Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It burned.

All he had been told was that the band needed another fire ghoul, so he would become that fire ghoul. The exact opposite of what he was. He hadn’t known what that meant. He regretted saying yes.

He could feel his gills melting shut, fins burning off, horns cracking, lips splitting. His skin felt like it was melting from his bones, muscles tensing beyond what he thought was possible, bones shaking beneath it all. He’d screamed his throat raw, not even sure if he was making noise at this point. He couldn’t hear anything besides the sizzling of his own flesh and blood pulsing in his ears, the taste of iron in his mouth.

He didn’t know how long he laid there, screaming, crying, tears boiling when they came in contact with his skin. All he felt was hot. Scorching heat surrounding every part of him, inside and out, hotter than he’d ever been, even when he had a fever in The Pits. He was pretty sure he should be dead by now. Even if ghouls have a high pain tolerance, every species has their limits. This was probably his.

His head lolled to the side to face the man who he had been turned over to just hours before. For once, his face paint was smudged, tears streaking across the pale skin in dark smears. The pristine attire and makeup all Papas wore was broken, filled with fear and guilt. He looked like he didn’t want to do this, like he regretted every decision he made that led to this moment, and yet, he continued. Sister made sure he continued, breathing down his neck like a feral cat watching the mouse between her paws struggle to free itself. He knew that Copia wished he could stop. But the punishment for stopping was much worse than if he continued.

Eyes unseeing, mouth stretched open without sound, hands clawing for gills that were no longer there. Breathing was impossible, not nearly enough air getting to his lungs without the additional vents to take it in. He was in hell, and not the one he came from. This was more like the hell that Christians talked about, with eternal damnation and torture for every sin, even then fun ones. The hell where people burned for eternity in pits of fire and begged for a god that didn’t exist to come relieve them of their punishment. He wished he could be relieved.

It could’ve been hours, days, weeks, even just mere seconds of him laying there before it was over, before the hollow chanting from his Papa and the siblings came to a close. The echo of the last syllable rang through the large marble room, bouncing off the ornate walls and back at him like a taunt.

The altar beneath him, the smooth marble he had been summoned on so long ago, burned his skin wherever it touched, even though it was probably not nearly as hot as he was. His pulse throbbed in his ears, his head feeling like it would explode with any amount of sound or stimuli. He wanted to go to the lake, to swim to the bottom and sleep until the world ceased to exist, to let the freezing water regulate his body so he could breathe something besides steam and smoke. His lungs burned, like there’d been a torch held to the flesh from the inside, charring every bit it could without restraint. He wished for the water of the lake to filter through his body, leaving that wonderful chill behind when he exhaled. This was nothing like that. It felt like he wasn’t suffocating, even though he was gasping for it.

Shuffling close to his head made him whine, trying to get rid of the noise. It was bad. His head hurt, the noise made it worse, he needed it to be quiet. Quiet murmurs became even quieter, and he wasn’t sure if they were talking less loudly or if he was passing out. A hand brushed against his shoulder and jerked back in less than a second, followed by a sharp hiss of pain.

He whined. He didn’t want to hurt them.

Oh, Lucifer, he didn't want to hurt them any more than he already probably had.

More talking, but this time less people at once. He could maybe call it soothing if his being didn’t feel like it had a blowtorch to it. Even the marble against his back was starting to feel painful, absorbing his excess body heat like a sponge.

Cold hands held his face, cupping his cheeks with care reserved for only the most beloved in a pack. The chill sent a jolt down his spine before he melted into the touch, letting the cold aid in his comfort. The rest of him was still boiling, but at least the hands were there. He let out a low groan, the action scraping at his raw throat, but he couldn’t care less as the bitter iron taste filled his mouth. His body was burning, and the skin of this other ghoul was his only reprieve from his pain.

