Sharing was something Claude wasn't used to. Being the only child in his household growing up meant having his own space, his own belongings. Even in the Priesthood, they hadn't shared rooms. Not that they could when the dorms they were given amounted to no more than a closet.

Even so, Claude had grown accustomed to having his own space, his own belongings. Yet here he was, sharing a room with Amadeus. A week prior, the thought of it may have made him lose his lunch, but now... he didn't mind. Amazing how almost dying could change a person.

Amadeus slept soundly on his bed, over by the window, as he had for the past three days. His chest rose and fell at regular intervals, but apart from that, he was still as calm water. The medics came in three times per day, gave him fluids, massaged his limbs. And still, he wouldn't wake up.

Undine said talking would stop him from drifting off—he still didn't know what that meant. So, Claude sat there for the better part of a day and stared at Amadeus' face while he recounted something stupid from his childhood. Like the time he'd found Lylon's rum—which the old man had told him many times over was for adults only. Which meant Claude had to have it. The forbidden was just so enticing.

What resulted was him puking up a stomach full of lunch, and lying miserable in bed while Gwenore forced his weight in herbal concoctions down his throat. And he may have cried. A little.

Not an interesting story, but good enough to fill the silence, and Claude found that he didn't mind staring at Amadeus. At least in repose. He wasn't handsome in the traditional sense. His jawline had a softer curve, his eyes doe-like, and he had an aquiline nose with two little divots where his glasses rested against it. Dark patches of hair had taken over his cheeks, chin and upper lip—apparently shaving wasn't in the medic's repertoire.

Claude probably knew Amadeus' face better than his own from how much he had to stare at it during his vigils. But today, he'd taken out his crochet hook and yarn for a little creative therapy and a break from the mundane monotony. His half-eaten lunch sat on the bedside table, along with a pitcher of water studded with beads of condensation. It was hard to work up an appetite when all he did was laze around.

Three days they'd been in Viperstone, and he hadn't left the stronghold since they arrived. His days consisted of waking up, having a bath, and grabbing breakfast while the medics tended to Amadeus. Sometimes, they'd stay a while, and Claude would busy himself down in the foyer, helping with the sick and injured. While he knew nothing about medicine, he could wrap bandages, carry supplies and burn waste.

When the medics were done with Amadeus, he'd start his vigil, sitting with him, or pacing the room, staring out the window. Pondering if the poor bastard had drifted off.

Whatever that meant. It wasn't death. Perhaps something worse? Like what happened to Arietta. The very thought of it made his skin crawl. He almost regretted not being up to see that bastard's body burn.

"What are you thinking about, Priest?"

He almost jumped out of his skin. His hook fell and his ball of yarn bounced over the throw rug, leaving a long wool trail in its wake.

Amadeus gazed up at him from half-hooded eyes, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "You furrow your brow when you get lost in your thoughts."

Claude blinked, his mouth hanging open, like a witless fool. The rapid thumping of his heart sent tremors into his fingers and toes. He wasn't sure what emotion to equate the sensation to. Shock? Relief? Both?

"Is there anything to drink in here?" Amadeus' voice held the heavy darkness of semi-sleep. "My throat feels like sandpaper."

He gathered his wits and grabbed the pitcher and a glass from the bedside table, while Amadeus pushed himself upright with shaking hands. His skin held a sickly, almost greyish pallor and the bones along his shoulders and spine nigh broke through his skin.

Amadeus drained the glass, then another, and another, and eyed the leftover food on the table. "You plan on eating that?"

Claude shook his head. "Help yourself."

"You're the last person I expected to be playing bed nurse." He took the bowl of stew and shovelled almost half of it into his mouth. A stream of rust-coloured broth leaked out at one corner and dribbled down his chin.

"Undine asked me. She said she didn't want you to drift off." He scooped his hook from the floor to spare his eyes from Amadeus' sloppy eating. If only he could avert his ears, too. "What does that mean? Drift off."

Amadeus snorted, a somehow more pleasant sound than the smacking and chewing. "You don't ask a necromancer about purgatory. It's a bit of a taboo topic, even amongst us. We acknowledge it, but we don't speak of it."

Of course, another non-answer.

"But. I don't find that particularly healthy. So, I'll talk about it." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a reddish smear behind. "Purgatory is where naughty naughty necromancers go."

