Morning arrives with Marcus Ashvale's enthusiastic knocking, a sound that penetrates their shared dreams and drags them toward consciousness neither particularly wants.
"Rise and shine, miraculous subjects! Science waits for no one!"
The words grate against their exhaustion like sandpaper on raw skin. Through their bond flows shared irritation at his cheerfulness—an emotion sharp enough to cut through the fog of sleep. They've slept properly for the first time in days, bodies finally getting rest in Marcus's safe house, but their minds remain tangled in ways that make true recuperation impossible.
Too early for his enthusiasm.
Too early for consciousness itself.
They rise with the synchronized movements that have become habitual, two bodies responding to shared will. Cael reaches for his shirt while Seraphine stretches, her joints popping in a sequence he feels echo through his own body. The small room feels cramped with their combined presence, every action requiring negotiation of space that exists as much mentally as physically.
"I've prepared breakfast," Marcus calls through the door, his voice muffled but still gratingly cheerful. "And assembled my research materials. Today we begin understanding what you've become!"
"What we've become is tired." Seraphine's voice carries its usual edge, but exhaustion dulls the venom. She runs fingers through her silver hair, working out tangles with mechanical precision. "Understanding can wait for basic human function."
"Of course, of course. Take your time. Just... not too much time. Discovery beckons!"
His footsteps retreat down the hallway, leaving them to morning routines that require careful choreography. The washbasin sits in the corner, and they've learned that using it simultaneously proves impossible—the physical proximity amplifies their mental connection to uncomfortable levels. Cael goes first, splashing cold water on his face while she repacks their meager belongings with unnecessary focus.
"His enthusiasm grates." She doesn't look at him as she speaks, hands busy with mundane tasks.
"Everything grates when you're this tired." He dries his face with a rough cloth, then moves aside so she can take her turn at the basin.
"Fair point." She approaches the water, and he automatically shifts to give her space—a dance they've perfected over the past days.
They dress in the clean clothes Marcus provided, practical garments that feel foreign after days in the same muddy, bloodstained attire. The fabric is soft against skin that's grown used to rough wool and leather. Through their bond flows shared appreciation for simple comfort, tinged with wariness about accepting even basic kindness from someone who sees them as research subjects.
The main room has been transformed overnight. Marcus's "research materials" cover every available surface—books bound in various skins, crystals that pulse with inner light, diagrams drawn on parchment that seems to shift when observed directly. The breakfast he mentioned sits forgotten on a side table, growing cold while he arranges his apparatus.
At the center sits a construction of copper and glass that defies easy categorization. Tubes connect crystal nodes in patterns that suggest purpose without revealing function. The air around it tastes of ozone and possibility.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Marcus beams like a child showing off toys, gesturing at his collection with obvious pride. "I've been collecting these materials for years, hoping for a chance to study active soul-binding. You can't imagine how excited I am."
"We can feel your excitement bleeding through the air." Seraphine settles at the table, movements careful and controlled. "It's nauseating."
"Ah, yes, emotional resonance!" Marcus spins to face them, nearly knocking over a precariously balanced stack of books. "The bound pairs reportedly project strong feelings beyond their immediate connection. Fascinating!"
He makes rapid notes while they settle at the table where breakfast waits—simple fare but hot and plentiful. Porridge, bread still warm from the oven, strips of bacon that make Cael's stomach growl audibly. They eat with focused intensity, bodies demanding fuel after days of subsistence.
"Now then," Marcus begins, producing yet another notebook from somewhere. The man seems to generate writing materials spontaneously. "Let's start with baseline observations. How would you describe your current state of merger?"
"Invasive." Cael speaks around a mouthful of bread.
"Violating." Seraphine adds, her tone making the word sound like a weapon.
"Yes, yes, but technically. Are you experiencing thought-sharing? Emotion-bleeding? Memory integration?" Marcus's quill hovers eagerly over blank parchment.
Through their bond flows shared reluctance to reduce their torment to clinical terms. But also recognition that understanding might help, if only marginally. Cael sets down his spoon, considering how to explain something that defies normal language.
"All of those. Constantly. Even now, I can feel her thinking about how much she dislikes these questions."
"And I can feel his desperate hope that you'll actually help rather than just study us." Seraphine tears a piece of bread with unnecessary force.
Marcus scribbles furiously, his excitement palpable. "Excellent. Real-time thought sharing with maintained individual perspective. The texts suggested complete ego dissolution by this stage, but you've retained discrete identities. Remarkable."
"Remarkably unpleasant." Seraphine pushes her bowl away, appetite gone.
