In which there's very important posturing advice.

In the wee hours of morning, when the sky is still dark and cloudy as diluted ink, Cedric gives the potion a final stir, and deems it stable enough to leave for a moment. Only one hour or so to go, according to Father's notes.

Carrying a candle in his hand, and the blanket over his arm, the sorcerer tiptoes to his chambers downstairs. He hasn't rested horribly, everything considered. He was expecting to dream of the fall, with all that reminded him of it in the past few days—a wound on his arm, talking about it, plunging in the river―but at least, if he did dream of it, the night has drawn a merciful veil over him, and he has no memory of it.

The night air smells crisp as winter on the stairs, where the draft puts a chill in his sleep-numbed joints, and he can almost see his breath. And yet, the shiver that runs down his back as he halts in front his bedroom door has nothing to do with the temperature.

Cedric doesn't know if the raven is even there. If he has taken his offer, or changed his mind halfway down the staircase. And how strange it was, to offer Wormwood the same bed they've shared for decades, as though it were some novelty, some grand favour. The roles of who is offering the tower to whom have switched too many times, in too short a period of time to keep track. For all he knows, the previous night―when Wormwood knelt for him to let him feel his soft hair, and spoke of regret like he truly meant it―could all very well be a delusion from his sleep-deprived mind.

The most somber part of the tower, the stone foyer where he stands, now bears no trace of their fight of just two days prior. Even his toy castle has been repaired; it gave his chest a strange squeeze, seeing it set back on its round table, perfect and untouched, like an inward pressure in his ribcage, unfamiliar and not entirely unpleasant. Wormwood must be really adamant to maintain the royal favour, to try and make amends with such thoroughness.

Following this logic, the raven must have been the one to bring him back from the village, he muses, eyeing the blanket over his arm. Given the hanging hostility between them the previous day, he supposes, it does make it a bit less inexplicable.

But Wormwood said he was trying to help, fanning the fog away and shutting the men up. And all the work to set the lair back into shape, and the trip to get the Crocus... the raven must have done all these things in the morning, as soon as he found his way back from the forest. Cedric halts, blindsided by the thought of his raven, lost who knows where, all alone in the woods in the dead of night... he shakes the image from his mind, cross with himself. It only adds to the pile of conflicting emotions crowding his head. All of this is inexplicable, he decides. And now it's not the time. The door creaks open at his push, and he holds his breath.

As he shields the candleflame with his palm, objects in the room arise as apparitions from the shadows, reflections glinting back at him like eyes in the dark. First, the brass knobs of the vanity, the curtain's iron holdbacks, the worn-shiny walnut of the canopy columns. Then, a gleam of velvet from Wormwood's robe and belt, slung across the back of a chair.

A step further, and the raven is there. Taken aback by the actuality of his presence, Cedric's knees lock where he stands. He can pick up a very distinctive smell, grass and damp corduroy, that brings his suspicion to a fleeting certainty: it's the same smell he woke up to the previous afternoon, at once familiar and not quite. It takes him a while to move another step.

His eye falls to the raven's menacing hands, capable of that terrifying, inescapable grip. If it really was him... then Wormwood's hands have lain him down to rest, without rousing him nor leaving a single scratch more on his skin.

He can picture the raven looming over him, pinching the blankets―the very same blankets he's now resting on―with the pads of his fingers, in the same odd way he saw him handle the moonkelp stalks. Those hands can be delicate, he has to deduce, remembering how carefully the raven touched the scars on his arm, how intense the shock of warmth had run down to his fingertips.

Contrasting sharply with the foyer, the room is strangely warm: the air envelops Cedric as the woolly folds of a cloak, making him shudder as he takes a couple of steps further in.

Wormwood doesn't have much of the menace in him now, he notes, letting the thin blanket he's carried fall across a chair. The raven looks like he tossed and turned a lot in his sleep: he's out of the sheets from the waist up, with one leg just dangling out of the bed. His severe, intense brow is slack, his imposing stature laid down in a sprawl of long limbs, dark on the white sheets like bare branches against a winter sky.