Claude rolled his eyes. One would think after being unconscious for three days, he would drop his flippant attitude. Or at least show some reverence to a serious topic.

"I'm being serious, Priest. Necromancy isn't free, and even the best amongst us have their limits. There's still a lot of speculation about what purgatory is. If it's an actual place or just a state of mind akin to a coma."

"And you?" he asked. "What do you think?"

Amadeus leaned back against the headboard and stared up at the ceiling, the corners of his lips quirked into a frown. "I don't know. I probably have more experience with purgatory than any other necromancer. Sometimes it feels real, other times it's like a dream. But either way, once a necromancer reaches their limit, they're stuck in purgatory for... a while. Sometimes even forever."

"Is that what drifting off means?"

He nodded.

"And when that happens... what do you do?"

Amadeus shrugged a shoulder. "Nothing. No one knows when a necromancer has drifted off. Even if they've been in purgatory for a month, who's to say they won't wake up the next day? It's a tricky situation. Most necromancers who drift off starve to death."

"I see." Claude scooped his hook from the ground. As if necromancers didn't have enough to deal with.

"This is a cursed existence, Priest. Being able to raise the dead sounds fun in theory, but the baggage that comes along is not worth it." He spat the words as though they were bitter medicine on his tongue.

"You hate being a necromancer?" The question slipped out before Claude could think better of it. Damn his nosy mind.

Amadeus stayed quiet for a long moment, gaze focused on the empty bowl. He didn't snort or roll his eyes like Claude expected. "Yes, I do." He breathed a laugh. "Once you're a necromancer, you're bound to the world of necromancy. You can try to do other things, knit and sew pretty clothes. But you'll always be a necromancer first and a person second."

He understood now. At first he'd thought Amadeus hated him, but what he'd actually been seeing was envy. He could move around freely, without worry of people fearing him, or the Divine City trying to take him hostage. But Amadeus was only safe in the spaces he and his colleagues had carved out for themselves.

He didn't know what to say. "Sorry" would sound too patronising. "I understand" would be a lie. He didn't, and would never. Any platitude he offered would ring hollow.

"Well. That's enough of my whining," Amadeus said, breaking the silence. He swung his legs out of the bed, rubbed his face with both hands. "How long have we been in Viperstone?"

"Three days." Undine's been going around collecting statements about what happened. The place was a mess when we got here. I haven't left the Bastion since then, so I'm not sure if the situation has improved."

He looked at Claude through splayed fingers. "What happened?"

"They were under siege for a week. Fought netherborne by the thousands. When we arrived, there were flower petals in piles high as the ramparts surrounding the city. The western district took a bad hit. There were... casualties. That's all I know."

Amadeus swore. "The bells aren't working."

"Yeah, the others said that. The bells keep the netherborne away?"

"They're a deterrent. They won't keep all the netherborne away, some are just bold. But a veritable army of them attacking a haven is..." He fisted his hands in his hair. "This is a disaster. You have to understand, we've been telling refugees these places are safe. That they can start new and somewhat stable lives."

Claude picked up his hook and started crocheting again. The monotony of it was familiar, comforting. A small reprieve in this nightmare. If it happened to this place, it could happen to Hedalda, too. The thought made a cold sweat bead on his forehead and his throat tighten. "So what now?"

"Start packing. We need to go. Today." He stood on shaky legs and ambled towards his bags.

"Are you sure you're well enough to travel?"

"I'll recover on the road. We need to get you to the port as quickly as possible, so you can deliver a message to the archives." He pulled out a wrinkled shirt, sniffed it.

"M-me?" He blinked at Amadeus.

"Yes. Undine and I can't do it. The scourge in this region is evolving. It's becoming immune to necromancy. We need to stay here and warn the other havens. The archives are the heart of our cause. They need to know about this." He met Claude's eyes. "Can I trust you to do this, Priest?"

Claude exhaled a long breath through his nose. Having such responsibilities heaped on his shoulders was another thing he wasn't used to. The most people entrusted him with was their torn and tattered clothes. Patch a hole here, stitch a busted seam there. But he'd made it this far. Fought netherborne, carried a man on his shoulders and played bed nurse. Delivering a message was a trivial matter in comparison.

He nodded to Amadeus. "You can."