And Still Morning Comes (Fallen London, Player/Melancholy Curate/Enigmatic Sister, T)

[wallwalker]

Title: And Still Morning Comes
Fandom: Fallen London
Characters: Player Character/Melancholy Curate/Enigmatic Sister
Word Count: 300
Summary: Someone seeks familiar company after being a bit too careless with their soul.
Notes: Originally posted on Tumblr for Multiamory March. I am still trying to back all of those drabbles up and this seems like a logical place to do it. I originally wrote it for a prompt that (I'm pretty sure) I posted on sidequest but never got around to posting there.



---

You haven’t been here in ages.

You walk through Veilgarden unmolested. Even under your cloak people recognize you, defer to you. You ignore them; their respect means nothing.

The house is cleaner than you remember. You knock, and hope.

The Curate opens the door himself, to your surprise. His eyes widen when he sees you, but his voice is as calm as ever. “Yes?”

Your charm feels so empty. “I need to ask you both something. Please.”

“Of course,” he says, and leads you in.

His sister looks up, brightens. “Darling!” she says, rising to meet you. “It’s been so long. I’ve heard such tales about you in the Shuttered Palace!”

You smile, feeling wan and weak. Being here brings back memories, long nights reading poetry by candlelight, warm evenings in their rooms... that long, exhausting night with them both in the guest room... good memories, mostly.

“What’s wrong?” the Curate asks, unnerved by your silence.

His sister studies you more closely. “You’ve lost your soul,” she says softly, reaching for your shoulders.

You nod slowly. “How do you do it? How did you keep going?”

Their hands are on you now. It feels familiar, comforting.

“Hush,” she whispers. “Hush.”

---

You wake up stiff, shoulders sore from the previous night’s bondage. At least life without a soul would not be devoid of passion.

She is curled up beside you and smiling, her dark hair spread over the pillow. The bite marks you made on her shoulders are dark and livid. He is awake, wrapped in a plain robe and eating a compote of mushrooms over black bread; you remember it well, soft and sweet. He almost smiles when he sees you watching.

Not the release from emptiness you’d secretly hoped for, perhaps, but you’re glad you came to them regardless.

---

You kiss your lovely bedmate as you slip out of bed, and join the Curate at his table. He already has a plate prepared for you, exactly as you would’ve wished.

But first, you must know. “How do you live without it?” you whisper; you have more in common with him in this than with her.

He is quiet for a moment, thinking. At last he speaks. “Souls are weights that cannot be borne,” he says. “But without them, or another weight in their places, the rest is far too light.”

You nod, half-understanding, and rest your hand on his.