A few steps closer. Every detail of him comes to life in the wavering halo of the candle, from the smooth transition of swarthy, umber skin to the lustre, almost bluish black of his forearms and calves, to the raised veins gracing his resting limbs. Whoever changed Wormwood to his current form sure knows their art, Cedric notes distantly. Impeccably made from head to toe, not a single imperfection to be found. The raven doesn't snore; his breathing is a fluid ascending undertow, as though the whole sea were breathing inside the chamber.

The air seems to grow warmer and warmer the closer Cedric steps. Is he running a fever? he can't help but wonder, inching closer to the expanding aura of body heat surrounding the sleeping raven. They both got rained on the previous day, after all. Could he even get a fever in this form? Though vexed at himself for worrying, Cedric sets the candle down on the nightstand and perches on the edge of the bed, reaching hesitant fingertips to Wormwood's forehead.

The raven doesn't feel particularly hot to the touch, just sleep-warm. Cedric runs a finger over his elegant brows, inhuman and elongated, like feathers sweeping up at the sides of his head. An interesting transformation job, for sure. A very symmetrical, chiselled job, he thinks, finger tracing down the raven's high cheekbone and strong jawline, and the long long ears he's only seen in illustrations of forest spirits and demons from the Netherworld. His hair, instead, is almost painfully familiar, dark and glossy as obsidian in the candlelight, very much the same as a raven's feathers under his hesitant fingers.

There is a sudden, rumbling noise, deep in Wormwood's throat. That's no sound a raven should make, a guttural growl so purely animal it sends a chill down Cedric's spine, as though he were some incautious prey poking a great resting beast. But Wormwood doesn't stir: he only inhales deeply, and turns his head until he's nosing into his hand.

Cedric swallows emptily. The creature he's slowly coming to reconcile with the raven he's known all his life, this colossus of raw strength and careless words that always strike a bit too close for comfort... is he leaning into his touch? Cedric scoffs to himself, pulling away.

Being touched over the head just reminds Wormwood of his fledgeling days, when he needed the warmth to grow big and strong, that's all. Why would there ever be more to it, he thinks, that'd be ridiculous.

And yet, the way the raven is lying down, half-turned to the side, creates a nook between his arm and the great hill of his chest, an empty space of white sheet that looks... perfect, absolutely ideal.

They've shared this bed for years. Wormwood has implied he'd like for things to go back the way they were. Could it ever be the same? If Cedric just elected to forget everything that happened, put it behind them as just another mishap... would Wormwood stay by him, like the countless times they've shared a blanket against the chill, and the raven's soft feathers have kept his lap warm, last winter and all the winters before? Could it be like it used to be, even with this unfamiliar form?

Cedric shivers, his grip lapsing and letting himself picture how would it feel, how warm it would be, to curl himself there, just for a moment. He could just hide in the toasty room, instead of going outside in the cold, dealing with people he could very well go without... and he could pretend for a little while that someone can, if not enjoy, appreciate his presence. Tolerate him a little longer, at least.

The raven has put so much effort into his apology. He has given up the stolen Family Wand, abandoning magic to let Cedric gather his strength back. He even bowed to him, to prove he was sincere, the back of his neck bare and exposed through the wisps of his hair and the collar of his robe. Maybe he, too, wants nothing more than to forget what happened. Forget all the questions Cedric hasn't asked, forget that his misuse of magic almost cost him his life, even, forget it all.

Everything can go back to normal, he decides. Even the seal on the Wand... surely there's some way to go around it, somehow―maybe that spell he tried on the Mermaid Comb, the one that worked. I'll get to it as soon as this potion matter is dealt with, he decides.

The thought of the potion brings another unpleasant thought: he'll have to consult with the King before going to the village to put it to good use. He'll surely want to come along, he thinks with dread, cringing at the surge of memories from the previous day. And if Roland's favour is that important to Wormwood, the whole time they'll be charming and wheedling at each other, getting along disturbingly well, and make Cedric wish once again he were a thousand miles from the both of them.

Pushing the thought from his mind, he wakes the raven by poking his forefinger into his shoulder. "Rise and shine, W―oh, hello," he breathes when Wormwood rouses immediately, taken aback.

