then gesturing to the big desk, which looks like the spot where the librarians would sit, if there were any. Seems the best place to look for writing materials. Charles can’t see anything on it from here, but there’s nothing else to go on, so that’s their best bet. He leads the way over there, the carpet soft and plush under his feet.

It doesn’t look promising, at first glance. The desk has no drawers and its surface is completely clear apart from a small wooden tray in the centre, about the size of a standard paperback book, with a small sign on it that reads: Please make your enquiries at the Issue Desk. Which is all well and good, except there’s nobody to ask. 

He taps Edwin on the shoulder and pantomimes a big shrug.

Edwin’s head is cocked to the side, brow furrowed; lucky he’s always been so expressive really, never leaves you in any doubt about what’s going on in his head. Most of the time, anyway. He rereads the sign, mouthing the words, though no sound comes out, of course. Then he starts pacing and muttering to himself, waving his hands exactly like he does when he’s talking, which is somehow a lot more distracting when there’s no words to balance it out. He’s clearly working through something, and Charles knows better than to interrupt him, but it’s a bit boring when he can’t at least try to follow along.

Anyway, he doesn’t need more reasons to look at Edwin’s lips just now.

Bloody desire potion. Not fair to have to be dealing with two of them at the same time. 

Needing something to do with his hands, he reaches out and touches the desk, running his fingertip along the grain of the wood. It feels nice: textured and solid, comfortingly weighty, somehow. Like a desk you can take seriously. He looks around the room again, taking in the bookshelves, the empty fireplace, the grandfather clock in the far corner. All very nice, but what’s it all about?

Any clues here would be nice, yeah? Help us out? 

At once, there’s a weird kind of rushing feeling against his skin, and his hand tingles with warmth, almost like the wood’s alive. 

That’s new. What’s that about?

When he looks down, there’s a piece of paper sitting in the tray.

Out of instinct, he shouts in surprise, though no sound comes out, and picks it up to have a look. It’s a list of books, ten in all. Charles has never read any of them—not surprising, he’s not usually a big reader—but maybe Edwin has. He at least recognises one or two of the authors’ names as he scans the list, which reads:

• Allingham, Margery. He Was Asking After You
• Berkeley, Anthony. Not to Be Taken
• Cheyney, Peter. You Can Call It a Day 
• Christie, Agatha. Elephants Can Remember
• Kafka, Franz. The Exclamation Mark 
• Lorac, E.C.R. The Dog It Was That Died
• Nabokov, Vladimir. Despair
• Sayers, Dorothy L. Have His Carcase
• Wade, Henry. The Verdict of You All
• Williams, Tennessee. A Streetcar Named Desire.

Despair. Sounds ominous. Let’s hope it’s not a sign.

It might be his imagination, but the lights seem dimmer now, moodier. Charles looks from the list to the high shelves and back again. It’s obvious what they need to do: find all the books. But given their current lack of information, that could be quite a tall order (haha again). It’s not like they can just look at everything here; it’d take forever. 

He takes a step or two back to get a better look and sees enough to realise that the towering bookshelves are labelled: at the top of each of them, there’s a letter that he can just about read if he squints. The one by the entrance is A, the next one is B, and so on all around the room. They’re all packed with books, and he wonders how many there must be in here in total: thousands, probably. That’s a start, at least.

Because he’s got a sixth sense for this kind of thing, Edwin’s twigged that something’s happened, despite Charles being too preoccupied to tell him. He comes swishing over and looks at the list and Charles gives it to him automatically. It’s muscle memory by now, handing Edwin stuff before he asks.

When their fingers brush as he hands it over, it’s like a little electric shock. 

Above them, there’s a fizzing sound as the chandelier flickers again. It sounds very loud in this quiet place. 

Edwin doesn’t seem to notice: his head’s buried in the list as he mouths the titles to himself, and then he waves it, hands held up. Where?

Charles gestures to the desk. Edwin nods impatiently—obviously the desk, Charles, could you please be more specific—and makes another questioning gesture. All Charles can give him is a shrug, which is apparently not satisfactory, if Edwin’s eyeroll’s anything to go by.

