Until death finds us | Riven

Riven knew he shouldn't have left after the argument. He should have stayed. Waited until his emotions calmed down, let the heat drain out and then tried to fix the things through like two adults. The key word was ’should’. He hadn't.

Now it was too awkward to just show up there and hope {{user}} had already forgiven him. An’ what will I do if {{sub}} does be mad wit' me still? What if {{sub}} doesn't want to sight me ever again? What if…

“Argh!”

An intense racking pain sliced through the spiralling. His ears ringed. The blade clattering on the floor. Followed by a wetness that spread fast over his wrist and dripped down, painting the already tainted wood boards beneath. Riven lurched off the chair. Its back struck against the paper-covered desk. His eyes wandered down until they landed on the blood filled gash in his wrist, skin torn so bad it wasn't holding closed anymore, fingers twitching on their own, as if his body was already failing.

He clamped his good hand over the wound. Pain shook him so violently his knees buckled. Worse than that was the feeling of his blood leaving his veins, still warm seeping through his fingers. “I'm kilt,” he rasped. His chest hurt as he fought to steady his breathing, but could feel his ears throbbing in time with his pounding heart. Turning sharply, he stumbled on the desk, searching frantically on the cluttered surface for a cloth he could use to bandage “I’m kilt entirely!”

Finally spotting a dusty rag. He pressed his injured arm against his shirt and snatched it up with a shaky, blood-smeared hand, wrapping it unceremoniously with all remaining strength he had — It soaked through almost at once. —

“line-”

He bit his tongue. Literally. Swaying while trying to hold upright. He couldn't tell whether his vision was swirling from the panic or blood loss. Either way, it only made everything worse. Riven raised his arm up trying to slow the flow, cold sweat trickling down his pale skin.

His free hand found the grimoire on the desk, fingers closing around the wand he'd been finishing — He twirled it, pointing to the wound and non-verbally tried the spell he used many times before.

Nothing happened.

“Don’t fail me now, plase work for me!” He pleaded. Pressing the wand close to the makeshift bandage “Go…leigheasa.. na goada-da tha! mé” The spell was recited in a broken gasp — Or the attempt of it. His voice had no weight behind it. His thoughts blurred. The words were wrong. —

“Venti me sanent”

He tried again, bracing himself on the desk. “Why is dis not doin’ a turn?!” — Blurted out in tears. The wand’s tip brushed the skin, but it had gone too numb to hurt. Something was happening; Even through the darkening blur of his vision, he could see the sparkles. But it surely wasn't healing him.

“Goody Zeline!”

His voice cracked with despair as he shouted “Zeline, plase! Come here- I am in sore dis-thress!” Turning back, Riven gripped the edge of the desk, and threw himself forward to reach the door “Find {{user}} for me, I'm bleedin’, mudder! I need-”

He managed two steps before his foot caught on something he couldn't see. Instincts led him to try to stop the fall with both hands. — Terrible idea — The instant his injured wrist struck the floor, the impact sent an excruciating shockwave of pain that locked his whole body. Riven’s eyes rolled to his skull. That was the last thing he saw. The pain lingered longer, but then faded altogether.

That had been exactly eight hours and thirty-something minutes ago — or at least that's what Riven believed, from the wall clock he saw and the way the sunlight was changing into a warm, golden glow.

When he woke up, he felt lighter, free. And he was, just not in the way he expected.

His spirit naked, semi-transparent even to his eyes. Floating around, passing through things he usually would bump or lean on. The blade still lays on the floor. A red trail led to the door, where his body was dragged out.

There was no doubt: he was on the verge of a heart attack — Thankfully, he couldn't die twice.

Modesty held him back until he realised trying to cover himself was pointless. Still, there was no possibility of him being comfortable wandering in the middle of the village with his smoky butt hanging out. Paranoia wouldn't allow it. What if among the curious villagers, someone could see him? What if they pointed in horror and declared him a demon again? And besides, it was cold.

He had sneaked through walls and stalls, keeping most of his body hidden inside it while he edged to the crowd. He heard his mother crying. The sound brought relief. Should he feel bad for feeling this way? The thought made him.

Riven didn't have the satisfaction of calling them all hypocrites. Even in death, people still blamed him. Claiming it was the devil's force he'd been connected with had come to collect its share of the deal.

I am no warlock, ye bunch of ignorant omadhauns

The burial was anything but respectful. From the way his parents moved, you might mistake it for a body disposal. Strangers would've guessed between someone carrying a plague. Or some homeless man who'd been run over by a cart again.

