The poem came to Simon in pieces over seven days.
Not all at once—that would have been easier, cleaner, more like the gift Apirael seemed to receive when his blood-ink demanded outlet. Simon's poetry came the old way, the human way: through observation, revision, doubt, the slow accumulation of image and metaphor into something that might approximate truth if he was lucky and careful and willing to murder enough of his darlings.
He watched Apirael deteriorate.
That was the only honest word for it—deteriorate. Not transform, because transformation suggested movement toward something, improvement, evolution. This was loss. Daily, measurable loss of everything that made Casimir Grey recognizable as human.
The blackness had consumed his arms entirely now, spreading across his shoulders like a cape, like a shroud, like darkness that had learned to wear flesh instead of the other way around. His reflection was completely gone—Simon had tested it, stood beside Apirael in front of the mirror, and seen only his own face staring back from beside empty space that should have held another person.
Apirael no longer ate. No longer drank except when Simon forced water into his hand with the insistence of a nurse tending someone who'd forgotten how to survive. His body had become a vessel for blood-ink and nothing else—sustained not by food but by expression, by the constant writing that kept the mechanism animated, kept the thing that wore Casimir's face functional.
And he wrote. God, how he wrote.
Landscapes. Always landscapes. The rookeries of Seven Dials. The docks at Limehouse. The workhouses where children learned that existence could be both mandatory and undesired. Apirael wrote London's suffering with such precision, such clarity, that Simon sometimes felt the room temperature drop when certain verses were completed, as if reality itself shuddered at being described so exactly.
But more than the physical changes, more than the deterioration of flesh and sense and presence—
It was the eyes.
Apirael's eyes had changed. Not in color—they were still gray, still gray as London fog, still gray as ambiguity. But in quality. They didn't see anymore—not in the way human eyes saw. They catalogued. Measured. Assessed. They looked at Simon not as a person but as a collection of truths waiting to be written, a bundle of secrets and vulnerabilities arranged in the approximate shape of a friend.
Simon felt observed. Always. Even when Apirael wasn't looking at him directly, Simon could sense the attention, the analysis, the slow accumulation of understanding that would eventually—inevitably—demand expression through poetry.
He was being read. And reading, Simon was learning, was just another word for violation when done with Apirael's precision.
So he wrote his own poem. His own testimony. Not to publish—God, no, he'd seen what publication did, how words in circulation could inspire, corrupt, manifest. But for himself. For witness. For the record of what he'd seen, what he was seeing, what Casimir Grey was becoming in this narrow room in Clerkenwell.
He wrote it in his head first, composing while he watched Apirael write, arranging stanzas while he brought fresh paper, revising while he witnessed the mechanism consume the man one poem at a time.
On the seventh night, while Apirael lay in his bed in that death-state that passed for sleep, Simon finally wrote it down:
THE GREY HEARTA Portrait of Casimir Grey, Called ApiraelBy Simon Carrow
I.
He was a man once, with a man's complaints— Rejection stung him, hunger gnawed his ribs, The critics' words cut shallow but persistent, Like paper cuts that bleed more than they should. He dreamed of being read, of being seen, Of having matter more than market value, Of writing verses that would wound and heal In equal measure, truth that tasted clean.
But London taught him patience was for fools, And politeness was the tax the poor paid rich, And digestible meant palatable meant dead, And visibility required spectacle or blood.
So when the woman came in mourning silk And offered him the quill that leaked like veins, He took it not from malice but from need— The need to matter more than not mattering at all.
II.
I watched him write the first transforming lines: About the city, about fog and truth, About the architecture of our diminishment. I watched reality accommodate his syntax, Watched the fog pull back as if reproved, Watched London learn to read his accusations.
And I thought: this is genius. This is power. This is what happens when precision Stops being merely technical achievement And becomes something more like prophecy, More like authority, more like the voice That spoke the world into existence once And might speak it into something else If given paper, time, and blood enough.
III.
But then I watched him write her.
Lenore. The woman with the grace that hid its cost, The bronze that had been taught to pass for porcelain, The strength that had been trained to look like beauty.
I watched him see her—really see, past surface, Past performance, past the careful architecture— And I thought: this is love. This is witnessing. This is what it means to look at someone And capture what they really are beneath The costume that they wear for public viewing.
But then I watched what happened when he wrote her. Watched her voice become compulsion, Watched her beauty become burden, Watched her truth become a weapon She was forced to wield against herself And everyone who came within its range.
And I understood: precision is not mercy. Seeing clearly is not caring. Writing someone truly is not honoring them— It's authoring them, making them perform The truth you saw whether they consent or not, Whether being truth destroys them or completes them.
IV.
The man who told him not to be digestible— That nameless mentor, that encouraging demon Who said: write sharply, write truly, don't apologize For seeing what others refuse to see— That man created this.
Or no—that's unfair. That's simple. Casimir created this. The world created this. The thousand rejections, the thousand dismissals, The thousand moments being told his vision Was too much, too sharp, too true to sell— They all created this.
But knowing causation doesn't soften consequence. The women dying in Whitechapel Don't care why Apirael wrote landscapes That gave permission to their murders. The killer reading his verses like instruction Doesn't care that those verses came from pain. The legend being born in blood and fog Doesn't care that it was authored by a soul Who only wanted to be seen, to matter, To write something that wouldn't be forgotten.
V.
I watch him sleep—or cease, or death-rehearse— His body rigid as a manuscript, His hands black as the ink that writes him, His reflection gone from every surface As if the world itself has learned He's more idea now than individual, More mechanism than man, More poetry than poet.