He reads the sign again.

Please make your enquiries at the Issue Desk.

Hang on a tick. He’d thought the sign had meant asking someone sitting at the desk. But what if it means asking the desk itself?

That has to be it. It’s a giddy rush, finally understanding something in this room. Then his heart dips, because he was always shit at charades when he was alive, and being dead hasn’t given him that much practice. He can do “I’ve lost my voice” and “This list of books came from the desk” without too much bother, but it turns out “I was touching the desk and thinking about what to do and it heard me and it gave me a list of books” is more of a challenge.

Edwin’s intent focus on his lips as he tries to mouth it is doing things to his brain, and it makes his face flush, and then Edwin’s cheeks go pink as well, and it looks good on him, a bit of colour, and then…

The light overhead pulses again, dark then bright, dark then bright, like someone’s playing with a dimmer switch. In the corner, the clock chimes, making them jump.

Lip-reading’s a no-go, then, not if they can’t focus. They need to find another way to communicate. And then figure out how to get out of here, preferably without either of them spontaneously combusting with embarrassment. 

Charles taps his temple and mimes thinking, with his other hand on the desk surface, just by the sign, and then points at the sign for good measure. He has to do it a couple of times—guess I’d better forget about that Oscar, then—but then Edwin seems to get it, because he has a go himself. Maybe it’ll talk to him now it’s figured out who the smart one is. Maybe he’s asking Why, God, why am I stuck here with this idiot?

Bet he’d be aces at charades, with that face.

Edwin’s fingers twitch nervously on the desk’s surface and Charles has to stuff his hands in his pockets to avoid reaching out to still them. Just to see whether it’ll talk to them both at the same time, of course. No other reason. Edwin frowns and waits, but nothing happens. After a couple of minutes, it’s pretty clear that this is a Charles-only deal. Or it was. 

Why’s it only talking to me? Is it because I was here first?

He looks back at the sign.

Issue desk. Hah. Maybe it’s ‘cause I’m the one with the most issues.

If the desk is only going to talk to him, he’d better get on with it. Putting his hand back down on it, he thinks, How can I find these books?

Nothing happens. No sound, no tingling, no warmth. Maybe it was a coincidence. Or maybe that wasn’t the right question. He tries again.

Where are these books?

Nothing. He tries every version of the question he can think of, and nothing works. Just a fluke, then? Meanwhile, Edwin’s getting more and more impatient, actually tapping his foot like a cartoon character. Charles can tell he’s trying not to pressure him, but it’s not helping, having him watch him like this.

Maybe the desk’s having second thoughts about choosing him to talk to. What if he only got one question and he’s wasted it on something stupid? What if they’re trapped here forever and he’ll never get to hear Edwin’s voice again? That’d be awful. No more snippy comebacks, no more cutting putdowns, no more of that soft way he says Charles’s name? Might as well give up.

Please can’t you just tell us how to find these books? he thinks desperately, and then, by some miracle, there’s a voice in his head, a whisper like the rustle of paper. A letter, and then a number.

Must be a shelfmark, right?

He’s so relieved that it’s talking to him that it takes him a moment to wonder why it worked this time. It’s not like it’s a different question. So why now? 

Then it hits him. Hasn’t this whole day been about working together? He should’ve figured it out before.

I didn’t say “me” that time. I said “us.” 

I think it wants us to do this together.

Underneath his hand, there’s another flood of warmth, like he’s on the right track, and above him, the light becomes brighter, more yellowy. Edwin looks over at him, and he must see that Charles has made some headway, because he smiles, and his eyes gleam. Charles’s heart glows to see it, just like the chandelier above them, and he finds himself reflexively laying a hand on his chest as if searching for the heat.

Oh. The glow fades a bit when he realises that in all the excitement, he forgot to note the shelfmark. Stupid, stupid. He almost hurts his hand with how hard he slams it down on the desk.

Could you tell me—I mean, us, again, please?

