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The world felt hollow, now.
It was funny. How much he’d complained, back then. How much he’d hated him. How much he wanted anything, anything to change. He remembered the early days; the ways his dad and grandfather were always talking as if, well, give it some time, maybe he’ll change.
He was never sure if they were talking about the crow or about… him.
He’d never been special, though, not really. Not in the way that they were. The way their ravens stood, proud, regal, powerful on their shoulders. The connection they held seemed impossibly tight. Beyond friendship, it was like they were two halves of the same soul. Edgar had never had much of a look in, when it came to being seen by his family. Travelling from library to library, sometimes with their own book fairs in tow; he got used to sleeping in the back of wobbling caravans and down dark, dusty passageways. Found it was easier to grab food where it was available than expect any sort of dinner time. Got used to following the rough crak noise of a raven call to head back, lest he be forgotten.
But that was all okay. All of it would be fine, because when he was old enough, he would get his raven. Human friendship didn’t matter when he was guaranteed the best friend he’d ever have. At ten years old, he’d be set for life. He spent hours fantasising about it; the thing that was always guaranteed to soothe his brain when it became… tangled… was the idea that something good was waiting. Something good was worth hanging on for. Something good was guaranteed.
His grandfather had taught him his letters when he was very young; even his father agreed that it was most important that his son start strong with his reading. Then, once he could read, and knew how to look up the definitions in the dictionary, they just - set him loose. Allowed him to teach himself history and maths by dropping the right books by wherever he was sleeping that night. He found the science books himself, of course; and it didn’t take much to fall into story after story, devouring everything from Shakespeare to Dan Brown. He didn’t need friends when he had stories.
I don’t need friends. I don’t.
He was eight and reading a novel aimed at teenage girls, he was pretty sure. His dad and grandfather were in the central area of the library, setting up for the fair the next day; it was already late, and down the narrow aisles of dust and books, the lighting was low, but he was used to reading in dimness. The cover had caught his attention, and he was a fast reader, nearly half way through already as a particular description caught his attention. Frowning, struggling to understand, he read it back again. Why… that didn’t make any sense at all. He continued on, and a half dozen pages later, the main character’s friend had caught her in the act, now. She was as confused as Edgar felt, it seemed, but she was angry, too.
“I just don’t understand why you’d do this to yourself, Cindy!” Gemma exclaimed, clutching her friend’s arm, showing the vivid red marks. Cindy was still clutching the razor blade in her other hand, and tears were in her eyes, dripping down her face as she sniffled.
“I’m sorry, Gemma, I’m so sorry.” she gasped. “It was all so much. Everything got to me. I couldn’t see any other choice.”
“Cindy,” Gemma said, and Cindy knew she was afraid, even if she sounded angry. “If you’re hurting like this, you need to tell me. I’m your best friend, yeah?”
“Yeah, of course you are. I don’t know. It made me feel better, for a little bit.”
“Even if it makes you feel better, you can’t just hurt yourself! That’s what friends are for, right? You don’t need to do that when you have me to talk to; or your mum; or even a teacher. That’s what you should do if you feel like hurting yourself.”
He lowered the book onto his lap, tilting his head back and looking out of the window. He didn’t have any friends at all. Sometimes kids who came to the fairs would say hello; but Edgar had learnt his family really just wanted him out of the way, so he was normally in some corner reading. Or, well, if there was food laid out, he’d take the chance to grab a few bites. It wasn’t that his family was deliberately forgetting to take him along when they got food, of course not! It was just, his dad and granddad were often so busy and in such a rush that they would head out without him… and when they’d get back they’d ask if he got something and, well, he really didn’t want to be a bother so he’d say he had and they’d be satisfied with that.
