Chapter Text
Charles finds Edwin's scarf in the snow.
Partially buried, surrounded by a zigzag of drag marks that lead toward the manor house of the estate they've been sent to investigate. Arriving in disguise, they've been separated only for a few minutes before Edwin is gone, leaving behind the scarf he carefully made years ago.
"It's not knitting, Charles, it's crochet, named after the French word for hook," he explained as a strand of yarn slipped nimbly through his fingers, making one colorful square after the other. Charles watched him sew them together, piece by piece, until he could wrap the scarf around his neck with a pleased little smile once he was done. "Now I think my disguise is complete. Don't you?"
Charles finds the disguise's eyeglasses a few dozen yards further along, surrounded by large drops of blood, sticking out like strawberries in the snow.
He wants to say he knows it's not Edwin's, but he'd be lying. Terrified anger jitters up Charles' spine, and he walks faster toward the manor, heading into the whistling wind. He knows it's freezing outside, even though he can't feel it - ever since death he's had a specific sense for the cold, a memory lingering within a ghostly form that is made of nothing but memories.
That means if Edwin is bleeding, he's tangible. If he's tangible he can feel the bitter cold. And if he's bleeding and freezing while tangible...
Charles breaks into a run.
He pulls a sword from his backpack without breaking stride, tearing open the manor door, calling out Edwin's name as the hinges groan.
There's no response.
A rabid staccato of curses whisper through Charles' lips as he storms through what feels like an endless circle of rooms. "Come on, Edwin, you have to help me out here, mate. Give me anything. Kick something. I know you can do it."
On the far south side of the sprawling house, there's a clink of glass against the floor. It's all Charles needs as he phases through walls at full speed, until he comes to the library.
Where Edwin is on the floor in front of an unlit fireplace, curled onto himself with wet hair and blue lips.
Charles' relief only lasts a few seconds. Edwin's eyes are clouded with delirium, and he's desperately trying to say something from between violently chattering teeth. His coat is gone, he's in only his shirt sleeves and there is a large red stain on his usually immaculate white dress shirt.
If Charles didn't know better he would think that Edwin is dying.
Charles quickly looks throughout the room and there's not much there. There are some old curtains which he rips down without a second thought, a musty pillow, and very little else. Edwin's clothes are soaked and he's bleeding and Charles wants to tear his own hair out, trying to think of the best way to approach the situation without making it worse.
He kneels next to Edwin. "Bleeding first," he murmurs, unbuttoning the shirt, carefully working it off of Edwin's limp body, rucking up his undershirt. Charles hisses at the wound, where part of a broken blade is still sticking out, glowing with enchantment.
It's a blade he recognizes. It's one of Edwin's emergency magical tools, a blade that turns supernatural beings tangible for a period of twelve hours, give or take. It's a dangerous piece, even Charles won't wield it and in their decades together he's never seen Edwin unsheathe it.
Until now. Whatever attacked Edwin must have found it on his person and used it against him, Charles figures. Whatever happened, it has to come out, immediately. Its jagged edge is sticking out less than a half inch, and it's slippery with blood. Charles pulls his glove on a little bit tighter and pinches the blade between his thumb and forefinger, bracing his other hand against the wound before giving it an experimental tug.
Edwin groans wretchedly.
Charles goes perfectly still. The blade is double serrated and not going to slide out easily. It'll have to be slowly wriggled free if he doesn't want to have a jagged, gaping hole to deal with.
He sits back on his haunches with a heavy sigh. Pulls off his clean glove and taps Edwin's cheek, motioning for him to open his mouth before gingerly placing the glove between Edwin's teeth. "Bite down, yeah? I'll go as fast as I can but it's not going to be that fast."
Edwin pales, but nods and closes his eyes as he clamps his teeth down on the leather.
Charles gets to work and ignores everything else - every terrible moan, every twitch of agony, even the muffled sobs and tears rolling in streams down Edwin's cheeks. The universe has shrunk down to the blade shard and its removal.
There can't be anything else.
They can cry together later. At least Charles knows he'll be crying because hurting Edwin is worse than dying. It's the worst thing in the world, he thinks, his jaw set in stone.
Unbeknownst to Charles, as bad as this may be, it's not as bad as the thing that hides upstairs, a terrible thing that listens ...
And waits.