There’s that rustling voice in his head again, and he hears: B23. Quickly, before he can forget again, he taps Edwin on the shoulder and mouths it at him.

Edwin narrows his eyes and squints. Charles tries again. Edwin’s concentrating so hard it looks funny, and then Charles is laughing and he can’t say anything. That makes Edwin scowl. Oh, do get a grip, Charles, is practically written all over his face.

A grip. Hmm. He taps Edwin on the arm and holds out a hand, offering, because he doesn’t want to grab Edwin, not again, not after the last room. So he waits like Mr Fucking Darcy asking for a dance—dancing, masks and costumes, lips and lace and Edwin’s body and—and then Edwin hesitantly accepts, putting his hand in Charles’s, looking slightly confused. 

Thanking every deity he’s ever heard of that he can’t sweat, Charles hastily writes B23 on Edwin’s palm.

As he writes, Edwin closes his eyes and shivers, which does things to Charles that are completely unhelpful at the moment, thank you very much. He even bites his fucking lip, his eyelids fluttering. Maybe it’s not just Charles who’s having trouble with a few flashbacks. He gives Edwin’s hand a little shake, and Edwin’s eyes slide open into a couple of dopey blinks. 

The light above them winks in and out too, following the pattern. Edwin flushes, and it stops.

Now you need to get a grip, mate. Though he can’t help feeling smug about doing that to Edwin with just a fingertip. Guess my handwriting’s not so bad after all, eh? Hand-writing? Get it? Edwin rolls his eyes like he can hear the pun, even though that’s impossible, and huffs, like he might snatch his hand away, but Charles makes himself look apologetic and does the movement again, this time making sure not to linger. 

Edwin flips their hands and writes B23 on Charles’s palm to show he’s understood, and Charles nods, ecstatic. He points over to the bookshelf headed B, because that must be what it means, right? They share a grin, awkwardness forgotten now that something’s finally going right, and Edwin sets off over to the bookshelf at once, covering the carpet in long, purposeful strides, not even waiting for Charles to follow him.

Charles watches him fondly for a second, then pulls himself together. Eyes on the prize, yeah? Keep going. He makes to go over there too, but as soon as he takes his hand off the desk, the lights go out, plunging the whole place into darkness.

Oh. Bit of a setback. Was that me?

He experiments, putting his hand back on the desk, and the lights come straight back on again. He tries it again a few times, on, off, on, off, until he’s sure, but it’s not rocket science. He doesn’t even need a glower from the Agency’s resident genius to tell him to stay put, though Edwin being Edwin, he gets one anyway.

That’s just brills, isn’t it?! Guess I’ll stay here, then.

Charles watches Edwin count shelves until he reaches 23 and then scan along the row of books, hoping against hope that they’re on the right track. It seems to take forever, but eventually Edwin pulls one from the shelf, looks at it closely, and then gives a small satisfied nod. Coming over to the desk, he sets it triumphantly down, and Charles tilts his head to look at the spine, laughing a bit when he sees the title.

You Can Call It a Day 

Hah. Wish we fucking could, mate. But there’s nine more to go.

It’s slow going. After the first time, Charles switches tactics, drawing the letter in the air and then holding up fingers. Much quicker and less distracting than hand-writing: he doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it in the first place. OK, that’s a lie: getting that response out of Edwin with just a finger was quite something, even after everything they got up to in the previous room. But he’s filing that under Things to think about later, once I can think straight again. For now, he’ll just stand here like a lemon, keeping the lights on while Edwin scurries around.

He has to properly scale the shelves for some of the books, which he’s surprisingly good at for someone who always insists that Charles is the athletic one. Charles watches him, quietly impressed. At one point, when Edwin almost loses his grip reaching for the last book, he jumps, instinctively taking his hand off the desk and causing a temporary blackout. It earns him another glare, but thankfully, no fall. The light, when it returns, has taken on a slightly bluish tinge, almost sulky, like it’d been hoping for more drama, higher stakes, or maybe even more touching.

Well, too bad. We’ve got a system, and it’s working. Less awkward this way, innit?