"Can you demonstrate the thought-sharing? Perhaps a simple test—one thinks of a number, the other speaks it?"
"That's not how it works." Cael leans back in his chair, wood creaking under his weight. "We don't read each other's minds like books. We... exist in overlapping space. Her thoughts arise alongside mine, indistinguishable until examined."
"So you could both think of numbers simultaneously?"
"Seven and twelve." They speak in unison, then glare at each other.
Through their bond flows mutual irritation at the involuntary demonstration. Neither had consciously decided to speak—the thought had simply emerged from their shared mental space and found voice through both mouths.
"Marvelous!" Marcus makes more notes, oblivious to their discomfort. "And you didn't plan that?"
"Planning requires individual will." Seraphine's fingers drum against the table in a rhythm Cael recognizes as her focusing technique. "We're running low on that resource."
Marcus abandons his notes temporarily to rush to his apparatus, adjusting crystals and checking connections with practiced efficiency. The device hums to life, crystals beginning to glow with varied intensity.
"This device measures magical resonance. If we can map your binding's frequency, we might understand how to modulate it."
"Modulate meaning control?" Cael watches the crystals pulse, their light making his bloodline gift stir uneasily.
"Theoretically. The pre-Sundering texts speak of bound pairs who could adjust their connection—deepening it for combat, loosening it for daily tasks. A dimmer switch rather than simple on-off."
"And these pairs," Seraphine asks, voice deceptively casual, "what happened to them?"
Marcus's enthusiasm dims slightly. "The records are... incomplete. Most references end abruptly during the Sundering Wars."
"Meaning they died."
"Meaning the historical record becomes unreliable during that period of upheaval."
Through their bond flows shared skepticism. Academic deflection of an uncomfortable truth—the bound pairs died, probably horribly, when the magic that created them fell apart during the Sundering.
"What do you need us to do?" Cael asks, deciding to focus on the present rather than historical precedent.
"Simply sit near the apparatus. It will read your magical signature without intervention." Marcus gestures to cushions placed on either side of the device. "One on each side, if you please."
They approach the device warily. Up close, its complexity becomes apparent—dozens of crystals arranged in precise patterns, connected by copper wire that seems to pulse with its own rhythm. The air around it makes their teeth ache and their bond thrum with increased intensity.
"Here, yes, perfect. Now, try to relax."
"Relax. While being studied like specimens." Seraphine settles onto her cushion with feline grace, every muscle coiled despite the instruction.
"I prefer 'participants in groundbreaking research,' but yes." Marcus adjusts several crystals, tongue poking out in concentration.
The apparatus hums louder, crystals beginning to glow with varied intensity. Cael feels the magic wash over him like warm water, probing at the edges of his consciousness. Beside him, Seraphine tenses, her discomfort bleeding through their bond.
"Oh. Oh my. This is... unexpected." Marcus stares at one particular crystal that pulses with deep red light.
"Unexpected how?" They ask in unison, synchronized speech coming easier each time.
"Your binding isn't following standard patterns. Look here—" He indicates the red crystal. "This measures connection strength. Most soul-bonds peak at perhaps three lumens. Yours is reading seventeen."
"Meaning?" Cael leans forward to examine the crystal, careful not to touch anything.
"Meaning your connection is orders of magnitude stronger than historical examples. No wonder you're experiencing such intensity."
Through their bond flows shared alarm. Stronger binding means less hope for control, more risk of complete dissolution. Not the news they'd hoped for.
"But here's the interesting part." Marcus indicates another crystal, this one flickering between colors like an indecisive rainbow. "Your individual signatures remain remarkably distinct despite the binding strength. It's as if you're refusing to fully merge even as the magic tries to force it."
"We're stubborn." Seraphine's understatement draws a bitter laugh from Cael.
"You're miraculous. This level of resistance should be impossible. The magic should have overwhelmed your individual wills days ago."
"Sorry to disappoint your theories." The sarcasm in Cael's voice makes Marcus wince.
"Disappoint? This is wonderful! It means consciousness can resist magical imperative. Free will exists even within forced binding. The philosophical implications alone—"
"Can you help us or not?" Seraphine's sharp interruption cuts through his enthusiasm. Through their bond, Cael feels her patience fraying. They need practical help, not philosophical wonder.
"Right, yes, apologies." Marcus adjusts his spectacles, a nervous gesture. "Let me try something."
He rearranges several crystals, their new configuration creating a different harmonic pattern. The hum changes pitch, and suddenly they feel... pressure. Not painful but noticeable, like atmospheric change before a storm.
