Archive of Our Own

The quiet night sinks into Tolstad like a sigh. It settles over the rooftops and roads, crowds close around the shuttered windows, and slips ghostlike into every nook and cranny. The common folk draw back from their days and draw their blankets tight around their bodies, drifting into their dreams. The ordinary fades away. Now is the time of monsters.

The Duck creaks to life from his perch in the temple. His helm lifts and a faint light glints deep inside the darkness. His gauntlets spring into movement and grip Caretaker, tightening around the slim shaft with a creak. He stands in one fluid motion, the speed belying the weightiness of the thick interlocking armour. Without a backwards glance, he strides from the building and into the enveloping arms of the evening.

Across town, Visken sits like a stone at his desk. Ôst he had banished hours ago, claiming a mountain of paperwork to work through. “Fine, master,” the little kobold had pouted, “Ôst will go out into streets all alone, go to apartment all alone, without master beside him!”

“Good,” Visken had replied, without lifting his head. “See that you light the fire. Winter is approaching, don’t you agree?”

Ôst grumbled, and mumbled, and dragged himself up the stairs inch by inch, taking frequent mournful glances back over his shoulder until he could no longer peek down the staircase. A very perceptive observer might have seen Visken roll his eyes, but only once.

The paperwork was not so much of a task after all, and was finished soon after Ôst left, and yet Visken still remains in his office, feeling strangely disinclined to move. The cool air that seeps into the morgue is calming, like a soporific, and it encourages a certain unnatural stillness in his bones, a way of unliving that he rarely lets himself feel, unless entirely alone. His measured breaths fade away. The little twitches of a living body that he’s so carefully cultivated cease to be. His eyes flutter shut, leaving him as silent and as still as the grave. The minutes tick by and all conscious thought falls away. Visken is empty.

The stairs ring with movement. Heavy, metallic footsteps trail down, ringing inevitably towards the large desk and the almost man seated behind it. He opens his eyes. His gaze flickers upwards. “The Duck,” he intones. “I do not believe I summoned you.”

“Master.” The voice is more of a twisting of space than a vibration of air. “You did not.”

Visken steeples his fingers. “Then why are you here?”

The winged helm grinds from side to side, an imitation of a shaking head. “The night grows long and late, and I was drawn to serve.”

“Such dedication, dark knight. Such devotion.” He tilts his head. “And if I do not require your services?”

The armoured fingers flex. “Then I shall wait until you have need of me, master.”

“Very well.” Visken breathes again, for the first time since Ôst left. He finds no relief in the motion. “Kneel, Duck.”

The huge suit of armour sinks to one knee in front of the desk, helm bowed, Caretaker laid to one side on the smooth stone floor.

Visken stands and wanders out into the morgue, hands clasped behind his back. He hums to himself as he strides across the room, moving smoothly past the Duck. A glance behind him confirms the suit of armour hasn’t moved an inch. The ghost of a smile plays across his lips. He makes his way to his library in silence, trailing his fingers over his ancient books, picking up scattered tomes and returning them to their rightful place on the shelves, plucking pieces of dust off their covers. He looks over his shoulder. The knight is still kneeling at his desk, still as a statue. He blinks, slowly, deliberately, and moves on. The corpses lying on their slabs have already been autopsied, catalogued and registered to the city, but Visken inspects them again anyway. They lie under thin linen sheets, backs naked to the stone, awaiting collection from loved ones or repossession from an opportunistic necromancer. He smooths a lock of hair off the gnome corpses’ forehead. This one will be claimed. He was well loved in life, and indeed his family had been hovering around the morgue all morning until Visken had shooed them away, claiming that their body heat and breathing were bad for the corpses. The human on the other hand… a late day drop off from the Halfway Bridge Militia after tracking down a suspicious stench near the base of the holes. He’d fallen about a week ago, they estimated, and no one had come looking for him. A forgotten person, entirely unremarkable, in a tattered blue shirt. He’d do nicely. Visken flips the linen covers back over the bodies and casts Prestidigitation, clearing the lingering scent of death clinging to his body. At his desk, the Duck remains. Visken raises his eyebrows and pivots on his heel, meandering back towards the tableau.