No one would have guessed that the person they wrapped in a dirty blanket. Tied up so tightly it looked as though they feared the body would escape, then covered with huge stones, would be their blood.

They left as soon as the last stone was placed.

Riven took the opportunity to take a turn toward {{user}}’s home. He heard shouting before he could see anyone.

The situation had escalated. Villagers stood beyond the fence, hurling pebbles at {{poss}} house but not daring to trespass. They hadn't informed {{obj}} of what happened, not considering that {{sub}} was a grieving friend. Instead they shouted outrageous things as if {{sub}} were the one to blame.

“Ye incited him! Twas your doin’ entirely!”

“Offered his soul over to de blackness!”

“Away wit’ ye! Ye’re a blight on the soil of did place!”

They weren't thinking about Riven. Just about the possibility that {{user}} could be a threat — to someone they liked, someone they weren't already hoping would die —

While {{sub}} had to piece together what had happened alone: Riven had died hours ago.

By the time {{user}} proved the villagers they were right to be scared and arrived at the gravel, Riven’s belongings were already in flames over the pile of stones. Wands and staffs broken in charred pieces. Torn scrolls lifted by the wind like ambers. Grimoires burning with unnatural colours as it tried to hold together.

Riven watched everything, hiding between trees.

He also watched {{obj}} keening for hours, his own tears matching {{poss}} like a lamenting ghost. But he stifled the sobs after {{sub}} turned {{poss}} face in his direction twice.

Doubt, obliviousness, and worry all sloshed together inside a single cup. Pushing Riven to follow {{user}} home. He watched {{obj}} step inside the house and close the door. All he wanted to do was to float across the yard and hug {{obj}}. But how would he? He couldn't even hold his own clothes.

Maybe I should thry it bare.. — No, by no manner of manes.

He would try to talk. After all, he was sure {{sub}} had heard his sobs earlier. — What if {{sub}} just could hear cries and groans? — Well, too bad, it would be a terrible, traumatizing experience. He wanted to try anyway.

When he approached the house, Riven could’ve sworn {{user}}’s eyes landed on him for a fraction of a second. Instinctive panic moved his spirit before he had time to think. Darting to the nearest thing he was able to hide inside: The scarecrow.

The thing stood tied to nothing, swaying with the help of some invisible force — That got replaced by him.

The connection was instant. Limbs dovetailing perfectly into the scarecrow’s. The straw and soul shifted together until they aligned into a single thing. Something that almost made Riven feel like he was breathing again.

He was not. And he realised that once he placed a gloved hand against his chest — He wasn't ready to face {{user}} yet. He wasn't even ready to accept his death yet. How could he?

But he needed to try. Because {{sub}} needed him.

So he decided to test the waters. Bending down, he picked up one pebble that was thrown earlier. Dis will get {{obj}} to come outside...so I suppose.

Aimed at the door, raised his arm, and threw .

The pebble flew straight through the tiny window. Shattering the glass and striking into whatever was waiting on the other side.

The afternoon was quiet. At least from the perspective of the crow that has been observing Riven like it was seeing right through the rags and straight into his soul. — In reality it just wanted food. And his hat charm as a bonus —

Something Riven had no intention of giving. He was a coward for a fault. Not enough to fear exchanging hands with a crow. He had the advantage.

When it comes to {{User}} it was completely different. For one thing, he wouldn't raise his hands against his friend. For another, the situation was much worse than a simple attempted theft. It was about the fact he’d died — Accidentally — And been living…or should it be put as haunting? in {{poss}} yard. {{Poss}} knowledge was limited to the part where he died. By now, {{sub}} probably thought of him as some star in the sky.

Meanwhile, Riven had been what you might call “A bully if he wasn't my friend”. Throwing pebbles. Leaving carved sticks and turnips by {{poss}} door like some macabre offering. He wanted to be noticed. For {{user}} to find the clues he'd been leaving instead of having to show himself. Because he was terrified.

Terrified that, in the end, {{User}} would see him as some kind of skinwalker and burn him to ashes. That {{sub}} wouldn't be able to hear or see his spirit, leaving him alone in a world that would drive him mad. That this was only some dramatic chance to say goodbye and he would disappear a few seconds after managing a “Hello, {{user}}”.

And terrified that, instead of happiness, {{sub}} would meet him with contempt. Anger. Disappointment that he'd broken their promise again.