For some reason, he thought Wormwood wouldn't be such a light sleeper anymore, as a human. But instead of being irritated, the raven lifts a half-lidded gaze on him, in an incongruously feline slow-blink, almost a smile that stops at the eyes. In greeting, he gives a low, guttural hum, and shifts on his side to sit up. Cedric has to tear his eyes away from the fluid ripple of his bare midriff as he pulls seated, the almost indecent hang of the blanket covering him.

"H-how did you rest?" he manages to stutter out.

"Better than expected," Wormwood answers, his voice a hoarse rumble. A lick of warmth trickles down inside Cedric, pooling in his gut like a slug of too-hot tea. He shifts uncomfortably. "Although I had trouble at first. As if one night away was enough to lose the habit."

The raven traces his hand over the pillow he was resting his head on. There is a legion of them on the bed, but that one is Cedric's favourite, the one with the perfect balance of soft and springy.

"It wasn't the first time you slept away from this bed," Cedric notes, attempting to sound nonchalant. He has made Wormwood stand guard or sent him out on missions many a time over the years. Doing his bidding, the raven called it.

"But it's the first time I..." Wormwood gives him a glance, and trails off. He clears his throat lightly. "Is it time to pour, already?"

"Almost," Cedric says. "I've checked on the cauldron and stirred regularly... shouldn't be long now. I'll be getting the canisters from storage."

"Have you rested?" the raven asks, a bit out of nowhere. Delicately, without letting his nails snag the fabric, he strokes the sheets under him. "You could sleep a bit more, if you wish to. You... look like you could use it. I can oversee the last part."

It takes Cedric enough by surprise that he forgets to get offended. The words are better-chosen, but it is no different than what he said the previous night, when the first words out of his mouth were to remark how awful he looked. It seems that words not made to cut have a much harder time taking shape in the raven's mouth. I must look more worn-out than usual, he guesses. He doesn't quite have the strength to look at himself in the mirror.

"Nonsense," he lies, waving his hand. "I am perfectly fine, fit as a fiddle!"

"Are you?" the raven insists, and he leans in a fraction.

Wormwood's arms frame Cedric's side where he sits, like great columns, in an almost-embrace. Heat radiates from his body like a lit fireplace, and the weight of his presence threatens to make Cedric's elbows give out. It would be so easy. He'd just have to mirror him and lean in, and let himself forget everything. It almost seems like Wormwood wants him to lie down with him. He wouldn't push him off his own bed after all this fuss, would he? It would set them right back at the start, and Wormwood doesn't want that either, does he?

"I-indeed," he rasps, almost choking on his own saliva. He can't bring himself to risk it. His heart could not take it, to be thrown out a second time in such a short timespan. Aching behind the shield he forces himself to put up, grabbing the candle from the nightstand so quickly wax spills on his gloves, he adds, "I'll... meet you upstairs, then."

"Of course," the raven folds, looking away. He gives him a nod that, in the half-light, looks almost mournful.

Somehow, the early morning has found them gravitating towards the upper window.

As soon as Wormwood stepped on the landing to the workshop, his nostrils were assaulted by the pervasive smell of rotten rhubarb roots, so intense it made him regret all the new nuances his human nose can smell.

Humans and their easily poisoned bodies, he grumbles internally, crossing the floor with his breath held. He didn't mind the sensitivity when the scent of Cedric's hair on the pillow was the only thing helping him fall asleep, sure... but he could honestly go without all this fine-picking in the bad smell department.

Seeking shelter from the stench, he takes the stairs to the lofted part of the library. There, propped on his elbows with his hair touched by the night breeze, he finds Cedric.

The raven doesn't ask why he fled the room in haste when Wormwood offered him the bed. Must have scared him again, he chastises himself. It was just so natural, waking up and seeing him, as though everything was back to normal. He heaves a wistful sigh, setting his palm on the cold windowsill and peering down into the yard, following Cedric's line of vision.

At the end of it, as though it were inevitable, he finds their kindly monarch.

"Everyone is up early today," he comments quietly, to catch Cedric's attention.

Lost in thought, the sorcerer barely gives a hum in answer.

"Oh, the things we do for King and country," the raven jokes through the unknown stab of something that runs through him, when the foul smell reaches them even up there.

Down in the yard, King Roland is moving about, flanking his Steward in directing the staff. He seems springy, as usual. Despite the adverse circumstances, they all seem determined to make the castle a shining beacon of glory against the gloomy weather.

