Archive of Our Own

Tommy wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, tasting copper when he does. His head spins, the faint ringing in his ears matching the erratic rhythm of his pulse. The wound on his forearm won’t stop bleeding—half because it’s deep, and half because he wants it to bleed.

Blood is the price.

Blood is honesty.

That’s what the old text had said, anyway, scrawled in some dead scholar’s hand across a brittle page that smelled like mildew and ink. The book lies open beside him now, its binding half-rotted, its symbols almost impossible to decipher. Tommy’s handwriting has replaced the missing words—scrawls of translation and interpretation, stitched together from a hundred sources and a thousand desperate guesses.

One wrong mark, one misplaced syllable, and he could summon the wrong thing entirely.

He forces himself to focus.

He drags another careful line through the centre of the sigil, closing the loop. The circle hums faintly under his fingers, reacting to his blood the way water reacts to the wind—alive, but not yet awake.

Tommy breathes slowly, trying to keep his heart beast even and his hands steady, but the copious amount of blood and the pain in his arm makes it incredibly difficult to keep his head on straight.

The thick, metallic smell assaults Tommy's senses every time he leans over the sigil, making his eyes water and bile rise in his throat, but he doesn't dare to let either substance fall. One wrong move and everything Tommy has been working so hard for will be for nothing.

Tommy spent months digging up information on this, he searched through every god-forsaken book he possibly good, every scripture and poem and stupid rumour. He'd never properly interacted with demons before—he didn't need to, they are creatures of fire and death, Tommy is a creature of water and life—but he didn't realise how much information he lacked.

The candles—seven of them, each hand-poured with beeswax and mixed with ash and salt—burn low and steady. They kind of piss him off, because he had to make his own candles because all the pre-made ones had dumb scents like lavender, which, for some reason, Hysteria doesn't like.

Tommy doesn't know why the demon of madness doesn't like the smell of lavender, but Tommy's not about to ask. Tommy snorts at the idea that the Demon of madness can’t stand aromatherapy.

The humour dies quick in his throat, though, replaced by the steady throb of pain in his arm and the slow, crawling itch of nerves. He feels it everywhere—under his skin, behind his ribs, beneath the soles of his feet where they press against the floorboards of this too-clean house.

It’s their house.

Not his. Never his.

His gaze flicks toward the heavy windows. Even through the glass, he can feel the boundary pulse against his senses—the invisible ring that tethers him here, forcing him to remain within the land they “gifted” him. The fence beyond it gleams faintly in the moonlight, the stones etched with symbols meant to contain.

To trap him.

He can leave, technically. The spell isn’t perfect—no human-made binding ever is—but leaving would mean letting them free. Letting them get off without any punishment.

No. He’s not leaving.

He’s going to end them first.

He flexes his hand, watching his blood drip from the cut. The droplets splatter across the edge of the sigil, sizzling faintly when they touch the still-wet lines. Tommy doesn’t know if that’s supposed to happen, but he decides to take it as a good sign.

“This better work,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

The air answers him with silence.

Of course it does. He’s alone here.

He’s always been alone here.

Tommy wipes his bloody hand on the edge of his shirt, leaving a streak that will never come out. The motion sends another jolt of pain through his arm, sharp enough to make him wince. Mortal flesh is so weak. It tears, it bruises, it shivers under pain like it’s never known the weight of eternity.

He hates it.

But he needs it. The mortals only ever trusted what looked like them. It was easier to walk among them this way—easier to be captured, too.

Tommy glances around the small room, taking in its trappings. The walls are panelled wood, rich and polished, the kind that hums faintly of old money. The shelves are lined with relics and idols—tokens they’ve offered him over the months. Silver bowls. Dried herbs.

A dozen cheap prayers disguised as gifts.

They think they can buy divinity.

They think his blessings can be bought.

The memory claws at him: hands reaching for him, ropes wound with iron, the smell of burning oak as they tore a ring of trees from the earth to form their prison.

They'd promised him family, in return for his help.

And for a time, he had helped. For a time, he’d thought—naively—that maybe they meant it. That they wanted peace, that they wanted balance, that they wanted him.

Then they started asking for more.

Rain, to water their crops. Sunlight, to warm their fields. Warding, for their homes.

And when the storms came and the earth trembled, they demanded his accountability.

When one of their children died of sickness in winter, they chained him tighter.

When their livestock sickened, they burned another circle of trees, closer this time.

When he wept, the grass died where his tears fell.

Tommy breathes out slowly, blinking away the wetness stinging at his eyes. They want a god to serve them. But he isn’t a god.

He’s a spirit—wild, boundless, a piece of the earth itself.

And they made the mistake of thinking they could own him.

He looks back at the sigil.

The lines shimmer faintly, the edges of each stroke glowing faintly gold in the candlelight. The book said that meant the spell was ready. That it was waiting.

Tommy licks his dry lips.

He’s read and reread the invocation, each syllable winding through his head like smoke. He’s practiced the rhythm until it haunted his dreams. He can feel the words at the back of his throat, a heartbeat waiting to burst free.

Once he speaks, there’s no taking it back. Once he calls, something will answer.