“You really have nothing better to do tonight?”

“You know I do not.”

“Hm. It’s true that you are not currently being used to your full potential, Duck. Are you bored?”

“I am incapable of boredom.”

“Yet here you are. What impulse caused you to darken my door, I wonder?” He pivots and halts right in front of the kneeling knight, toes close enough to tap at the waiting cuisse with the slightest of kicks.

The Duck stays silent.

“Insubordination? I asked you a question, Duck.”

The helm drops lower.

“…Fine. I suppose you’re overdue for your inspection, anyway. Go. Lie down.” Visken flaps his hand towards the just- cleared slabs in the library.

The Duck raises himself to his full height in bits and pieces, using Caretaker to lever himself off the floor. The armour shifts and slides, stacking itself tall, towering over the shorter lich, the glint in the helmet gazing downwards. Visken returns the stare, unblinking, and turns away to fossick in a drawer behind his desk. The Duck marches away.

A pair of black leather gloves lie folded in the drawer, along with a matching mask and a series of odd little metal tools in a flat pouch, similar to autopsy equipment, but not quite the same. Visken pulls the gloves on, massaging the stiffness of the leather away to buttery smoothness, and affixing the mask to his face. It’s hard to breathe through, but it’s not like he needs to breathe. He stops. The pouch he attaches to his belt, the metals shining in the dim moonlight coursing through the morgue. He casts a drift globe that hovers above his head, bathing him in blue light, and returns to the library.

The Duck is already lying statuesque on a slab, his arms crossed over his chest in an imitation of a tomb effigy, as if the bones of Borgo Darrow dwell beneath him still. Caretaker rests on the floor at his right side. Visken starts at the sabatons. He peels the overlapping plates apart, one by one, checking the hidden runic patterns carved into each piece of metal. Using a little brush from his pouch, he scrapes dirt from the designs and a shudder runs through the Duck, clattering through him from toe to tip. Visken squints and turns one of the sabatons to the side. “Ah, this one is a little faint. Hold still.” He pulls out a long tool, sharpened into a spike on one end, and digs into the rune, scraping it deeper into the metal plate. The Duck squirms, his fingers contorting at his chest plate, his helmet shaking from side to side. “Don’t be so dramatic,” murmurs Visken, slipping the plating back into place, hiding the refreshed rune from the world once more.

The inspection always takes a while, and Visken finds himself really taking his time with it today, working his way up the armour slowly, carefully, but not in any way gently. A piece of rust removed there, a rune refreshed here, a creeping dullness to the metal buffed out all over. As he reaches the runes curling their way around the inside of the winged helmet, the Duck is a stuttering, shining mess on the unforgiving slab. His legs are lying akimbo and uneven, one knee shaking uncontrollably. His arms, previously so neatly folded over himself, are splayed out, one gauntlet gripping the edge of the stone table, the other twitching near his hips. He strains against Visken’s steady hands that grip either side of his helmet, forcing the chin upwards to the ceiling.

“Relax,” hisses Visken. “You know these are the most important. I can’t afford to slip here, Duck, or I may lose you.”

“Y-yes, Master.” The low voice is still strained and breathless, despite a lack of a throat and lungs.

Visken tilts his head and hunches low over the chest plate, peering up into the darkness that seeps between helmet and gorget. The little markings that line the interior swirl upwards and away, free of any impurities, creating the final layer of the Duck’s eternal cage. “Ah,” breathes Visken. “There you are.”

Coiled at the top of the helmet is a shadow darker than midnight and thicker than fog. Smoky tendrils trail down like rivers and disappear past the gorget, sinking deeper into the armour below. They bump and fizz against the runes, glinting and sparking like flint against steel. Here is the truth of the Duck. The shade that remains after the body is gone.

“Shy today, Borgo Darrow? It’s been a while since maintenance has affected you so. Could it be that your esoteric ties are weakening?”