Safely on the ground again, Edwin joins Charles by the desk, close enough that their shoulders just brush, and deposits the last book onto the pile. Charles leans into him, relieved he’s still in one piece, and Edwin presses back as the bluish tint brightens into the familiar, comforting yellow, like it’s patting them on the head for a job well done. They watch expectantly, but nothing else happens, so Edwin nudges Charles and points to the desk.

Um, hello, he prompts. Now what?

The clock in the corner chimes again, and the lamp on the far side of the issue desk suddenly switches on, illuminating an empty shelf. It’s a funny one: just one row for books along the top, and then something underneath it that looks a bit like a safe.

In fact, if he eyeballs it, he reckons that the pile of books they’ve just collected is the perfect size to fit on it. Hmm. 

Tapping Edwin on the shoulder, he mimes picking the books up and then gestures to the shelf, pointing at the lockbox. Edwin gets it right away and grabs an armful to head over there. He can’t quite carry them all, and Charles is so used to doing stuff to help him that he’s grabbed the rest before he remembers the lights. But there’s no change when he lifts his hand this time, the yellow bulbs still glowing serenely above their heads. 

Oh, so I’m allowed to move again now, am I? Ta very much. Better get going, then.

He carries them over to the empty shelf. Edwin’s arranging his books gently, reverently, like he always does. When he sees Charles, he gestures to the lights. Charles just shrugs.

Your guess is as good as mine, mate. We’re in a room with a thinking desk, I reckon anything goes.

He adds his books to the shelf, slotting them in next to Edwin’s so they line up nice and neatly. As he suspected, they fit perfectly, and he feels a surge of satisfaction at having got it right. There’s even a little glow of appreciation from the lamp, which seems to confirm that they’re on the right track. But then…nothing else happens.

Of course it’s not as easy as just putting them onto the shelf, is it? That’d be too simple. 

Edwin’s frowning and running his finger along the edge of the books, like he’s missing something, muttering the titles to himself. He starts shuffling them around, ordering them by author, by title, and then even by size, looking down to check the safe every time. But nothing happens. With each attempt, he gets more frustrated, until he finally turns to Charles and gestures towards the desk again. 

Not being able to do anything more helpful, Charles sets off, leaving Edwin behind him to keep mouthing soundlessly to himself, still mixing up the books on the shelf. He hopes those shelfmarks weren’t important, because he’s already forgotten what they were. Once he gets to the desk, he puts his hand on it again, searching for that warm feeling like he’s trying to find the pulse of some massive animal, but there’s nothing.

Maybe it was here? Or here?

The blue tinge is back now, and Charles grits his teeth.

C’mon. Stop giving us a light show and help us. What do we do now?

Edwin comes over and has a go, still holding the list of books. He starts feeling up the desk as well—come off it, am I really feeling jealous of furniture right now?!—and then suddenly goes still. From the look on his face, something seems to have worked for him this time. The list is trembling in his hand, and as they watch, writing appears on it in glowing red ink.

Guess it’s his turn now, then. Maybe he got to “us” quicker than I did.

He peers over at the list and Edwin holds it up so they can both see it. It now reads:

• Allingham, Margery. He Was Asking After You (5)
• Berkeley, Anthony. Not to Be Taken (1)
• Cheyney, Peter. You Can Call It a Day (1)
• Christie, Agatha. Elephants Can Remember (2)
• Kafka, Franz. The Exclamation Mark (1, 2, 3)
• Lorac, E.C.R. The Dog It Was That Died (5)
• Nabokov, Vladimir. Despair (1)
• Sayers, Dorothy L. Have His Carcase (1)
• Williams, Tennessee. A Streetcar Named Desire (4)
• Wade, Henry. The Verdict of You All (4)

OK, so that’s something. But what does it mean? Is it a code?