He forced his eyes open, confused as to when they had closed, and gazed up at deep blue waves and finned ears. He knew this ghoul. This ghoul was safe. This ghoul was holding his face in their hands like one would hold the moon, adoration and love evident in even just the way his fingers brushed against his stubble. Their eyes shone in the candlelight, opaline irises reflecting the light in a way that could only be described as majestic.

The ghoul was saying something, but he had no idea what. The words were getting to his ears, yes, but his brain couldn’t process what they meant or what was even being said in the first place. He tried to make a noise, but only a sigh of air came through his cracked lips. His eyes watered, tears evaporating before they hit his hair. His body wouldn’t let him communicate.

He just wanted to be held, to be a small kit in his mama’s arms again. He wanted to be clutched to her chest, with her hands running through his hair like she always did when her hands were free. He wanted to be in his pack’s den, in that comfy communal nest in the living room where they all slept the majority of the nights. He wanted somebody to braid his hair back from his face and help him pick his jewelry for the day.

He wanted to be safe.

He was the furthest thing from that.

Chapter Text

3 DAYS LATER

It was clear as day to any ghoul or mortal who walked the halls of the ministry that something was wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

Siblings of Sin walked the halls like they were treading on eggshells, somehow even more on edge than when Primo was around. Services held were more somber and tense, filled with prayers for health and recovery when they were usually centered around acceptance of oneself and offerings to the Prince of Darkness. Halls that were supposed to be filled with chatter were nearly silent besides the clacking of heels on stone. Gardens that were almost always full of chatter and people were silent.

The ghoul den was hotter than ever before, and that was saying something. The den was always noticeably hotter than the rest of the ministry since it housed beings from what was pretty much hell, but now it was somehow even worse. From down the hall you could feel the heat, the closer you got the hotter it became. Inside the den was even worse, with condensation on the windows despite it being the middle of June.

Copia was a wreck. Whenever he wasn’t in his room sleeping, he was in the ghoul’s den. Sometimes he even slept in there because he was terrified of leaving them in case something happened. If he wasn’t in the ghoul den, he was in the chapel, casting his prayers to the Dark One in hope that He would help. His face paint had long since been removed, not bothering to put it on. His cassock was wrinkled, buttons messy and sometimes uneven. Sister Imperator scolded him many times over it, but it never resulted in anything. He didn’t care. He needed his ghoul to recover, and he wasn’t.

The den was a disaster zone. Of course the den was always a little more of a mess than the rest of the Ministry, on account that the occupants weren’t human and had more animalistic traits, but this was much worse than usual. And it wasn’t just the area itself, it was the ghouls who lived there, too. They all seemed to be on edge, tense at all times, and nothing was fixing it.

Copia returned from his daily visit to the chapel, soot on his hands from whatever offering he had given. The dark circles under his eyes weren’t the usual makeup he wore. Exhaustion was prevalent from just the way he held himself. It was like that for everybody, it seemed.

“Good afternoon, Cardinal!” Cumulus called, walking from the kitchen to the communal nest with a large bowl of ice in hand.

There were deep bags under her eyes, and her hands gripped the bowl like she was terrified of it leaving this plane of existence. She was always well dressed, eyeliner crisp and lipstick no less than perfect, always taking pride in how she presented herself. Now, with stress imminent with every muscle in her body, she wore a cropped undershirt with fraying seams and low rise mini shorts that had probably been on Earth for longer than she’d been topside with the ministry.

Copia simply nodded, too tired to do much else. He watched as Cumulus stepped into the nest, kneeling at the side of the ghoul in the center. His skin was flushed and breathing uneven, radiating heat. Remnants of what were his fins looked more like spikes, the webbing between them having been burned off. The residual marks left by his gills looked painful, covered in blisters and an awful shade of red. It was like he was an entirely different ghoul.