He didn’t have friends to talk to. He would have his best friend in just a few years, but right now, he had no Gemma. He had no Cindy. He had… no one. Just dusty halls and dusty pages and he closed his eyes real, real tight, crunching them up and curling around his long legs and thinking real, real hard about his friend that he would have but he also couldn’t seem to shake the description of what Cindy had done. How she’d broken the blade from a pencil sharpener and how she’d… how she’d… and - and it had made her feel better, that was what she’d said. Edgar wrapped himself up as tight as he could because sometimes that made his brain feel a little soothed, when he could crush himself with his own arms, but today it didn’t seem to be working. He stayed there, head tilted to look out the window, trying to squeeze the strange feeling out of his head but it just… wouldn’t go.
He heard the faint cra-ka of a raven calling, and scrambled to his feet automatically, heart pounding. He placed the book back where he’d gotten it - you must always re-shelve correctly, my boy, for only the cruel and the lazy abandon their books in state - his grandfather’s words - and scurried out of the narrow alleyways of books and back towards where they’d come in. He could just about make out the rustle of feathers, and hurried into almost a run, knowing if he wasn’t quick, he might be spending another night on the cold hard ground surrounded by paperbacks.
(He’d considered using the newspaper section as blankets once or twice, but he knew how hard it was to arrange them just so on the racks, and even if they weren’t going to be read again that night, well, he didn’t want to be rude. He could tolerate some shivering.)
Elliot was half way out of the door when Edgar finally rounded the edge, reaching back to lock up behind him.
“Wait - wait!” Edgar called, quickly, reaching a hand out, and caught sight of dark eyes blinking in surprise as they saw him - then widening. It was an unfortunately familiar sight, the good ol’ ‘we forgot you were here’ expression.
“Oh! Edgar! Come along!” he called out, and Edgar near enough leapt the last few paces, ducking under the arms on the door and out into the cool night. He doubled over, panting for air; nearby, the motorcycle roared into life. Out of breath, he managed to shimmy into the sidecar, sinking down as low as he could. Elias looked around, and offered him a slightly deranged grin.
He didn’t return it.
He was nine, but he would be ten in ten minutes and he was looking at the clock and looking at the window and the air had been electric all week. His family was excited. For the first time in his life, they’d actually seemed to be paying attention. There were plans for his birthday, actual plans, dad was talking about getting a cake and doing a poetry reading and admittedly he didn’t actually have anyone to invite to the party but - well - all of the excitement was about his raven. His father and grandfather had been waxing lyrical for days about their own dramatic appearances, and Edgar could probably account them from memory. He had spent so long envisioning how his best friend in the world would appear; a tap on the window, a beautiful sleek creature flying in, landing on his shoulder… he’d debated over and over about names and finally settled on ‘Poe’, enjoying the idea of him being Edgar Allan and his raven being Poe and it was silly but it felt so… perfect.
And it all went wrong. It went wrong. He failed. He could see it. See the disappointment in their eyes, see how they all… drooped. That he had become the first Allan to not get a raven, to be different, to be broken. He sat in his room, on his bed, legs drawn to his chest and watched as the crow walked around the room, investigating, breaking things, then turning to scream at him. Over, and over, and over again. He covered his head with his hands and sobbed into his legs and, as ever, nothing had changed. Nobody came. Nobody ever fucking came. He’d learnt a long time ago that he could cry as loud as he wanted, and it would never be any different.
Poe looked at him, then hopped onto the bed. He let out a low, croaking caw, so different to his dad’s raven’s regal sounds. He rubbed roughly at his eyes, wondering - was this it? Was there a moment of connection now? Was there - Poe reached out, pecked at his leg, and then opened his beak.
“Nevermore!” he declared, crackly and awkward, but definitely a word. Edgar’s eyes widened, and his leg was stinging but - he reached a hand out, trembling, wondering if he could finally, maybe -
Poe bit the back of his hand, a tight strike, leaving a single bead of blood dripping down his skin as he turned and took off across the room. The stinging started; he stared at the scarlet trail as it was crawling down, down, and his mind snapped to a book that was too old for him in a dusty library and the next thing he knew he was going into his stationary and clutching a plastic pencil sharpener and his eyes were swinging around for something, anything he could use to break the blade away. His heart was racing, and it was ridiculous, insane - but the words were turning over and over and over again and he deserved this, didn’t he? He deserved it.
