The Call of the Void (Sebastian Sallow x F!MC)

XVII: F r i e n d s

A/N: There are a few descriptions of bodily injury and blood, but nothing too graphic. Let's just say Sebastian is accident-prone when he's sleep deprived and heartbroken. 

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It'll be easy.

The disembodied whisper echoes through Sebastian's already chaotic mind. Between Ominis' shouting and Sloane's whimpering, he can't concentrate on what needs to happen next.

That's right. You already know what you must do.

He knows the spell, in theory. That's the thing about studying the Dark Arts—as much as he's practiced the incantation and proper wand movements, Sebastian won't know if he's capable unless he tries.

You are capable.

Sebastian hesitates. It won't work unless he means it. Ominis continues to yell, snapping at Sloane when she attempts to placate his frustrations. It won't work unless—

You're stronger than him. It'll be easy.

"Sebastian!" Ominis exclaims, his footsteps approaching. It won't—

You want this.

"Do some—"

Kill him.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A sickly bright green illuminates the dungeon, and Sebastian is horrified to realize the spell—the curse—is coming from his wand. Silence follows, the entire world muted for the half-second it takes for a body to fall to the dungeon floor. Not Ominis, but Sloane.

Dead.

Sebastian wakes in a cold sweat, sitting up so quickly that his head spins.

Bleary-eyed and gasping for air, he scans his surroundings, terrified that he'll find himself still trapped in the scriptorium, his friends tortured and dead at his feet. He blinks, vision clearing just enough to realize he's sprawled out on the stone floor of the Undercroft, alone.

It's a small relief, but even after a deep exhale, there's a ringing in his ears, a phantom scream he can't shake. He's always been plagued by nightmares, recurring memories warped by subconscious regret and wishful thinking. Ever since that fateful night, though, they've gotten worse, so realistic that he struggles to discern what is real and what is a cruel lie crafted by his imagination.

Sloane isn't dead.

The last rational bit of Sebastian's brain knows this, but her absence makes convincing himself of the truth difficult. Unable to see her, to feel her, he's haunted by the empty look in her eyes and the words she uttered, telling him to leave. He refuses to believe it might've been the last time, not when the spark between them has barely ignited. If it is, well...he only has himself to blame.

You had no choice.

Sebastian groans, pressing his palms hard against his closed eyes until colorful auras dance across the lids. The voice isn't his conscience, but something else, something darker he isn't willing to name. For now, it's just another frustrating consequence of his actions, but one he can manage with enough distraction.

Sighing, he slowly stands, stretching out his aching limbs. Even though he's finally conjured a couch for the Undercroft, he can't bring himself to fall asleep on the cushions, figuring the hard ground is all he deserves. It's where he's spent the entirety of the holiday break, holed up in one of the few places nobody important can find him. It isn't like he's welcome in Feldcroft, locked out of the cottage and storage shed, even on Christmas day.