COVER BY DAZZIESH
When the Delphi Foundation calls Emerson Cole to interview a pair of twins, he doesn't expect them to be the apparently-not-quite-so-dead scions of the deceased Waymark family. He definitely doesn't expect them to be stuck in the s...
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Fell wheezed, the sound overloud in his ears. The metal was cool against his heated skin and he panted against it, these deep watery inhales. It was mortifying. He sounded like he was dying, and the breaths echoed, bouncing off the walls of the room and the blasted steel of the table and Emerson blasted Cole wasn't saying anything at all so his beached whale wheezing was all he could hear—
Control. Maintain control. He was in control. Of his mind. Of his/their body. Fell choked back his next breath. Forced it out through his nose. Breathed. Normally. Controlled. Control. Tentatively he sat back up, taking care not to jar anything too suddenly. He kept his eyes shut and a hand over the closed lids. He breathed.
Then, he spoke.
"Thank you," He croaked, voice hoarse and shaking. What he wouldn't do for a glass of water. Actually, at this point, he'd prefer a bottle of vodka—yes, the whole thing—straight. He licked his lips and tried to twist his mouth into something approaching gratitude. They were dry and the skin tasted like ash. "A unity, especially one as sudden as this is...never...pleasant to come down from."
(Ashe chuckled, understatement of the century, darling) (shut up) (testy, brother dearest)
After another moment Fell dropped his hands back onto his lap and with the utmost care, opened his eyes.
Across from him Emerson nodded, the dragon looking away and hunching in on himself. It was strange—Fell mused—how he did that. It wasn't overt, on anyone else it wouldn't appear that Emerson was hiding but there was a...tension set into the man's bones, subtle but there if Fell deemed to look. Which he did. Ashe might have been the one able to feel emotions, but Fell, he knew people and he knew how to read them. Emerson fidgeted under the scrutiny. Now that the cigarette was gone that seemed to be the only thing for him to do. Fidget. With papers. With the ends of his sweater. Rubbing idly against the side of his neck. Little adjustments for Fell to latch onto.
Fell regarded him curiously. "Why did you do it?" He asked.
"What?" Emerson grunted.
"Bring me—bring us—back?"
"Hmm," The dragon cleared his throat and furrowed his brow, a couple idle fingers rubbing against the new scar on the palm of his left hand. Fell looked down at his/their own right and saw its twin lanced across the meat of his/their fingers. Their oath, written in magic and blood. It looked enflamed, raised skin a raw pink and bruised brown around the edges of his multi-hued skin. Carefully, he slipped his glove—black, leather, and with a silver lining—back over his fingers. The smooth glide of them was familiar and something settled in him with it.
"S'hard right," Emerson said after a lengthy pause, "coming back."
The Mage blinked in surprise. "In a sense," Fell inclined his head, expression thoughtful, "that is...true, but," he sniffed, "we are perfectly capable of managing ourselves."