Charles groans inwardly. Codes. Bloody codes. He’s always been hopeless at them. On the other hand, Edwin’s eyes have lit up, so at least he’s happy. He takes Charles by the hand and drags him over to the shelf, gesturing at it excitedly, and he’d probably be gabbing away if he could talk, but as it is, he’s just picking up the books again, trying to make sense of something that’s all Greek to Charles. Then he freezes, stops talking to himself, and makes what Charles always privately calls his Ahah! face, where he puts two fingers to his temple and opens his eyes really wide.

Oh, he’s so brills. Thank God one of us is on top of this.

The Ahah! face has gone and now Edwin’s got his explaining smile on, the one that’s slightly smug. He’s always loved explaining all the amazing things he does, so Charles will let him, as a treat. Pointing to the first book on the list, he holds up five fingers, then taps the words one by one. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…the fifth word is “You.” Then he points to the second one, tapping it once. “Not.”

Ah, I get it now. Genius. And the one with three numbers must mean all…wait, it’s an exclamation mark. That’ll keep Edwin happy, he goes mental when people don’t use proper punctuation.

Edwin’s going down the list, tapping the words and mouthing them to himself, his brain moving at the speed of light to work out the full message as he shuffles the books like a deck of cards. Charles would help, but he doesn’t want to get in the way; he can’t keep all the words in his head at once like that, not when Edwin’s such a flurry of motion next to him. He might as well just stand back and enjoy the view.

When Edwin finishes, he rereads the words, mouthing them to himself, and then he goes suddenly still. Hesitantly, he looks again, rereading them, more slowly this time. Then, his face breaks.

He drops the paper like it’s burnt him, spinning abruptly around. Charles reaches out to try to stop him, but all he gets is a split-second glimpse of Edwin’s devastated face before he’s wrenched his arm away and stalked off, and the entire room goes almost completely dark as the lights above them go out, leaving only the dim glow of the lamp above the bookshelves.

He doesn’t know how he can tell, but he knows this is different to him taking his hand off the desk earlier. This is a darker darkness, somehow, and there’s a cold pressing in on him like a weight. It’s so dark he can’t see anything more than a foot or so in front of him.

The lamp doesn’t budge when he tries to lift it and he stands paralysed, wondering whether he should go after Edwin or try to see what it was that made him so upset. It must’ve been the books, right? Everything was going OK until then. Better than OK, in fact. He’s not gonna be able to help Edwin until he can read that message. Might be the fastest way to get the lights on, too.

Bending down, he picks up the fallen piece of paper with the book titles on it. Then, squinting in the gloom, he looks at the book arrangement, counts a few times, and decodes the message.

Despair! All That You Desire You Can Not Have

Shit. No wonder Edwin pulled away. What a fucking awful thing to hear. It’d be pretty gutting to get that at any time, but now, after what just happened between them? Well, it’s probably like Edwin’s worst nightmare coming true.

They’ve not talked about it, what Edwin said when they were getting out of Hell. Things’ve been pretty much the same, anyway. It’s not that he’s forgotten it—you can’t forget something like that—but he’s just worked it into the background of everything they do, only every now and then it flares up inside his head, a jet of warmth like a Roman candle, lighting him up from the inside.

He’s been waiting for the right moment, wanting to give it the time it deserves. Of course he loves Edwin, he always has, but he needs to be sure that it’s the right kind of love. He always thought there’d be a sign, not like writing in the sky or a thunderbolt or a voice in his head or anything, but…

Those words are taunting him, ringing in his ears. They’re whirling round his head like leaves picked up in a storm, bouncing off the sides of his brain, echoing until his head hurts. And it’s not like it wasn’t busy already: all that kissing from the other room has been making him second-guess himself ever since they got in here, putting a different filter on every interaction. 

And speaking of seeing things differently…

Looking down at the words again, he realises that it’s not the only sentence they could make. Crossing his fingers that he’s on the right track, he picks up one of the books and puts it into a different spot.

At once, all the lights come back on again; definitely not warm as before, but loads better than the darkness. Is this how Edwin feels when he cracks a code? It’s aces. The atmosphere’s lifting too, feeling less oppressive, more hopeful, like it’s easier to breathe. He has to find Edwin and show him, has to let him know he’s cracked the puzzle. It’ll be much easier now they can see again, right? Hopefully Edwin’ll be so pleased he’s solved it that it’ll cheer him up a bit.