...Tommy's never hurt something before.

He's never purposefully planned out the deaths, he's never strung people along for the sake of his own revenge, he's never killed something.

Tommy is not a being of hatred.

...but he hates them.

He glances again at the book, the open page flickering with light. The Demon of Madness. The only option for Tommy's first and proper act of revenge.

Tommy had laughed the first time he read that last title. Joy, from a demon? But the more he’d learned, the more it made a twisted sort of sense. Madness and joy are two sides of the same coin. If you push someone far enough into the light, it blinds them all the same.

And Tommy intends to blind them.

He traces a finger along the edge of the sigil, the drying blood tacky beneath his touch. His own pulse beats faintly against it, as though his heart’s echo has been etched into the floor.

He feels the room breathe with him. The air hums low and thick, like the world is leaning closer, listening.

He glances toward the window again, the night outside pressing in like ink. The wind rustles faintly through the dead trees beyond the boundary, a whispering chorus that sounds like laughter. The same laughter they used to make at his expense when they came to “visit their spirit.”

They called him blessed.

They called him theirs.

The next time they see him, they’ll call him something else.

Tommy reaches for the bowl beside him, filled with salt and ash. He sprinkles it along the outer edge of the sigil, watching the light flare brighter for a heartbeat before dimming again.

Letting out a heavy breath, Tommy leans back from the large drawing, resting the book to the side as he glances down to his bloodied arm. Hissing in distaste at how drenched his arm is, Tommy really hopes that this stupid ritual works.

If it doesn't, then all of this will be worth nothing, and Tommy will have to find out a different way to trick an immortal deity.

Sure, it sounds like a bad idea, but it's the best on Tommy has.

When he asks for the demons abilities in return for his soul, the demon will take the deal because if he owns Tommy's soul, then it means Tommy can't use the power.

But H̶͔͎̿̿̄ỳ̷̰̰s̵̗̏̓̂t̶̫͐̓e̷͎̹̼̽̃͐r̷̪̓̓i̵̢͚͉͑̒̈à̸̲̖̈́͠ can't own Tommy's soul.

No one can.

Tommy's soul belongs to the earth itself, his body born from grass and dirt and bark. His very essence is born from sunlight, his body formed from the wind. No demon can grasp that, much less own it.

It's not like he's going to enslave the demon by tricking him, or anything. He just needs to use the demons power for a little, just to curse all this villagers and lead them to spiral and burn in their own madness, then he'll return it.

The sigil hums again—soft, low, like a heartbeat under the floor.

Right.

He should get on with it.

༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻

The first sound Wilbur notices is not the tapping itself, but the echo it leaves—soft little ripples in the quiet expanse of his mind. It’s like something is knocking politely on the walls of his consciousness, hesitant yet insistent.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Oh?

Wilbur straightens from his desk, claws pausing over parchment, and turns his head toward the sound. He listens—there it is again, a rhythmic pull threading through the air, through him. It hums with warmth, a tug that coils down his spine and curls lovingly around his mind like a golden ribbon.

A summoning circle.

His summoning circle.

Wilbur grins, sharp and delighted, the motion tugging dimples into his cheeks. His tail flicks once, twice, the barbed tip gleaming faintly in the candlelight. “Oh, now this is interesting,” he murmurs to the empty air, voice rich and musical, like honey poured over glass.

He hasn’t felt that particular pull in… decades, maybe centuries. Not many manage to craft his summoning correctly anymore. He’d made certain of that—tangled his rites in contradiction and paradox, so only someone truly devoted (or maddeningly clever) could ever call him forth.

But this? This warmth. This perfect resonance of name and symbol. It’s as though sunlight is bleeding through the seams of the universe and wrapping fingers around his heart.

Wilbur laughs. A full, unrestrained sound that echoes through the empty void of his domain. “Oh, someone has taste.”

He rises to his feet, stretching languidly, bones cracking like firewood in the hearth. The air warps faintly around him, his long tail curling through the dark. He tastes the invocation on the air—old words, careful syllables. Each note vibrates with reverence. It is almost flattering.

“Who are you, little summoner?” Wilbur hums, already beginning to lean into the pull. His form starts to thin, his essence unspooling into light and smoke. “A desperate witch? A mourning mother? A priest, perhaps? Mmm, I do love the irony.”

He lets himself be drawn. The veil shivers and opens, the physical world blooming around him in a rush of scent and sound and sensation. It’s always intoxicating—returning to the mortal realm after so long confined to the shifting chaos of his own.

Wood. Dust. Candlewax. Blood.

He inhales deeply, almost purring at the richness of it. Then his eyes open.

He stands in a modest home, wooden floors polished smooth, walls lined with shelves and old relics. A mortal dwelling—but clean, steady, intentional. Not the temple or cathedral he’d expected.

How curious.

Wilbur’s gaze drifts toward the floor, where the summoning circle gleams wet and dark in the light. A lovely thing—precise, elegant, careful. He follows the lines of blood until his eyes fall upon the figure crouched beside it.

A boy.

A child, really—slight and golden, his curls disheveled, his arm slick with crimson. He looks up at Wilbur with eyes so startlingly blue they seem to glow.