"Indeed." Cedric finds it in himself to smirk a little bit. Evenly, he says, "The Equinox is tonight, and preparations take time. He's always telling everyone what to do when there's a crisis."

Wormwood hums. "Isn't that what a King is supposed to do?"

Cedric gives him a glance, and leans his chin back on his forearms. The first, overcast light of dawn makes his complexion look waxen, almost greyish, and highlights the half-moons of shadow under his eyes. He doesn't look worse than yesterday, but Wormwood is sure he could use some more sleep.

"I'm... not sure anymore," Cedric murmurs, like a thought that slipped out loud. A yawn cuts off whatever else he might have wanted to say.

Wormwood blinks at him. If someone had asked Cedric why did he want to become King, the wording of his answer would have changed throughout the years, but the gist of it had always been, so people will look at me, and do as I say.

"Would it make anybody listen to me, calling myself the King?" Cedric says, sounding again like he's thinking out loud, a thought unfinished, not ready to be out there. "Or would they laugh at me, rather?"

Now he's speaking as though he were already defeated, like all the dreams that always accompanied him had been meaningless all along. And, what scares Wormwood most, now that he has seen up close how power dynamics seem to work in the human world... he's not sure either that Cedric could stage a coup and make it out alive. Just like he shouted at him. Sooner or later, he supposes, it comes a time in everyone's life when they hate being right.

"They'd probably ignore you," Wormwood says, a bit bluntly. Cedric turns to look at him, face scrunched up in a frown. Wormwood hurries to explain, "I mean, who would listen to someone who slouches like he's trying to disappear every time someone talks to him?"

"I don't slouch," Cedric spats, hunching his shoulders defensively. He catches himself, and straightens up with evident effort. "Well, it's not like I can just stop being nervous―or make myself want to talk to them when I'd rather be left alone."

"Of course," Wormwood agrees, making an effort to keep his tone in check. He points down into the yard. "But look at the way His Highness stands tall, making himself look bigger than anyone else. He doesn't show his fears to the people he's confronting. He doesn't need to tell anyone to listen, his stance is already demanding it." He glances down at himself. "That is probably why I also seem to easily command the attention of humans."

"That's because you're seven feet, and you strut like you own the place," Cedric deadpans. "You look like the villain from some old fairy tale, the counterproductive ones Mother used to tell us when we couldn't sleep. The ones that don't end well."

The raven doesn't know if he should be offended or flattered. Odd or inhuman features aren't so rare among magic users: from what he's seen, accidents and bad taste tend to occur in equal measure. But it's usually not the trustworthy kind of magic user, Wormwood knows. I did ask the damn Well for an intimidating form, he reminds himself.

"I shan't disagree," he concedes. "But what is your point?"

"My point is, among humans, when you look like you could simply squash anything in your way... no one thinks you would even have fears, let alone see them."

The raven huffs a laugh from his nose. "But I wasn't always like this," he reminds him. He has plenty of fears. Even fears that are entirely new, and they have nothing to do with his size. "My raven form was crow-sized, if you recall. And I would still strut like I own the place."

"I recall."

Cedric passes him and trots down the stairs, starting to get everything ready for the pouring. Several metal-spouted canisters of various sizes are lined up by the cauldron, like a brood next to the mother.

Wormwood follows him down, and adds, "As I have made use of the advantages I had, regardless of form, so can you. If you show no fear, there is a good chance that your enemy will just forfeit the confrontation. Even only in their mind." He taps Cedric very lightly on his poking shoulder-blades, and borrows one of Winifred's speeches, from her tales of war and fable that are always half anecdotes, "Only fools dare to cross a fearless man, after all."

"Don't bring Mother's martial past into these matters," Cedric chides. All the same, he straightens under his light touch. "And of course I slouch, actually, I spend my life bowing and curtseying... I can't exactly show dominance to my employers, can I?"

Nonetheless, the improvement is instant: when he holds his head high, and his spine straight, Cedric has an almost regal air to him. It confers gravitas to his strong features, and his indifferent heavy-lidded gaze and the smooth arch of his back reveal the aristocratic upbringing he has received. He can look dangerous at times, even, in the way venomous snakes look when they hold their slender bodies upright in fine tension, the slightness of his physiognomy gaining an air of dainty, menacing elegance.