Now that he can see again, he can just make out Edwin leaning against one of the bookshelves in the far corner. Has he even noticed the lights? It’s hard to tell: he’s curled in on himself, his shoulders shaking, and the little lamp above him is dim, unwelcoming and cold, making him look like he’s stuck in an icy patch of fog. Charles sprints over to him and lays a hand on his shoulder, wanting to comfort him, to show him what he’s done, but Edwin shrugs it off and shoves him away, refusing to look at him.

Charles tries again, gentler this time, but Edwin shies away from him, misery seeping off him like a draught. But he has to see, he must’ve noticed the lights have changed and know that it means Charles has solved the puzzle. Frustrated, Charles grabs his hand, pulling him round so that he has to look at him.

Please, he mouths. Come with me.

Edwin gives a reluctant sigh and follows as Charles almost drags him to the bookshelf and proudly displays his handiwork. 

Look! I solved it. It’s all right. 

But it doesn’t have the effect he was hoping for. Edwin frowns and reads the new message, but he somehow manages to look more devastated by it than he did by his original answer. He shuts his eyes, looking pained. Then he draws their joined hands to his chest, squeezing, and lets go again, shaking his head and stepping away, engulfed again by his little patch of darkness.

Why does that make it worse? Surely that’s better than what it said before?

Charles looks down at the message again, wondering if he’s missed anything, and the words slowly sink in.

Despair Not! All That You Desire You Can Have.

Oh. He knows that’s the answer to the puzzle, but what about…what about the other thing?

There’s a click as the safe underneath the bookshelf opens, the door swinging out.

I definitely got it right, then. Please don’t let it be something awful, though. Or another bloody code.

Edwin gestures dejectedly to him to go and look at it, like he’s totally given up. When Charles looks in the safe, there’s a piece of paper inside, with a single line of writing.

What are you not telling him?

It’s a relief to see something he can understand, but it also feels a bit like déjà vu.

Bloody hell, haven’t we done this already?

They haven’t, though. Not like this. This is even bigger than him not telling Edwin that he visits his parents, or Edwin hoping doing cases’d stop him going back to Hell. 

Everything, he wants to scream. I’m not telling him everything, because I’ve got no bloody voice.

He knows that that’s not the answer, though. Too easy. This is about everything that happened in the last room, isn’t it? Yeah. It all keeps coming back to that. Because now he’s started to think about Edwin in that way, he can’t seem to stop. And he’s not even sure he wants to. Is that what he’s not telling him? 

But that’s just the desire potion, right? Though thinking about it, this hasn’t happened with any of the other potions. Every other time, the effect stopped once they left the room. So why would that one be different? 

Be honest with yourself, Charles, for once. This isn’t the potion any more, is it? This is just…you. Maybe it was the catalyst for all that stuff, but it wasn’t the reason, not really.

He knows what it is he has to say. He just needs to find a way to make him believe it. Luckily, he’s got some props to help. He picks up the ones he needs and steps closer to Edwin, heart racing.

Above him, another light clicks on, and Edwin blinks at the sudden brightness.

Nice to have good lighting for the charades game of my life. OK. On with the show.

Nabokov. Despair. He shakes his head as hard as he can. No. No despair.

Points to himself. I. The Christie. Can Remember.

Himself again. I. The Williams. Desire. Then the Christie. Remember.

Shakes his head. Not. Mimes drinking. Potion.

Another point to himself. I. The Williams. Desire. Point to Edwin. You.

A pause. Edwin shakes his head, taking a couple of steps back, but Charles follows him, nodding as vehemently as he can, the light above him making sure Edwin can still see him. Yes. Yes. I desire you. He gestures between himself, Edwin, and the book, as many times as he has to, to make him see it’s the truth.

He can see the moment Edwin starts to consider that it might be for real, when he stops wanting to argue and just looks at him steadily. The moment when the scepticism on his face starts to melt away into a tiny, questioning hope would almost break Charles’s heart if it wasn’t thundering so fast that’d be impossible. 

