#I could easily tag everyone else but as is obviously I mainly had Ifrit in mind

[mancer-in-the-abbey]

Listening to Steam Powered Giraffe as I am wont to do when I need a break from Ghost and Honeybee came on and now I can’t stop thinking about Dew and his relationship with the previous era.

Dew was alone for the majority of his life in the pit- not for any particularly tragic reasons, at least in his opinion. That’s just how his particular variant of water ghoul works: Young ghoul pups stay with their mothers till they’re old enough to hunt for themselves and eventually they just kind of… swim off on their own, likely never seeing their parent again unless by chance.

All this to say, Dew was never a particularly social person before coming topside. Being surrounded by so many people when he was first summoned was a hell of a culture shock to him, almost immediately putting him in fight or flight.

It helped that, in my mind, Dew wasn’t immediately summoned into the Ghost project and instead spent his first year as your run of the mill nameless ghoul. Being put on kitchen duty allowed him to watch how the human staff interacted and bonded. Over time, he was even accepted as one of their own, taught to do more than wash dishes and only speak when spoken to.

Yet, even with that, Dew found himself to be… missing something. His new life on the surface had awakened an ache like the pressure of the deep sea- this longing he hadn’t even known was there till he’d gotten the barest hint of fulfillment. It gnawed at him, day in and day out, but no matter what he did, what avenue he went down, he couldn’t find anything to quell the feeling.

And then, after the loss of almost all their instrumentalists, the Ghost project opened auditions.

It was a tense time in the abbey; no one was sure where the project was heading in the aftermath of the banishments and Terzo’s place in the ministry was coming under question. Dew, however, saw an opportunity for something better, something that just might give him the thing that soothed the ache quickly becoming unbearable to him.

And somehow, by a miracle of Satan himself if one were to ask Dew, he was picked to play bass.

And the ache was, indeed, quelled by his time with the band, but not by the fame or attention it brought like Dew thought it would.

No, the relief came in the form of his fellow musicians, both those summoned and those that passed the auditions with him.

The Meliora ghouls were, for all intents and purposes, Dew’s first real family: Aether opened him to a vulnerability he’d never thought possible, even with himself; Zephyr taught him everything there was to know about the abbey, its secrets, and how to make it home; Mountain was a solid figure in his life, a tree to take shelter under when things became uncertain; Mist, though she was no longer a part of the band, was Dew’s mentor in both bass playing and how to be a water ghoul on the surface; Omega, likewise, was as close to a father figure as he ever had.

And then there was Ifrit. Ifrit, the fiery hearth that warmed him in body and soul. Ifrit, his heat and passion natural foil to all of Dew’s cold and disinterest. Ifrit, who knew exactly when to push Dew out of his comfort zone and when to reel back.

The two were instrumental to each other’s growth, with Ifrit the one to go head first into everything and Dewdrop being the one to slow down and think. Separately, sure, they were their own people, but together they made one better whole, bolstering each other’s strengths and balancing each other’s flaws.

And then, one day, it was all taken away.

One day, Terzo was dragged off stage without warning. One day, Imperator decided he would be of more use as a fire ghoul than water. One day, he was walked into the ritual chamber as a water ghoul for the last time, his pack waiting outside the room- not allowed in for fear of interference.

One day he woke up in the medical wing, burning all over, boiling hot from the inside out, and only found Aether and Mountain at his bedside, the both of them wearing looks that told him all he needed to know of the fates of the others.

(Just before the ritual, Ifrit had pulled him in a hug tight enough to press carbon into diamonds, hiding his worry with a smile. “It’ll be alright,” he promised, “when it’s all over and you feel better, I’ll teach you everything I know about being a fire ghoul. It’ll be fun, you’ll see!”)

(What he wouldn’t give to hold him close, him and all his family together, one last time. What he wouldn’t give to be that little water ghoul again, surrounded by love and joy he’d never known before.)

Nowadays, Dew does alright for himself. He runs much hotter than he ever had before, is a bit quicker to temper than he used to be, but his new pack doesn’t seem to mind- and lords below, does he love his new pack with everything he has.

But still, every year on the anniversary of his first pack’s death, he distanced himself from the rest. He grabs a spare blanket and Ifrit’s old acoustic guitar, walks out to the woods outside the ministry, keeps walking till he finds a clearing he and Ifrit shared with one another, a private place for the both of them to get away when things ever got too much.

Dew stops in the middle of the small glade, spreads the blanket out on the wild grass, sits down, takes out the guitar, and plucks out a tune his wildfire used to play him.

“Hello, goodbye, Twas nice to know you, how I find myself without you, that I’ll never know.”

“I let myself go.”