“Oh,” Wilbur breathes, grinning, tail flicking once in genuine delight. “A little one!”

He almost laughs aloud. He’s been called by witches, kings, the mad and the desperate—but never by someone so young. What could such a fragile creature possibly want from him? A toy? A lost pet returned? Perhaps he’s a prodigy in pain. How deliciously tragic.

Wilbur lowers himself gracefully, pressing one hand to his chest and bowing low, his horns gleaming in the candlelight. “Hello, Summoner.”

The boy flinches faintly, but doesn’t run. Cute. Instead, he straightens, nodding once with grave solemnity. His voice is small, but unwavering when he speaks. “Hello, Keeper.”

Wilbur’s grin widens, heart blooming with admiration. Keeper. So proper. So respectful. He adores this one already.

“What do you require of me, Summoner?” Wilbur purrs, standing again, his tail curling leisurely around his leg. He watches the boy rise shakily from his knees. He’s trembling slightly—from exhaustion, pain and blood loss, most likely—but the way he stands is almost defiant.

“I, Tommy Innes Simon,” the boy declares, voice steady, “request the use of your powers in return for my soul. I make this request to only the Demon of Madness, the Keeper of Broken Minds, the Warden of Joy—and no others are permitted to take this deal.”

Wilbur stills, intrigued. His grin softens into something near fond. It's... unspecific, really, but it's still workable. How neatly spoken. How carefully phrased. It’s a clumsy contract by infernal standards, but oh, he can taste the intention in every word. The bravery. The hunger.

It's good that Tommy - what a sweet name - understands how to make his request, but it seems the poor thing doesn't realise that the moment Wilbur has his soul, he won't be able to use Wilbur's powers.

That's alright, he can just do what the boy needs himself and allow Tommy to watch. Wilbur smiles.

His claws click softly against the air as he lifts his hand, dark smoke coiling up his arm "I, the Demon of Madness, the Keeper of Broken Minds, the Warden of Joy, accept the terms of this request from my summoner, and swear to fulfil this request to the best of my abilities."

The room shudders faintly at the name. Candles flicker low, then rise in a burst of violet flame. Wilbur’s voice reverberates, every syllable curling through the air like smoke.

He bows once more, then extends his hand to the child. The boy hesitates, watching the offered hand as though it might bite. Then, after an eternity of stillness, he reaches out and clasps Wilbur’s palm.

And the world bursts.

Power floods through Wilbur like lightning through water—searing, immense, wrong. His knees nearly buckle. He flinches, eyes wide.

This isn’t his magic. This isn’t the normal, pleasant exchange of soul-for-power.

This is—

It's—

He can’t feel the boy’s soul.

There’s nothing to grasp. Nothing to claim. The usual tug—the flicker of possession that comes when the deal binds—simply doesn’t exist.

What has he done?

Wilbur looks down at the boy in shock, his grin faltering into something brittle. Tommy meets his gaze, and for the first time Wilbur notices the sorrow that lingers in those too-bright eyes.

Then the boy speaks. Calmly. Apologetically. “I am incredibly sorry, H̶͔͎̿̿̄ỳ̷̰̰s̵̗̏̓̂t̶̫͐̓e̷͎̹̼̽̃͐r̷̪̓̓i̵̢͚͉͑̒̈à̸̲̖̈́͠.”

Wilbur stumbles back.

He spoke it. His true name—unfiltered, unbroken, raw. Mortals aren’t meant to pronounce that word. Their throats tear, their minds splinter, their lungs burn with holy fire. But this boy says it like it’s a lullaby.

No, not a boy.

Not mortal.

Wilbur stares, eyes wide and glowing, as his own power rises like a tide and swirls around Tommy’s frame, drawn to him as if the child is made of gravity itself. The summoning circle hums and cracks, the air thick with strange, divine scent—grass, soil, sunlight.

“What have you done?” Wilbur murmurs, awed despite himself.

Tommy releases his hand, stepping delicately over the symbols. Instead of sealing the circle and sending Wilbur back, the boy drags one bloody fingertip through the line of salt, breaking it cleanly.

Wilbur’s body solidifies completely, released—free—within the mortal realm. He can move. He can touch. The weight of the boy’s magic is still laced through him, singing in his bones.

Tommy glances back, his small smile edged with something far too old. “Don’t worry,” he says softly. “Nothing permanent. I’ll give you your power back as soon as I’m finished.”

He turns to go.

Wilbur reaches out, seizing the boy’s wrist before he can take another step. His grin returns—wider now, sharper, something feral glinting behind his eyes. “May I watch, Tommy?" He murmurs, tasting the name on his tongue. He can feel the power fizzling and bubbling on his tongue, an exhilarating feeling.

Marvellous.

“Whatever you’re about to do—it feels exquisite. I’d love to see it.”

Tommy stills. For a heartbeat, the room holds its breath. Then he turns back to him with a smile that mirrors Wilbur’s almost perfectly.

“Of course.”

And in that shared grin—one made of teeth and sunlight and blood—Wilbur understands.

He’s found something far wilder than himself.

And how wonderful that is.

꒷꒦