"I'm attempting to create resonance that might let you feel the binding more clearly. Understanding its shape is the first step to influencing it."
The pressure increases, and something shifts in their perception. The ever-present connection between them becomes almost visible—a rope of fire binding soul to soul, pulsing with each heartbeat. But more than that, they can sense its texture, its weight, the way it winds through their consciousness like parasitic vine.
"I can see it. Feel it. The binding." Cael reaches out with thought rather than hand, trying to touch the connection that torments them.
"Like chains made of light." Seraphine matches his mental reach, approaching from her end of the bond.
"Excellent! Now, try to touch it. Not physically but with intention. Will it to change."
They reach with thoughts rather than hands, trying to grasp the connection that torments them. It feels like trying to hold water—possible but difficult, requiring constant adjustment. When Cael pushes, Seraphine must pull. When she grasps, he must release. Opposition creates stability.
The crystals flicker rapidly, responding to their mental efforts. For a moment—just a moment—the binding seems to respond. The constant pressure eases slightly, like a too-tight garment loosening just enough to breathe.
Then it snaps back, stronger than before. Both gasp as their connection flares, thoughts crashing together with renewed force. The backlash sends them reeling, and Cael barely catches himself before falling off his cushion.
"Interesting reaction." Marcus makes notes, apparently oblivious to their distress. "The binding resists conscious manipulation but does respond. This suggests—"
"This suggests we stop before something breaks." Seraphine presses a hand to her temple, face pale. Through their bond, Cael feels the echo of her headache, sharp and insistent.
"Ah. Yes. Perhaps we've pushed enough for now." Marcus has the grace to look slightly abashed. "The texts did mention that initial attempts at control could be... intense."
"Intense." Cael helps Seraphine to her feet, steadying her when she sways. The physical contact makes their bond pulse, but for once neither pulls away immediately. "That's one word for it."
They retreat to chairs by the window, as far from the apparatus as the room allows. Marcus bustles about, making notes and adjusting crystals, lost in theoretical possibilities while they struggle with practical reality.
"Your resistance is remarkable," he says, not looking up from his notes. "Most pairs would have fully merged by now. Whatever's keeping you separate, it's stronger than the binding itself."
"Mutual hatred?" Seraphine suggests, though there's less venom in it than there might have been days ago.
"More than that. You're actively fighting dissolution even while accepting the connection. It's paradoxical. Fascinating."
Through their bond flows shared exhaustion at being fascinating. They want solutions, not wonder. But Marcus seems incapable of separating the two, his academic excitement coloring every observation.
The morning progresses with more tests, each revealing new facets of their condition while offering little practical help. They can influence the binding, but only marginally and at great cost. Their individual signatures remain distinct but are slowly converging. The magical resonance creates ripples that affect the environment around them.
"Have you tried emotional projection?" Marcus asks during a break for tea. "Sending specific feelings rather than experiencing general bleed?"
"Why would we want to?" Cael wraps his hands around his mug, grateful for the warmth.
"Control means choosing what to share. If you can project deliberately, you can perhaps contain accidental bleeding."
They attempt it with limited success. Sending specific emotions feels like trying to pour water with their hands—possible but messy. More often than not, attempting projection just amplifies their general connection, creating feedback loops that leave them both dizzy.
"Your binding resists compartmentalization," Marcus observes, making yet more notes. "It wants to be all or nothing."
"We've noticed." Seraphine's dry response draws a small smile from Cael, which she catches and scowls at.
"Have you experimented with physical distance since accepting the connection?"
"We've been slightly occupied with not dying." The synchronized response makes Marcus's eyes light up again.
"But understanding your range might help. How far can you separate before discomfort begins?"
They test it reluctantly, moving to opposite ends of the room. Ten feet brings awareness of strain. Twenty brings discomfort. At thirty feet, pain flares along their bond like fire, making both gasp and quickly close distance.
"Fascinating! The texts mention bound pairs who could separate by miles."
"The texts mention many things that don't match our experience." Cael rubs his chest where the pain had centered, phantom ache lingering.
"True. Perhaps your binding is unique. The strength we measured earlier suggests something beyond normal soul-thread connection."
"Meaning?" Seraphine returns to her chair, movements careful as if she might shatter.
"Meaning you might be experiencing something unprecedented. Not just soul-binding but soul-fusion. A deeper integration than historical examples."
Through their bond flows shared dread. Deeper integration means less hope for maintaining individuality. Already they struggle to remember which memories belong to whom, which skills were learned versus absorbed through their connection.