He didn’t know if it would make him feel better. His hand was throbbing where the crow had bitten him, and did that help? It was… grounding, he supposed, was the word. He looked around at the bird who was still bouncing around the room, sitting on his wardrobe and yelling and he threw the sharpener on the floor and crushed it under his heel and then… then everything changed.
-
Poe was gone, and it was all his fault.
The world was hollow. There was nothing left. No rambunctious noise in his ear. He could sleep without being pulled and prodded and poked. He wasn’t having shit in his coffee or his homework shredded or a million other things that his bastard bird did that had driven him to distraction. He hadn’t seen his family yet; had no idea if Dad and Granddad would be mad or would, to themselves, be glad. That it was better to have no bird than to have the mistake bird. Oh, it skipped Edgar’s generation; what a shame; maybe his son would be better. He could hear it in their voices, the lie, the disappointment becoming something… different. A better kind of let down. Never managing it at all was better than trying and getting it wrong, after all.
Edgar sat in his room, staring out of the window. He remembered; it was all he felt he could do, recently. Holding Poe’s broken leg in his hand. Holding the last morsel of the animal that was, somehow, still his friend. The one who had tried to hurt him; who had hurt him, over and over. Who had sat dispiritedly on top of a wardrobe door and watched as Edgar sobbed. Who had doomed him to this life. Who had given everything to save him. He remembered him soaring back and forth from this window, out into the night and then back. Screaming in the early hours to wake him. What a nightmare he was.
It was all his fault.
He deserved this. He deserved to suffer. Monty wasn’t there; he was down with the other boys, having just gone to dinner. Edgar had declined. He really hadn’t felt much like eating recently, really; his desperate need to devour whenever he got the chance had shifted. Not just because, of course, the meals here were actually regular and filling even if they weren’t always good… but because he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve any kindness. He didn’t deserve the boys trying to buck him up or be nice or reassuring him. It was an insult, really, because they were wrong. Poe was dead. And it was his fault.
The nice thing about the uniforms was their long sleeves. He’d forgone wearing his armoured blazer or his tie, recently; it didn’t feel like he should have them. He wasn’t a cursed boy, even with his magic. He was just… Edgar. The mistake. The waste of space. The spare.
He still had the blade. The first one he’d gotten, from his pencil case, had crushed underfoot and picked up so gingerly and that first time hadn’t really done more than scratch but he’d gotten braver and braver with it. Felt the fear and the rush and the sting and now, really, truly, he understood that book. Because - it did make him feel better. Made him feel awake, and present, when his mind was wandering and distracted; and the pain, so sharp, it… it was deserved. How he would feel it throbbing for hours afterwards, and the new fresh wave of stinging when he had a shower, and it was all… it was necessary. It was deserved.
He thought of Poe as he drew back his sleeve, rolling it up. He could see the pearly shine of now-healed inflictions; his skin was so pale that he didn’t imagine any of the others would ever notice even if he did have his arms out. It didn’t matter. He started down, towards the crook of his elbow; he’d learnt it was easier to hide there, to tuck his arm in close to his chest… not that his family ever had taken notice, admittedly. Deep breath. Pressed, pulled. The first one wasn’t right. The blade had dulled a little in storage and he barely managed to scratch. So he thought again - about what he’d caused, what he’d done. That Poe wasn’t here. It’s your fault, his brain snarled and now the blade caught and pulled and he felt the skin break and shuddered, drawing his legs up to his chest.
He watched as the blood began to bead, tucking his face against his knee and sniffling. The tears blurred his vision but he went back, again, and then again, losing himself in the rhythm, the pull tear sting and before he knew it a dozen lines were sparkling on his arm. The boney limb was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and he closed his eyes, shivering his narrow shoulders as he endured it to settle. It was more than he’d meant to do, but, he knew, not even half as much as he deserved.