The shadow shifts and pulses. “That is no longer my name,” it says, barely more than a whisper.

“Hm. Now that is concerning. Come. Let me see.” The shadow shrinks away from the gloved hand that reaches up into the armour and Visken tuts in frustration. “Borgo…”

“Do not call me that.”

Visken snaps the helmet back down and rears back upright, arms crossed. “Do not presume to tell me what to do, wraith. This insubordination is unheard of.” He raises one eyebrow. “Get up. Now.”

The armor that contains the Duck clatters to its feet, coming to a stand, facing Visken across the slab, head bowed once more.

“Look at me.”

A glint flashes out of the sights, just above the visor. The gauntlets twitch. “Yes, Master.”

Visken strokes his gloved hand over his masked mouth. “Now, then. What’s gotten into you, hm?” He places both hands on the stone table and leans in. “Why do you say Borgo Darrow is no longer your name?”

“Borgo Darrow was a man. He had a family. He had emotions, desires. He died.”

“And then I found him. And brought him back.”

“No. Not brought back. I was created, Master. By you. You made something new. Something other.”

“Ah, I see. So, the wight of Borgo Darrow does not consider himself to be Borgo Darrow anymore?”

“No. I am the Duck.”

“The Duck has no family?”

“No.”

“The Duck has no emotions?”

“No.”

“The Duck has no desires?”

“…no.”

Visken cocks his head. “Somehow I don’t believe you.” He leans closer. “No desires? Nothing at all?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here, Duck?”

He does not answer.

Visken squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. “Fine. If you do not wish to answer, I can make you. Kneel.”

The word jolts through the Duck as he recognises it for what it is. Not a request. Not even an instruction. A spell. An esoteric twist in the fabric of the world. Command. It grips him at his very core and yanks him down. His knees crash to the ground. His gauntlets slump down by his sides. He sits down hard on his heels. The command keeps him down, keeps him bound and vulnerable, shackles him to the cold stone floor, as Visken seats himself on the slab, slippered feet planted right between the Duck’s thighs.

“I will have my answers Duck. You say you have no desires, but you cannot deny me mine. I made you, after all.” He flips the visor up with a gloved thumb and reaches inside, grasping for the thick shadow within. It cowers from him, slipping between his fingers like smoke. “Tch. Stay still.”

“Master.” says the smoke. “Please. Have mercy.”

“No. You will tell me what I need to know or I will draw it from you like poison from a wound.”

The shade of Borgo Darrow crowds against the back of his armour. It casts from side to side, unable to hide from the approaching glove. “I… I…”

“Yes?”

“I desire warmth, master.”

Visken pauses. His hand retracts, slowly, and the smoke follows him, crowding at the edge of the open visor. His face relaxes. “There. Was that so hard?”

The helm shakes from side to side. “I desire the warm touch of flesh. And fear it.”

“Hm. Do you hunger?”

“I…”

Visken huffs, impatient. “The flesh. Do you want to consume it.”

“No. I have no need to eat.”

“Good. You’re not turning into a ghoul.” Visken leans back on his hands and his gaze drifts to the ceiling. “Do you wish to possess the flesh as you currently possess this armour?”

“No.”

“Not a revenant, then. Are you driven to snuff out the warm spark of life?”

“No.”

“Then my wards yet hold. Hm.” Visken works his jaw and drums his fingers on the slab. “I must say, Duck, you have presented me with a puzzle. What is it about this warm flesh that compels you so?”

“I simply… miss it.”

Visken’s eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. He schools his expression back to neutral before he dares to look at the armour kneeling before him. “Ah. How… human.”

“I am not human.”

“Right. But Borgo was.”

“I am not Borgo.”

“You are his wight. You retain his memories, his wants and needs.” Visken sits up, and claps his hands together. “Well. A diagnosis has been made, at least. There is no esoteric event affecting you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re just… remembering. Something you used to enjoy when you were alive. Yearning is common amongst the newer undead.”

“That’s all?”