Wormwood walks a circle around him, as the sorcerer looks at him out of the corner of his eye, between suspicious and intrigued.

"Not at all times, certainly," Wormwood remembers to say, realizing he's been admiring him in silence for a while. "But once you have paid your respects, nothing keeps you from standing tall, with your head held high, just like this."

Cedric huffs at him. "And when, pray tell, have you become an expert in human diplomacy?"

"Last night."

Cedric's serious demeanour drops in an amused snort. "Of course you did," he says, and he chuckles, a sound as airy and sweet as a wind-chime, that Wormwood thought lost forever to his ears. "Still, I'm not sure how it would help."

Wormwood gestures for him to come closer. He offers him a hand, unsure if he will take it or not. "Just walk to me, the way you do it when we sing. The dancing part."

"Oh! My, it's been a while..." the sorcerer whines, but he steps forward carrying himself tightly, and his hand alights to Wormwood's fingers like a little bird on a branch.

As it did before, the touch of glove on the raven's skin feels almost supernaturally warm. A distant tune plays in his ears, and he's certain Cedric can hear it too, as Wormwood slowly turns on his heels, guiding the sorcerer in a slow circle around him.

"Whenever things go wrong," Wormwood hums, following the rhythm, moving his free hand behind his back, a hopeful smirk tugging at his face.

"King Roland simply stands and claims," Cedric sings back immediately, his airy voice even lighter through his laugh, following the faint clacking of his heels on the stone.

He changes their handhold to palm to palm, and moves his own free hand behind his back. He can dance very well, Wormwood knows. He is fond of those old court dances he has learnt early in his youth, at the very school Sofia and her siblings waste their days at. Every so often, Cedric takes a spin around the workshop, with only the raven's perch as a partner.

In one voice, they finish, "It must be Cedric that's to blame~!"

Instinctively, Wormwood lifts their joined hands up, and lets Cedric pivot on his toes, free hands moving in the same breath to join in a perfect, graceful flutter at the end of the spin.

Well, now I am here, Wormwood thinks, and the joy the thought gives him lingers like a physical touch, even after Cedric's hands have flown away from his.

"Did we just duet?" the sorcerer asks, incredulous, the little bit of colour in his cheeks shaving decades off his smile. Like this, he doesn't look regal, or dignified, or indifferent. Even pale and exhausted, he looks beautiful, the way a clear eventide sky does. Wormwood feels again the urge to put his lips on the fine crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and thank them for existing.

"Indeed," the raven says gravely, perplexed at the warm tinge of his own voice. "It was only a matter of time, I'm afraid."

"Speaking of time," Cedric says, forefinger raised, sniffing the air for new nuances in the potion smell. "I think it should be ready. Finally."

With the aid of a big funnel, timing and methodical ladle-work, they fill up the biggest keg. Cedric screws the spout on tight and uses a levitation spell to shake it vigorously.

"This should be enough for the castle plots and patches," he says, patting it with satisfaction. "Now, you take this first batch and start, and I'll go directly to the Community Garden, and we'll be done before anyone can bother us. Sounds like a plan?"

Wormwood shifts nervously. "You can't be too keen to go back to the village. That old man looked ready to light the pyre," he says. "I should accompany you."

"Psh." Cedric shrugs. "What am I, a witch? This isn't the Dark Ages anymore, I don't need an escort."

"I could just go myself," Wormwood hears himself say, troubled. Aside from the village, now branded as unsafe in his mind, the thought of being separated after they just reunited, of King Roland getting in the way...

"And let you get all the credit again? Nonsense," Cedric rebuts, and Wormwood realizes he's missed his pettiness more than he misses flying with his own wings. "Besides, we'll be asked to split anyway, since everyone is in such a hurry. Now, let's see, how are you going to carry this thing..."

His attention diverted to practical matters, Cedric squints at him until he figures out a way to strap the keg to Wormwood's back with a reasonable distribution of weight. That done, to the raven's surprise, he gives him the black Wand back. Or rather, he points at it and sighs.

