Like Moths to a Flame // Sebastian Sallow x Male MC [Book One]

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Lost (Or, More, More, More)

Sebastian had felt off all day - nothing debilitating, just a strange, persistent unease he couldn't quite shake. Maybe he was coming down with something. If so, the timing couldn't have been worse. He had planned to speak with Ominis today, but not like this. He needed to focus if he was going to hold his ground, especially if Ominis decided to be stubborn, as he so often was.

With everything that had happened over the past few days, it had taken Sebastian far too long to remember to research the phrase the voices had commanded him to speak, to cure Anne: Exsurge inanimata. And truthfully, he hadn't even needed to look it up. He knew Latin well, after all. But in that moment - when he had agreed to say the words - something had blocked his understanding, as though a wall had been thrown up in his mind. Now, with distance and a clearer head, the meaning was all too plain, and deeply unsettling: rise, lifeless ones.

The implications were obvious. Especially when said in a catacomb.

Still, he clung to the hope that he was mistaken, that he'd mistranslated in his anxious state. But deep down, he knew the truth. The pieces fit too perfectly, each one clicking into place with a cold inevitability.

By the time Care of Magical Creatures began, a lightheaded fog had crept through his mind. He took a seat at the back of the class, just in case. He caught fragments of Professor Howin's lecture about Bowtruckles, but he doubted he could string together a coherent essay on the topic if his life depended on it.

And then, near the end of class, his body betrayed him entirely: his posture sagged, his limbs grew heavy. His eyes fluttered. Maybe... maybe he could close them for just a moment...

***

Sebastian came to in the Owlery, slumped against the wall. Disoriented, he blinked up at the night sky stretching beyond the window. The sun had vanished without his notice. In fact, class must've ended hours ago. But why was he here? And where was his owl, Hermes?

He looked down and, to his great shock, found his right hand curled tightly around the relic in his pocket. He snatched his hand back as if burned; a sharp headache flared in response. His gaze dropped to his rumpled robes, searching for any hint that might explain what had happened. Nothing was torn or obviously out of place, but the haze in his mind refused to clear.

He straightened slowly, hoping that no one had seen him like this. If someone had, he hoped he at least looked like he knew what he was doing. That he had his wits about him. 

Exhaling shakily, he smoothed the worst of the wrinkles from his clothes and glanced around. Hermes was definitely not here. That could only mean one thing - he'd sent a letter. But to whom? ... Anne? He wracked his brain, but nothing surfaced. How long had he been out? How much time had he lost?

Cautiously, Sebastian peeked around the corner of the doorway, ensuring the path ahead was clear. Satisfied, he stepped out and began his descent down the winding staircase. If he came across someone familiar, perhaps he could casually ask about the hours that had slipped through his grasp.

Each step creaked under his weight as he made his way down. Halfway along, he paused. Just ahead, Damien's unmistakable mop of blond hair came into view. He was seated on one of the steps, unmoving, staring off into the distance.

Sebastian's stomach dropped. How long had Damien been there? Had they crossed paths earlier, while he'd been, for lack of a better word, sleepwalking?

Sebastian approached slowly, uncertainty prickling at his spine. As he drew closer, Damien turned. They locked eyes. He stood abruptly, adjusting his robes as he rose.

"Sebastian?" Damien murmured softly, almost a whisper.

Sebastian hesitated for a moment. His heart was pounding now, partly from the strange gaps in his memory, and partly because of course Damien had to be the one standing there, looking like a bloody portrait come to life.