Nevermore, Poe would say, watching; from the back of a chair, or his desk, the windowsill. He would watch as Edgar punished himself for the bird’s presence. As he muttered insults at himself, for his failure. Back then, he would’ve given anything for him to go away. Then he’d fly over, and for a moment Edgar would want to believe this was a moment of connection… and Poe would bite him, or shit on him, and be gone again, and he knew this was deserved. His failure. His failure.
The light in the room was fading but he made no attempt to turn a lamp on; he just… sat, hunched over, resting his bleeding arm on the bed and his face tucked into his legs. At some point he slunk down, pulling the blankets up and curling into a ball in the corner, suddenly so exhausted he could think of nothing more than sleeping. Forever and ever would be good, he thought vaguely, closing his eyes with his forehead pressing against the wall. He pulled the blanket up to his neck, and allowed himself to drift into a miasma.
–
The burble of voices started to shove their way forcefully into his brain. He wasn’t sure he’d been far under, really; the distorted nightmares and drifting fog that was overwhelming his mind were making sure he didn’t actually get anything close to real rest. That was why he felt so tired, he was sure. As he floated his way towards full wakefulness, Edgar didn’t bother to open his eyes; he didn’t see any point. But the familiarity of the voices did manage to crack just a little in, enough that he started to register what was being said.
“ - didn’t see him at dinner so I thought I’d bring him some food but he’s…”
“Something mutht be wrong with him. Is he thick?”
“Is he what?”
“Thick. Sth - sick. Is he sick?”
“He might be. I don’t know. I don’t really want to wake him up, but…”
“Well, he has to get up. He can’t lay there forever.”
A hand slapped down onto his forehead and he startled, waving his arms in the air, twisting around and glaring. Kevin jerked away, frowning, holding his hand in the air.
“What are you doing?” Edgar asked; he wasn’t sure if he meant to sound angry, but his voice just came out bland, quiet and exhausted. He blinked and then squinted; the lights were low, but it still felt too bright. His head was aching, and he recognised it - the start of a migraine. Usually brought on by reading for too long in low light and straining his eyes, but he imagined this one was from laying down… he didn’t really care, though. It was a good excuse to not get up.
“Are you sick?” Kevin asked, and now he was pressing in again, holding his palm against Edgar’s head even as he batted at him. “You don’t feel warm or anything…” he frowned as he drew back, putting his hands on his hips as he considered Edgar. The lamp behind him was making his hair glow like a halo; Edgar muttered a low complaint under his breath.
“I have a headache.” he croaked. “Leave me alone.”
“You haven’t had any dinner, Edgar.” Roland began, and his voice was heavy with such a worry that it made Edgar feel sick, right in the pit of his stomach. “And we… didn’t see you at breakfast or lunch, either.”
“I’m not hungry.” he whispered, making to roll over - but Monty’s hand snapped out, grabbing onto his own digits. He was sniffing the air, audibly, and as Edgar looked around, Roland and Kevin were also staring at Monty in confusion.
“What on earth are you doi-”
“I can smell blood.” Monty replied, flat and calm. Edgar’s heart began to race immediately in response, and now Monty was staring at him, pulling his hand, stretching his arm out - and his long limbs with pyjamas that were too small for him because his dad never bothered to replace them - and thanking any deity that might potentially exist that he had started so close to his body because right now, Monty couldn’t see anything.
“You’re probably smelling the Plagueground,” Kevin said, but from the waver in his voice, Edgar knew he wasn’t quite convincing himself.
“No. No, it’s not. Edgar -” he tugged again, then Roland was reaching out and Edgar inhaled too sharply, too obvious, trying to draw away - rolling his sleeve back, and now he could see the faint, dark brown splotches and -
“What… what caused that?” Roland was asking, staring at the even, clean lines that were showing on his arm, now. There were crispy little smears of dried blood where he had rolled the sleeve up over the fresh injuries. Edgar’s heart thumped in his throat, and Kevin turned slowly to stare at him. “They look like - like claw mawks or - something. But Poe’s… gone, so…” he shook his head. “When did you get hurt, Edgar? Why didn’t you go to see Nurse Wenny?”