"It's the only one I have available now, and since I cannot use it myself..." he trails off, fidgeting under Wormwood's befuddled stare. "You'll need to use a spell to direct the flow, since we're not using powder... and you don't want to take all day doing it by hand, do you? And it's a light enough spell, I shouldn't have any problems if you use it."

Wormwood wants to ask him if it's really alright, but before he can gather himself enough to do it, Cedric starts to show him the wand-work needed, and he has to refocus. Cedric always teaches magic by example, no manhandling people into position the way Goodwyn does, and this time it's no exception. Wormwood appreciates.

Even if Wormwood cannot fathom why Cedric would just accept things the way they are now, the thought of this first, equal exchange keeps him company as he hurries down the stairs and outside, keg bouncing in the tight harness strapped to him.

He begins to irrigate the desolated castle crops with the hydrokinesis spell, spraying the newly sown seeds with the potion. If there's any left after the castle crops, he considers, he should cover the greenhouse too. There's not enough for the whole garden, but they are going to need ingredient restocking pretty soon too...

"Good job, there!" says a voice behind him, although not the one he was hoping for: the King, still way too lively for the time of day. "I see you can hold your ground in potion-making as well, after all!"

"Cedric did the work," Wormwood says, almost tiredly. "I mostly chopped up seaweed and reached for the high shelves." And made a considerable fool of myself.

At least the thing is working, Wormwood thinks. The seeds have already started to grow.

"I know you are too modest, Corax," the King says, like being corrected barely registered in his mind. He crouches down to move a clump of dirt with his finger, letting a small sprout break through. "Remarkable! Baileywick has told me how difficult this actually is to accomplish, but I'm glad to see you've managed!"

Before Wormwood can get a word in, he continues, "My friend, I've been thinking. We would be delighted if you agreed to stay here with us. We could really use a sorcerer of your talent!"

"Your Royal Sorcerer isn't retiring, as far as I know," Wormwood says, letting some menace grace his tone.

It is an offer that easily turns to his advantage, actually... and yet. What the King just implied has to go against some rule, at least some moral code? But Roland doesn't appear perturbed in the slightest.

"No, of course not, but listen: I know he mentored you, but honestly... I've wanted to give the man a break for a while now, you know?" he says, so earnest Wormwood hates him. "Ever since we were young boys, he never seemed to adapt well to the stress of royal life. There's always something up with him... and speaking with you reminded me that these peaceful times are, indeed, a precarious luck."

And now I know why I was born a raven, Wormwood thinks, the weight on his back suddenly three times heavier. It was nature's way of suggesting I keep my damn mouth shut.

When the man in front of him was a young boy, the raven clearly remembers, he spent a great deal of his time and energy making sure Cedric wouldn't adapt to royal life. Fuming, he resumes showering the plots in life-giving liquid, the King tailing him as he spiels on, unaware of how close Wormwood is to grabbing him and shoving a curse down his throat.

You're lucky I'm running on borrowed power, the raven thinks, shaking the canister on his back to assess how much he has left. You owe Cedric your life now. Only eight and a half times to go.

"Our kingdom is doing well, it wouldn't be a problem at all to support a second sorcerer," the King continues, walking briskly at his side as Wormwood marches back to make sure he's covered the whole thing. "A shadow, if you will, someone reliable, who would be able to handle actual danger. Without fainting. How about that?"

And to think the day started almost good. Almost normal. He woke to Cedric's touch, they didn't argue, no flinching, the potion didn't explode, they ended up duetting. Setting off alone was hard, but he managed, telling himself they'd be able to talk more later, without hurry, without interruptions.

But then the King had to come in, and let him know that just trying to understand how everything works in this place, he has managed to harm Cedric's reputation. Again.

Maybe he isn't made to live as a human, and abide by their incomprehensible rules. He would have made a lousy Royal Advisor, not to mention a lousy King. What had got into him, when he made his wishes? Maybe he should really migrate, like the rabbit suggested.

The mere thought makes him feel like his chest is being wretched open, but... it really seems that every step he takes damages Cedric some way or another.

"I am finished here," he says dryly, teeth clenched. Without another look at the King, he flicks the drops from his wet wand, and stalks off to the greenhouse.

Turns out they're both creeps. Creeps who duet.

Christmas update!