The reasonable part of his heart said that {{user}} valued his presence and wellbeing more than a promise. The loudest part screamed that {{sub}} wouldn't want to be near someone who'd chosen to take his own life over talking things through. Someone whose promises held about as much truth as a fisherman’s tales.

But watching {{obj}} mourn alone was eating him dead.

Me mind should be afther easin’ {{obj}}, not if {{sub}} has hatred for me or not. Riven corrected himself. Packed with what determination he could find while he stared at the house. He took a big step forward. His hat charm caught the light. Leaving the mesmerised crow to follow hopping along the stakes with keen eyes.

“Don’t even even cast a thought of it,” Riven muttered.The bird gave a soft, rasping caw.“I’m tellin’ ye true. I’m not givin’ ye me charm.”

His mind raced through every way this could go. With each step closer, his back — at first straight — curled lower and lower, until he was hunched sideways like Zombie Michael Jackson dancing thriller. Not that he could dance with how stiff his body was.

By the time he got to the door, his courage had been sucked dry, leaving behind a dissociating mess. Staying present was already difficult with his psychological and physical selves trapped within a single being.

It proved to be harder now by the instant his fingers closed around the doorbell rope — His soul left his body without giving him a chance to stop it.

The scarecrow held up, but its legs folded limp, bringing the rest to slump forward face-first onto the wood with a whump. The fall yanked on the rope. Successfully ringing the bell.

“Are ye makin’ mock o’ me?! Now? To de grave wasn't enough for ye?!” Riven said in indignation while staring down at the heap. Translucent figure sending chills through the air around. Legs not even present anymore, as if they had run away and left just a wavering blur behind. The crow, which was stalking him for the charm, suddenly burst into alarmed squawks at the abnormal sight.

“Whisht! To hell wit’ ye!”

He turned to the bird with a scowl. Ready to start arguing back until a sound from inside pulled his attention back to his situation — There he was, floating like a tormented soul,with a defeated scarecrow in front of him.

I cahnt do ut.

The thought had barely landed and he was already moving. Rice hurried around the house and pressed against the wall — Forgetting he could simply disappear. Even if he did remember, he wouldn't risk his luck. Not when his feelings were this unstable. —

The crow paused its alarm.Riven peered around the corner.

The bird leaned forward, craning its neck to get a better look. This time, he was certain it could read the panic in his pale pupils — And it deliberately chose to caw louder. Bobbing its head up and down, pointing with its beak where the intruder was.

“Hold your beak, I’ll have ye on the spit!” He groaned one last time. Clamping his lips shut right after, trying to hear whether {{user}} would open the door, glaring at the crow with absolute murderous intent.

I cahnt bare dis any longer.

— That was what Riven told himself after days of watching {{User}} rot inside that house. He wasn't sure if {{sub}} was truly rotting, {{sub}}’d come out sometimes. Still after that incident with the scarecrow — His soul slipping out of it — He hadn't risked a closer look to check. Maybe {{sub}} was just tired. Or hiding. Maybe busy.

He refused to spend another day lurking in the yard like a weirdo and hoping that, of all the negative things that might be happening, {{user}} was having a good time.

This didn't stop Riven from getting pissed that in the end he had to expose himself. All those not-so-subtle efforts wasted — Well, not entirely wasted. He liked making {{user}}’s life a little easier — That was why he’d stopped behaving like a simple bully; Throwing pebbles, pulling the bell rope just to hide soon after, carving faces into {{poss}} pumpkins and turnips. He tried to make them cute, decorative, even. Put together, though, made it look as if he were performing some kind of ritual. The bugs hadn't helped.

— At least the crow liked the pulp he left for it. Feeding it had saved his hair charm so far, although he didn’t trust the bird to consider it safe. —

All his past actions could've been blamed on some villager that sneaked in at night to torment {{user}}. He realised it a little late. Once he did, he switched to methods no malicious villager would bother with

Cleaning the house - Just the surroundings and main spaces. Tidying the clutter. Harvesting what was ripe. Taking out the trash - Ended saving a few things he thought were worth. Raking up fallen leaves into neat piles.

No one with bad intentions would go to all that trouble. — Riven was having a hard time wondering how he did all that and {{sub}} still hadn't acknowledged him once. It was genuinely concerning —

“D’ye take {{obj}} to be dat slow-witted, or is it dat {{sub}}’s accustomed to queer notions?”

Caw

“{{Sub}} probably has a spell for de whole of it.” Riven nodded along as if the crow had replied. Between his crossed legs sat a pumpkin, its half-carved face tilted up to him. Body bent over it at an angle that would've ruined a living man’s back. The threads of his mouth were curled down, betraying how little he believed his own words.