Poe’s gone. He’d said it so easily. Like it was nothing. Like it was just fact. Poe’s gone. Yet he was right, that was why it had happened, because Poe was gone, and now Edgar was shaking, and he wanted to sleep. He didn’t want food and he just - didn’t want to get up. Didn’t care about classes. Didn’t care about any of it. Kevin was looking at him, his face slowly drawn into a dawning horror and Edgar didn’t want to ask about why the Disney-obsessed kid (although, thinking about it, it seemed like Kevin didn’t even really care about Disney, even though everything he owned seemed to be connected in some way. It was bizarre. He should’ve thought about it more. He’d never even seen a Disney movie. His family didn’t own a TV. He’d seen some of the tie-in books, though.) knew about… this.
“Well, not to worry!” Roland said, with a bright beam, “Let’s get you healed up, huh?” he held out a hand, palm started to glow, and Edgar jolted away so suddenly and violently that Monty’s grip on his arm failed and he was able to jerk his arm in close to his chest. He rapidly drew his sleeve back down, swallowing hard, sliding back into the bed enough to press his spine into the wall and draw his legs to his chest. They were all staring at him; Roland’s face twitching towards the pain of rejection, Monty confused, and Kevin with the flat, even look that warned things were about to get… worse.
“Wh - Edgar, don’t you want me to heal you up?” Roland asked, blinking owlishly at him, “I can get them gone in just a jiffy!”
“No.” he mumbled, shaking his head firmly. He didn’t know how he was going to explain, but -
“But you’re hurt.” Monty said, blandly, brows drawing in tight over his forehead, “And we don’t need to save it for the plagueground or anything, so why… would you rather we go to Nurse Lenny?”
“I don’t want them healed.” he whispered, wrapping his arms around his chest.
“But - Edgar, don’t they hurt?”
He looked down, tucking his face in against his legs, exhaling sharply. Kevin took a step back; he could make out the shadow of him moving, although no specifics, now.
“Alright, guys, just uh - why don’t you go down to the common room for a minute, let me talk to Edgar by myself?”
Some part of him wanted to point out that Edgar could hear this whole conversation, but he decided not to say anything. Actually, right now his throat felt totally glued together. He wasn’t sure he could speak at all. He didn’t want Kevin to stay. He didn’t want any of them in this room at all. He just wanted quiet.
The door shut with a click. The bed dipped. Kevin was slight, but he was still heavy enough that Edgar found himself tilting slightly towards the other body as it scooched back and leaned against the wall next to him. Just close enough that he could feel his body heat, but not touching. That distance between them felt like a chasm in the ground. Comfort, contact; things he wasn’t really all that familiar with. Some part of him, the part he’d been driving down into the ground for years and years, the one that read the stories about friends and cried with longing, it was screaming out for him to cross that distance. Yet he was like an adventurer, trapped on a ledge, staring at the crumbling rope bridge. One wrong step, and it would all be over.
“You don’t have to tell them.” Kevin said, after what seemed hours. The door had clicked shut with an echoing finality. Edgar wouldn’t be surprised if the other two were lingering just outside it, listening; Monty had sharp ears. The numbness had crawled up his spine, now, and it was hard to care. “I won’t force you, mate. I won’t.” he sighed, tilting his head back against the wall, making the bed shift again. “But you know you should like… talk to a teacher or something, right? I mean it’s…” he trailed off, and Edgar felt like he was talking to someone far far older than Kevin actually was.
“How did you know?” his voice was a barely audible croak; he heard Kevin’s hair sliding on the wall as his head turned to look at Edgar.