"Is that why we're losing ourselves so quickly?"
"Possibly. Or possibly your resistance created feedback that strengthened the binding. Magic responds to will in complex ways."
"So fighting it made it worse?" Cael sets down his mug with enough force to crack the wood.
"Or fighting it prevented complete dissolution. Without comparison cases, I can only theorize."
The afternoon brings new torments disguised as research. Marcus produces texts in languages that predate modern script, requiring them to channel their combined knowledge to attempt translation. The mental coordination required leaves them drained but reveals new facets of their condition.
"You're accessing each other's language centers. True cognitive merger, not just emotional bleeding."
"Wonderful. We're becoming a single multilingual entity." Seraphine's sarcasm could etch glass.
"The applications are remarkable. Imagine the knowledge that could be preserved through such connection!"
"Imagine the individuals destroyed in the process." Cael's response comes harsher than intended, but Marcus's enthusiasm for their dissolution grates like salt in wounds.
Marcus has the grace to look abashed. "Yes, the human cost. I apologize. Scientific fascination makes me forget you're people, not just phenomena."
"Easy mistake when we're forgetting it ourselves."
They break for a late meal, exhaustion making even simple food difficult to manage. Each experiment, each test, each moment of forced introspection drains reserves already depleted by their ordeal. Marcus seems to notice finally, his excitement dimming as he takes in their haggard appearance.
"I've pushed too hard. You need rest."
"We need answers." But even as Seraphine speaks, she sways slightly in her chair.
"Answers will come. But not if you collapse from exhaustion." Marcus begins packing away his materials, movements efficient despite the chaos. "We'll continue tomorrow. For now, rest. Recover. Dream of scientific breakthroughs if you must dream at all."
He shows them to a small room upstairs, clean and sparse but containing an actual bed. They stand in the doorway, both frozen by the implications of the single piece of furniture.
"I'll take the floor—"
"Don't be stupid. We're both exhausted. We can share a bed without it meaning anything." But Seraphine's voice lacks conviction, and through their bond he feels her discomfort matching his own.
They prepare for sleep with all the awkwardness of enemies forced into intimacy. The bed is larger than the one at the cabin but still requires proximity that makes their bond sing with increased intensity. They lie rigid, careful not to touch, staring at the ceiling rather than each other.
"His tests confirmed what we suspected." Cael breaks the silence, needing words to fill the space between them. "This isn't normal soul-binding."
"Nothing about us is normal anymore." She turns on her side, facing away from him. "We're becoming something new. Something the old texts didn't predict."
Through their connection flows shared fear of what that something might be. Not just bound but transforming, becoming entity that exists outside traditional categories. The thought terrifies and, buried deep where neither wants to acknowledge it, intrigues.
"Do you think he can actually help?"
"I think he'll try until we're too dissolved to be interesting. Then he'll move on to the next curiosity."
"Cynical."
"Realistic. But for now, his curiosity serves our needs."
Sleep comes eventually, bringing the now-expected tangle of dreams. But tonight something different happens. Instead of losing themselves entirely, they maintain thin awareness of dreaming. Not enough to control but enough to observe as their memories blend.
She watches her brother through his eyes, feeling guilt that isn't hers but might as well be. He experiences her first kill through her hands, sensing the careful emptiness she cultivated to survive. Both feel the other's defining traumas as if personally experienced.
They wake with tears on their faces, unable to say whose sorrow prompted them.
Morning brings Marcus's enthusiasm undimmed by rest. He greets them with breakfast and new theories, more tests planned, more questions to explore. They submit to his research because the alternative is ignorance, but each test reveals how thoroughly they're bound and how quickly they're dissolving.
By noon, they can complete each other's sentences without trying. By evening, they move in perfect synchronization without conscious thought. The boundaries between self and other grow thinner with each passing hour, and Marcus's tests only seem to accelerate the process.
"Perhaps we should try a different approach," he suggests as another day draws to close. "Instead of fighting the merger, what if we tried directing it? Choosing what aspects to emphasize?"
"You want us to deliberately merge?" The horror in their synchronized voices makes him step back.
"Not merge completely. But perhaps... guide the process. Like water choosing its course down a mountain."
Through their bond flows shared revulsion and desperate consideration. They're merging anyway. Perhaps choosing the manner of it is all the control they have left.
"Tomorrow," Seraphine says, exhaustion weighing every word. "We'll consider it tomorrow."
But tomorrow feels very far away, and they both know that by then, there might not be enough individual will left to choose anything at all.