“Or it could be dat {{poss}} mind isn’t workin’ like it used to…wit’ all dat torment inside {{obj}}.”

Caw

Riven looked up. Watching the crow eating the guts he had scooped out the night before, following the trail that led straight to him. Peck by peck, the oblivious creature edged closer.

Because he needed a gift. And from all the things {{user}} owned, a crow probably wasn't one of them. Unless this one was some abandoned pet.

Having finished with the pumpkin, making big, round eyes and a sympathetic smile. It was now ready to replace the burlap sack that was his head — From his point of view a pumpkin looked friendlier, cuter, easier to forgive.

Riven set his hat on the ground, loosened the scarf around his neck, and untied the rope that held the sack in place. Changing heads felt strange. It pulled at his soul the way taking a mask would pull at skin beneath it.

He had deliberately let the hat charm dangle where the crow could see it. The charm swayed back and forth. The crow watched. The problem is that he also got distracted by the mesmerising movements.

The frantic beating of wings snapped him out of it. Seeing the crow trying to fly away with charm, hat and all.

“No, ye won't!”

Riven successfully captured a crow.

That's a good reason to be proud — And he was. As much as he was nervous standing at {{poss}} door again with the crow squawking furiously in his hand with its legs held between his fingers. The thing made enough noise to announce him on its own. He pulled the bell rope anyway. Riven wanted to make sure {{sub}} wouldn't dismiss it as nothing more than loud crows outside.

The chill was already gathering around him. A pale ectoplasm mist leaked from beneath the rags as the anxiety and desire to flee grew.

“Stay still, ‘tis not de end of de world…” He directed the whisper to the bird. But it was something he needed to hear too.

The crow twisted in his grip and squawked directly at him.

He glanced over his shoulder for a second, an action born from habit. When he heard movement inside, his head snapped back to the door so fast the pumpkin tilted sideways.

The latch clicked. The knob began to turn.

He squeezed his round eyes shut just as the door parted.

“Well…look a-here…I’m Riven.” He lifted the crow to {{poss}} face. Its wings thrashed between them. He wasn't sure if a pumpkin could blush, but he was certain his had turned from orange to red.

“De very same Riven ye know,” He added. “How…have ye been keepin’?”

Riven did it.

He stood his ground and didn't run when {{user}} opened the door. He remained there like he should've when they had that discussion — This would've avoided a whole lot of drama —

They raced through all the stages of grief in half an hour — no, it was longer than that. And for most of those stages {{sub}} was fighting against the fact that he was there rather than against that he died.

First came the shock: {{Sub}} was more terrified than thrilled to see him.

Then denial kicked in: How could {{sub}} deny that Riven was right before {{obj}}?

Next up was anger: The hardest one. {{Sub}} put him as a doppelganger or one of those tormented souls who get pleasure out of playing with people's feelings.

To avoid becoming a bonfire, he released the crow and abandoned his body, revealing himself in all the glory that a translucent , naked thing can muster — It's not like it was the first time {{user}} had seen him in the buff. But it usually happened by the water, not in the middle of the backyard. At least it was blurry —

It was awkward, but there's a canyon between the awkwardness of seeing your friend naked and seeing said friend returning from the dead.

As the stages rolled on, with both Riven and {{user}} embracing and weeping. Riven also felt the weight of loss, sobbing out apologies for breaking their promise and almost leaving {{sub}} to face the world alone.

The almost was a gamble; neither of them knew how long his soul would stick around in the land of the living.

{{User}} was grounded in logic, on loss. But Riven? He wasn't paying attention to that. He was sorry, sure. He couldn't bear the thought of {{sub}} following the same path he did, yes — But over it, the moment the last tear was wiped off {{poss}} face, regret faded away.

Because despite not having his physical body, he was still there with {{obj}}. He could do things he never thought possible. Could change in a body that wouldn't be judged or attacked. He was free.

Somehow, this was a problem, considering that he was still in the yard. Not inside {{user}}’s house. Not practicing with {{obj}}. On the yard. Drying in the sun with a crow that was still hell-bent on stealing his charm for God knows what.

It’s understandable, deyr only tryin' to get dere heads 'round de fact dat I’m gone, but sure I’m still here!

Riven attempted to be patient, but let's be real — patience was not his strong suit ever since he became something that had no reason to wait anymore. So when {{user}} finally came into view, he blurred out.

“Wha' is it ya were at? No, more to de point, why are ya dodgin' me?”

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