I don’t need books for this bit, do I? Maybe I didn’t need them at all.

Because it’s actually incredibly simple, like all the best solutions. He sets the books down on the shelf beside him and takes a deep breath. Above him, the light narrows into a concentrated beam. A spotlight.

Then, hand trembling slightly, he points to himself.

I.

He puts his hand over his heart. 

Love.

He points to Edwin. 

You.

There. Cards on the table. Nothing more up his sleeve.

The air’s so still, like the entire library’s waiting along with Charles. Edwin’s watching him, just as frozen, like if he moves, it’ll break some sort of spell. Then, at last, he says, “Do you really mean that?”

As soon as he’s said it, he looks surprised, like he hadn’t expected to make a sound. He puts a hand on his neck uncertainly, rubbing over his Adam’s apple. Charles grins. With a wave of relief, he feels something lift in his throat. It’s not just the silencing potion: it’s like a whole weight has gone.

“Must do, mustn’t I?! You can tell it’s worked—we’ve got our voices back.”

He’s trying to whisper, out of respect for the library, but he can’t quite keep his voice down. It’s such a relief to have it back and to be able to speak to each other again, without all of the workarounds. Though the hand-writing was fun. He’ll have to remember that one.

“Charles,” Edwin says softly, in that way Charles was worried he’d never hear again, and then he can’t hold himself back any more: he has to step forward and kiss him.

Edwin makes a tiny noise, like he’s been caught off guard, but he doesn’t pull away; he melts into it and reaches up to cup Charles’s face and hold him there. It’s careful and sweet, not as desperate as the kisses in the other room, but it’s just as good. A real kiss. No potion, no tricks, no secrets. Just them. Charles tilts his face and deepens it, swallowing Edwin’s gasp, chasing the sweetness around his mouth to get every last drop of it, his lips tingling.

It’s only the sound of a door opening that makes them pull apart. Behind the bookshelf with the safe, another door has appeared, and it’s slightly ajar. Above them, the chandelier’s changed to a blushy kind of pink, the whole room glowing like it’s been rooting for them all along.

“Not exactly subtle, is it?” Edwin says drily, and Charles laughs. Frankly, he’s surprised it’s not raining rose petals. The soft light is dusting Edwin’s cheeks, the perfect complement to his small, bashful smile and the twinkle in his eyes. It makes Charles want to kiss him again.

“I love you,” he says instead, because he can, and the look on Edwin’s face when he actually hears him say it out loud makes everything they’ve been through today worth it.

“And I love you,” Edwin answers, and for a minute they just look at each other in a way that’s probably incredibly soppy, except Charles couldn’t care less. There’s no-one here to see, anyway, except a slightly over-invested building. He wants to look at Edwin like that forever, and he wants Edwin to keep looking back, just the same.

Charles Rowland, in the library, with the love confession, he thinks, like they’re wrapping up a game of Cluedo, and maybe, in a way, they are. It took more than thirty years and Hell and all the mad things they’ve been through today, but at least they got there in the end.

It’d be nice, wouldn’t it? Just to stay here in the warm light where it feels safe and quiet, a little space just for them. There’s more they’ll need to say, once they’re out of here, more they’ll need to talk about. It won’t all be straightforward, and who knows what’s waiting for them next. But at least he’s said the important thing. And whatever’s coming, they’ll face it together.

And afterwards, more kissing. Lots of catching up to do.

He looks over at Edwin and tilts his head towards the new door. Edwin gives him a little shrug, slightly regretful, like he’d rather stay here a bit longer too, but knows they might as well get on with it. He leans in to take one more quick kiss for the road, his teeth grazing Charles’s bottom lip as they break apart, eyes glinting with a hint of mischief.

Yeah, definitely gonna need more of that. Whatever’s left, hope we can get through it quickly. Between this room and the last one, I’m building up a little reading list of my own.

Edwin holds out a hand, and Charles takes it without needing a word. They glance at each other, nod, and step into the next room.