The air ghoul lifted a handful of ice cubes from the bowl, pressing them carefully to Dew’s forehead. They immediately started sizzling, water dripping from his face to the blankets below in seconds before evaporating seconds later. It was entirely gone less than a minute later, and she grabbed another handful. There was only so much they could do, terrified to move Dew from where he was due to the state he was in. He was so close to going into shock from the stress put on his body that even one wrong move and they were screwed. The band would be without a lead guitarist, and the pack would be without a key member keeping them sane. Everything would fall apart. But, if they couldn’t get him better, they would still be fucked.

Aether was attempting to use quintessence to ease Dew’s pain, or at least the mental burden of it. He sat at his head, fingers at the ghoul’s temples and eyes closed as he murmured incantations under his breath. His fingers were irritated and blistering, having gone for hours with his hands where they were, trying to magic away pain he had no idea how to solve. It was sure to leave scars and hurt like hell, but he kept going back no matter how bad it was. Aether would open his eyes after hours of work, taking his hands off of Dew for a few minutes to eat something small, and then go right back at it. 

Laid across Dew’s torso, Rain was trying to get his naturally cooler temperature to lower his partners’. Every few minutes they had to take a break and cool himself off, the heat being too much for their body to handle. He’d take a few minutes to douse himself in freezing water in the shower, then come back and continue where he left off. It was both for his health and to get the most out of what their body could provide. He tried his hardest to manipulate the melted ice to flow a bit slower down his face, to linger where Aether’s fingers met skin, but the combination of that and the constant up and down was starting to take a toll.

One on each side, Cirrus and Swiss pressed ice packs where the neck and shoulder joined, rotating them to always have a cold side on Dew’s skin. More ice packs were shoved at his femoral pulse point, balanced on his hips, and pressed between his arm and his chest. It was the same setup used for hypothermia, and it made sense for it to be used here. The two ghouls who were always joking around and roughhousing were now silent besides thanks to whomever brought them fresh ice packs, focussed on their one job and one job alone.

Mountain, with careful hands, applied aloe vera gel to the blistering wounds that sat as a ghost of what was once there. Gills on his neck and ribs were replaced with angry blistering and deep scabbing what was sure to leave even deeper scars. Where webbing once spread throughout spines, only frayed skin remained. It was horrifying. He made sure to apply the gel thickly.

Dew kept waking up, incoherent and confused, sobbing and shaking in agony. Cumulus kept trying to calm him down, telling him he was safe and they were doing everything they could, since she was the one closest to his head. He’d be hyperventilating, dry heaving, screaming his throat raw until he passed out again. They were trying everything they could do to bring down his hellfire of a fever, and nothing was working.

Copia couldn’t do much, with his mortal body being so much more fragile than the hellborn, and the guilt was eating him alive. He couldn’t use any spells that would be helpful, touching the ghoul would melt his skin in the best case scenario, and he couldn’t risk that with being the new papa and all. He had to fill his late brother’s shoes on stage in a few months, he needed his health to be the best it could be. But if his ghouls weren’t healthy, he couldn’t be, either. Even if it was just one of them.

“Ca- Papa?”

Cumulus’s voice cut through Copia’s spiraling. It was the softest he had ever heard the ghoul; even when it was announced that Terzo was dead she wasn’t this quiet. Copia looked up from his hands, watching as the ghoulette grabbed another handful of ice, this time holding it behind Dew’s ears to give his forehead a break.

“What is it, my ghoul?”

She tensed before she spoke, terrified of what the answer to her question would be.

“What happens if he doesn’t cool off?”

He knew the question would come eventually, but he didn’t have an answer. At least not one they would like or allow to happen. Realistically, if Dew’s fever didn’t cool down a few things would or could happen. One, the Ministry would send Dew back to the Pits. Two, instead of sending him back, he would be sacrificed. Three, if he did cool off eventually, the risk of lasting damage was extremely high and could lead to issues with how he performed. If there was damage, the Ministry would resort to options one or two.

“I don’t know,” Copia said. It wasn’t entirely a lie.