Visken shrugs. “That’s all.”

“Then…”

“You will find no succour in my morgue, Duck. You will learn to forget, in time.”

“And what of you?”

An eyebrow quirks. “You will not find it with me either. There is no warmth left.” Silence falls over the morgue like a thick blanket. It weighs heavy on the quiet books, on the empty bodies, on the ice-cold floor. It curls around Visken, embraces him, his eyes unblinking over his leather mask, his breath gone still.

The Duck draws himself up to his full height, breaking into the peace with groaning metal. He towers over Visken. “None?”

“None.”

“I… don’t believe you, master.”

A ghost of a laugh trails from Visken. “Desperation is unbecoming on a paladin.”

“I am not a Paladin.” The Duck leans down and slams his gauntlets either side of Visken’s seat on the slab. “I am your shade. You have made me. You have caused me to hunger.” The smoke that makes up the Duck swirls and storms at his open helm. “I do not want this… want. Take away this desire, master, I beg of you.”

Visken drops his gaze to his hands and peels off a single glove. He inspects his hand, palm, nails, palm again, and holds it up to the Duck’s open visor. “I cannot. Feel for yourself, if you must.”

The shadow creeps out from the visor and coils around Visken’s willing hand. It brushes up against his pads, it worms its way between his fingers, it reaches down and tightens at his wrist. “You are cold.” it utters.

“As I said. I can’t-”

“But. You are solid. You are real.” The smoke thickens. “I feel… muscles. Bones. Shifting skin.”

“Hm. What else.”

“Your nails. They are smooth. Short.” The smoke whispers past the cuticles. “There is a scar. Here, on your index.”

“Courtesy of Bondavol. I never could get it to close right.”

A sigh shudders out of the shadow. “Your knuckles. They're wrinkled. The skin is soft. It moves under my touch. I almost forgot.”

“It would be easier if you forgot, Duck,” murmurs Visken, but he made no effort to withdraw his hand from the blossoming smog.

“Your palms are so smooth. No callouses.”

“I have no need for them. I am dead. I do not feel pain.”

“Do you feel anything?”

“If I choose to.”

The shade brushes whisper light across the meat of Visken’s thumb. “Can you feel this?”

A long steady breath that could almost be a sigh. “Yes.”

The smoke curls around Visken’s wrist. “And this?”

“Yes, Duck. I can feel that.”

The armour shudders. “So can I.” The wight of Borgo Darrow pauses and caresses at the pale, delicate skin, tracing the blue veins that wind below the surface. “No pulse.”

“You don’t have one either.”

“I no longer have a body, master. I, ah-”

Visken’s sleeve slides down to his crooked elbow, exposing his forearm, and the shadow follows it down, flowing down the pallid flesh as if magnetised, digging into the softness just above the bend. Visken observes his arm, now covered fingertip to forearm in thick, dark ichor that squeezes against him like a muscle and fades to puffs of smoke at the edges. It pulses upwards and into the open helm of Borgo Darrow’s armour, disappearing into the darkness of the plate. The shoulders twitch and shake, and the helm leans closer, until Visken has to lean back on his free hand to gain some room. The armour heaves like it’s panting and another tendril snakes out from the helm and pillows out against Visken’s neck. He tilts his chin up, face impassive.

The Duck groans, long and low. “No pulse here, either.”

“No heartbeat, Borgo, and no breath. I cannot be killed by- by- tch, Duuuck…” Visken croaks out as the coil of shadow tightens like a vice around his throat. His mouth moves without sound under his leather mask.

“The limitations of the body,” the Duck buzzes against Visken’s neck, against his arm. “I no longer need to even draw breath to speak. You have freed me of my imperfect, human form, Master, and trapped me in a new kind of hell. I am the restless dead. You make me restless.” His gauntlet pulls away from the slab like a marionette and brings itself to Visken’s face, clawing at the leather mask, yanking it down around his jaw, scratching at his cheeks, leaving grey claw marks in the ice white flesh. The metal fingers squeeze at either side of the expressionless mouth, forcing the pale and bloodless lips open with a pop, and a single tendril hooks itself against his teeth. Visken blinks once, slow, as the gauntlet slams down on his thigh. “Can you feel this, Master?”

