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The reaper Kravitz buries the tip of his scythe into his soul, splitting from the seams that which connects the work from his Mother from that of Istus, carefully severing each stitch and prying out the mongoose with a special reverence for the tissue around it. Though the mongoose may be Istus’s special little parasite, it’s still a part of him with roots that dig deep into his very being. Miss the mark, risk damaging something irreparable. He’s been at this job long enough to know that much.
It hurts.
It hurts worse than any physical blow, worse than the claws that flayed him open when he misjudged the severity of a summoning, teeth crunching down on bone, the holy wrath of any cleric’s perverted deity. Kravitz feels the fingers gripping his soul in the pressure on his ribcage, every light squeeze drawing out an audible gasp as he is crushed. He’s nothing but a carved chicken, a dissection specimen, acutely aware of each slide of the blade and the nausea rising in his throat. Chills run up his spine at the knowledge of the action, and yet he can’t risk looking away, only stand his ground with his grimace growing deeper and deeper with the sickness rolling in his gut.
It is a thousand nights spent alone, one after the other for years, silence broken only by the crackling of a fire that never succeeds in chasing away the cold. It is the knife embedded in his ribs, placed there out of love, only out of love and a thousand whispered apologies. A thousand years of routine. A thousand pink crystals surrounding three anomalies, a thousand deaths and a date to discuss a town’s fate. It is a thousand futures and a thousand nothings slipping away from him like water between the cracks of his fingers and regarded with nothing but an empty stare.
And with a faint pop it falls loose, leaving him panting and shuddering in an alleyway, even more broken than when he entered, but with a thin sheet of relief falling over the cavern of his chest nonetheless. The once content hum of his soul rises up to an agitated scream as it writhes and shrinks and grows, struggling to fill in the now vacant spot with something, desperate to return back to his original shape after having a piece so violently pried from it. All he can do is fall to his knees and heave as the rain soaks through his cloak, chilling him to the bone. Now that his attention isn’t fixed on the task at hand, he can hear his Queen’s call ringing clearly in his ears: MY CHILD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
Reality tears of its own volition in front of him. He stumbles through without a second thought, back into the embrace of his Queen to fret over his damaged being.
He does not think of the elf with a vacant stare.
He does not think about the shard of his soul left behind in an alleyway, the soft glow reflected in the puddles around it.
Out of sight, out of mind. It doesn’t bother him again.
Neither the Reaper nor the Queen return for the mongoose. They have no need to; the business of soulmates lie in Istus’s domain. It is Fate that brings them together and it is Fate that tears them apart. They are additives, decorations, blessings. Extraneous parts no more necessary than an appendix until sickness strikes and becomes too painful to leave alone.
Not everyone has one. Not everyone wants one.
The mongoose uncurls and stretches, head swinging from side to side in hopes of catching anything - be it sight or scent or sound. A trace of something, anything, to point it in the right direction. After a minute it stills, twitches its whiskers in confirmation, and scurries out of the alleyway, beginning a northward trek.
It is free from its host, free from reason and obligation and physical form, free to wander. It does not know where it is going, but does anyone? It’s location is in the hands of Fate, for she is the one that set the charge on these compasses pointed home.
Home was a clever man in a fool’s role, a powerful and competent spellslinger often overlooked as a bumbling idiot.
Home wore humor and narcissism like a second skin to hide crippling anxiety, kind words on a sharp tongue for no one else to hear.
Home smelled of confectioners sugar and lemon zest, of baked goods no one is allowed to touch without proper inspection and fantastic spreads made of second guessing.
Home was stolen from it, but it will be found in time.
Some bonds are so intricately woven into the tapestry of Fate that not even the darkest of magics can pluck it loose. Not the surgical precision of a sharpened scalpel, nor the steel snap of knitting shears; even with the tampering and unraveling and the best efforts of other parties to tug the stitching astray, the single strand of entangled tourmaline pink and sapphire blue still remains in place. A little frayed, its stitching dropped to leave it dangling and twisting around unruly purls, but it’s nothing that can’t be reincorporated in time.
No one said that the tapestry of Fate is a perfect piece; in the end, its imperfections are what make it perfect. All She need do is curl it around her needle with intent, entangling it with a softer strand of powder blue.
The mongoose finds home in a raven’s feather, floating in the charred remains of a clearing of the Felicity Wilds. And though the land itself is stained with a grief and loss so potent that its fur bristles, it picks its way through the ashes to reclaim what it knows was torn from it. Home is fragile, soft, delicate as spun sugar, but the mongoose embraces it with a kindness it was always meant to, stable and comforting. Their edges fit together seamlessly as the mongoose curls around it, two puzzle pieces snapping back into place as if they had never been apart in the first place.
It is here that the mongoose can rest.
They won’t be separated again.
The elf with a vacant stare meets Kravitz’s gaze with some semblance of clarity he’d never seen before.
He smiles.