“My mum.” Kevin said, after a few long moments went past. “She has scars. I asked her about it, once. Well - a lot of times, honestly. She gave me lots of different reasons, when I was, y’know, little. But, um.” he swallowed. “After my curse started, she… sat me down. And she told me. Not, like, in any detail or anything but… yeah, when she was a teenager ‘n stuff. She told me the like, if I ever feel like hurting myself or anything that I… I could talk to her. Or a teacher or… someone. And, like… I wish she didn’t talk about Disney all the time and I wish she, y’know… she doesn’t really get the whole, like, curse thing…” he gestured vaguely, hands in the air casting wiggling shadows. “But she’s still… she’s still my mum. Y’know? I still love her. Still wish we could’ve gone to Disneyland together.” he huffed out a sigh and then let the silence settle around them.
“It’s my fault that he died.”
Kevin sat bolt upright next to him, turning; Edgar tucked his head more firmly into his legs, voice muffled by the lanky limbs.
“He died. He died to save me. After everything I did and how awful I was to him and -”
“What are you talking about, Edgar?! He was a shit to you! He hurt you and made you feel awful! He wouldn’t let you sleep or -”
“Don’t - please don’t -”
“No, it’s true! Look, yes, I know you were getting on well at the end, okay? But, Edgar - you can’t pretend he wasn’t a bit shit -”
“What?!” he jolted his head up, staring at Kevin now, eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. “Don’t say that! He was my crow! And he wasn’t perfect and he wasn’t a raven but he was still my friend and he saved my life!”
“He did.” Kevin said, quieter now, “He chose to do that, Edgar. He chose to save you. And I don’t think pretending he was always nice is - he was still -” he sighed, putting his head in his hands for a moment, before running them through his hair and looking at him steadily. “I know you loved him, Edgar. Okay? And I know it’s a big deal, but… he wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself over this. He wouldn’t want you to - to do that. Right? I know he bit you and kept you awake and he wasn’t nice to you but - he chose to save your life. And you can’t sit here and just - rot away and starve yourself and be shitty to yourself because he did that.”
Edgar dropped his legs, but stared at his lap. Maybe Kevin had a point, about the whole thing. Maybe he did. But the big, heavy sadness on his shoulders wasn’t feeling any better. The guilt was still a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach.
“And maybe you… maybe you talk to a teacher?” Kevin suggested, voice quiet, cautious. “Mr Hinks or Mr Kelly, maybe? Probably - probably not Sarge, but, um.” he swallowed audibly. “I think you should.. Talk to someone. Nurse Lenny can heal it but I think it’s… I think it’s bigger, than that.” he moved to sit back next to Edgar, and this time he pressed his leg against Edgar’s, and his arms moved, and not even letting himself think about it, Edgar slumped into the grip. The tears started to fall, body shaking. Shame and guilt curdled as he drew himself up, burying himself in Kevin’s shirt and sobbing openly. He could feel the gentle hand carding through his hair, his friend holding him, his friend.
“I can come with you, if you want?” Kevin suggested. “All of us could. If that’s what you’d want. Because, I dunno, we’re… we’re your friends. And we… we care about you. Or somethin’, I dunno.” he trailed off, mumbling the word again, and despite himself, Edgar faintly laughed. He nodded, barely even understanding why, as he made a mess of Kevin’s shirt. By the time he’d cried himself out, the exhaustion had it’s claws in him again. He’d slid down onto Kevin’s lap, eyes shut again, blanket awkwardly bunched around his shoulders. There was an ever so faint tap on the door, then the click of it opening.
“What’s going on?” Roland asked, and Kevin shushed him.
“I think he’s asleep again.” he whispered, just about audible. “Let him rest.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah. Well… no. Not really. But, um… we’re gonna go talk to the teachers about it. When he’s feeling a bit more up to it.”
“Is it because of Poe?”
“Kinda, yeah.” Kevin sighed. “But… other things, too. I think.”
“Is he gonna be okay? Will he let me heal him?”
“Not just yet. But… yeah. Yeah. I think he’ll be okay.”
“Good.” Monty’s voice was heavy with relief. “I missed him.”
“Yeah.” Edgar could hear the smile in Kevin’s voice. “Me too.”
He allowed himself to drift off fully back to sleep again, and thankfully, this time, his rest was dreamless.