Visken nods, as much as he can. It’s more of an upwards jerk, just a hint of movement at his chin, stymied as he is by the dark tentacles that creep ever closer from his neck to his mouth.

“Your teeth are perfect.” The shadowy hook slides against them, one by one, slowly, carefully, but not in any way gently, tapping at the tough enamel, digging into the delicate gums, inching further and further back. “No wonder you were a dentist.” A second hook joins the first, and it presses Visken’s pulsing tongue down, clearing the way to his open throat. “Did you like it? Dentistry, Master. I see the appeal. It’s very… intimate.”

Visken groans with the last of the air in his lungs. His nostrils flare. His brows furrow, but the muscles in his jaw go slack and his tongue stills at the bottom of his mouth.

“You said it would be easier if I forgot, Master. Forgot living. Forgot warmth. Forgot bodies.” The tendrils push deeper into the dry mouth, meeting each other, winding together, merging into a thick vine of smoke that forces the perfect rows of teeth even further apart. “Hypocrite. You desire it too. The heat of life.” The tentacle slide lower and the thick smog around Visken’s arm and throat squeezes ever tighter. “Do you keep a shred for yourself? Deep inside? Let me see it, Master. Let me feel it.”

Visken acquiesces to the probing shadow and lets it pulse down his dry throat, feeling it squeeze against his neck from the outside and from within. The shadow curls into him, curls around him, curls through him. It finds its way to his ears, his nose, his eyes. It snakes down his sleeves, it slides past his collar, it tangles at the nape of his neck. He blinks and stares into the open helm. No saliva wets his mouth, no tears spring to his eyes, no heart beats faster, no breath comes ragged. The minutes tick by but the constant pressure forces thoughts to rush through his head. Visken is, surprisingly, no longer empty.

The Duck pours out of the armour, which slackens and slumps with every inch the shadow grows. Visken’s eyes flicker downwards as the thick plate metal starts to creak against itself, the barely visible runes sparking and straining to hold it together. He raises his free hand off the slab, clicks his fingers and the shadow that is the wraith of Borgo Darrow rushes backwards like a tide, funnelling back to the armour, pulling up and out of Visken, releasing it’s hold on his neck, his wrist, his unchanged face. The Duck clatters to standing.

“Did you find what you needed?” Visken works his jaw, more out of show than anything, and removes the mask from his chin, flicking it to one side. He cocks his head at the silent suit of armour.

The armour clenches its gauntlets. “Why did you bring me back?”

“I told you, Borgo, it’s easier if you forget.”

“I cannot. I will not. Why, Master?” The Duck falls to the floor, kneeling once again in front of Visken, who pats the helm, almost absentmindedly.

“I needed a powerful servant. And I found him. And you have been so eager to serve, Borgo. Your country. Your God. Now, me. I’m not about to let you go.”

“That hunger…”

“If you do not forget, it will return. When it does, come to me.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Alone.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Right.” Visken smooths his hair back and straightens his robes. “The morgue is closed. I will call for you soon, Duck. I have a new quest for you.”

“I will be waiting.”

“And I will be making sure Ôst hasn’t set the house on fire.” Visken sighs heavily.

The Duck nods, once, and stomps away up the stairs and into the night. Visken sweeps his gaze around, and collects his fallen gloves and mask, striding across the room to put them back in their drawer alongside his little pouch of tools.

As he walks up the stairs, he takes one final look at the slab, and grips at his own neck, feeling himself swallow.

The morgue falls silent. Through the broken wall, a bright stripe at the horizon threatens sunrise. The time for monsters is over.

The living return.

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Hello hello! I am excited and humbled to show you an art piece inspired by this fic, below! It was made by the wonderful 4Erica! You can find her here: http://xhslink.com/o/9ch9zorpLRa 

Thank you so much!!!!!!!