And I think: Casimir Grey is dying. Has been dying since he took the quill. Has been trading himself piece by piece For power he was told he'd never have, For visibility he was told he'd never earn, For mattering in ways that matter Long past when mattering should matter to him.
VI.
His heart—if he still has a heart, If that organ hasn't been converted yet To metaphor, to mechanism, to the engine That pumps blood-ink instead of blood— His heart is grey.
Not black like villainy, Not white like innocence, But grey like London fog, Like moral ambiguity, Like the space between observing cruelty And perpetrating it through observation.
His heart is grey like his name: Grey. The color of neither-nor, The shade of people who've lost The capacity for easy answers, Who've learned that good intentions Can author catastrophes, That loving someone doesn't mean Refusing to hurt them, That witnessing suffering precisely Can make suffering more itself Rather than making it less alone.
VII.
He writes about Lenore still.
Not directly—he's learned that restraint at least, That mercy that looks like withholding— But I see her in his landscapes, In the women he describes with tenderness That's almost violence in its accuracy, In the way he writes about grace As something that costs blood to maintain, About beauty as a kind of warfare Where the beautiful are always Both the weapon and the wounded.
He's writing her by not writing her, Which is its own form of authorship, Its own kind of manifestation. Every woman in his verses carries Some aspect of her—the bronze, The strength, the terrible burden Of being precisely what he saw when he looked past The performance to the infrastructure beneath.
And I think: this is how he loves now. Not by holding close but by describing accurately. Not by protecting but by witnessing. Not by making safe but by making seen. This is what love becomes when you've traded Every soft emotion for precision, Every gentle impulse for truth: You love by reading people, By cataloguing them, By making permanent through language What would otherwise be forgotten.
It is the loneliest love I've ever witnessed.
VIII.
I asked him once: do you regret it? The bargain. The quill. The blood-ink. The transformation from Casimir to Apirael, From poet to mechanism, From man to manifestation.
He looked at me with those eyes— Those grey eyes that don't see anymore, That catalogue and measure and assess— And said: "Regret requires capacity For imagining alternative outcomes. Requires believing different choices Would have led to better endings. I've lost that capacity. Lost the ability To believe I could have been anything Except exactly this."
And I realized: he's not being philosophical. He's being literal. He's traded away The part of him that could imagine Other versions of himself, Other ways of being, Other responses to rejection than Burning himself up to fuel manifestations That outlast the manifester.
He can't regret because regret Is a function of the self he's killed.
IX.
The mentor who told him to be indigestible— I think about that person often. Wonder if they knew what they were creating. Wonder if they cared. Wonder if they're still alive somewhere, Reading about Apirael the Death Poet, Seeing their student become exactly What they encouraged him to become, And thinking: yes. This is what I meant. This is what happens when you refuse To soften your edges for public consumption. This is the logical conclusion Of choosing truth over palatability.
Or maybe they're horrified. Maybe they meant: be bold but not reckless, Be clear but not cruel, Be true but remember that truth Has responsibilities attached to it, That precision without mercy Is just another form of violence.
But intentions don't matter Once words are released into the world. Don't matter once they're read, Interpreted, actualized. The mentor's words—however they were meant— Created this. Created Casimir's permission To become Apirael. Created the logic That said: if palatability doesn't work, Try monstrosity. If being loved fails, Try being feared. If gentle truth is ignored, Try truth so sharp it cuts on contact.
X.
He's consumed.
Not by ambition—that would be simpler. Not by malice—that would be cleaner. He's consumed by compulsion, By the mechanism he's become, By the blood-ink that demands outlet Whether outlet creates beauty or catastrophe.
He writes because not writing Would make him stop—not stop writing, Stop being. Stop breathing, Stop circulating, stop maintaining The fiction that he's still alive Rather than just animated text, Just poetry that learned to walk And wear a coat and answer to a name That used to belong to someone else.
XI.
I'm writing this because someone should. Because someone should record What Casimir Grey was before He became what Casimir Grey became. Because witness is the only mercy I'm still capable of offering— The same mercy he offers Lenore, The same mercy he offers the dead women Of Whitechapel whose names He writes into permanence Even as their flesh returns to dust.
I'm writing this because I chose To be alone with him, To share loneliness, To watch transformation Even knowing that proximity To his precision might contaminate Everything I thought I knew About poetry, about power, About the price of mattering.
XII.
And I'm writing this because I'm afraid I'm next.
I see the way he looks at me sometimes— That cataloguing gaze, that measuring attention, That slow accumulation of observation That precedes manifestation.
He's reading me. Learning me. Understanding me. Seeing past my earnestness to whatever Architecture holds me upright, Whatever truths I've been hiding Even from myself.
And someday—maybe soon, Maybe when the pressure builds too high, Maybe when every other subject Has been exhausted and I'm the only truth Close enough to capture— He'll write me.
And I'll become whatever he saw When he looked past my performance To the infrastructure beneath. Whatever bronze or porcelain or grey He decides I really am.
XIII.
But until then, I watch.
Watch Casimir Grey disappear Into Apirael the Death Poet. Watch the man who inspired him— That voice that said don't be digestible— Receive exactly what he encouraged: A poet who refused to soften, Who chose truth over comfort, Who wrote so precisely that reality Had no choice but to accommodate his syntax Even when accommodation meant Catastrophe, legend, murder.
I watch the grey heart beat— Iambic, always iambic, Da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM— Measuring time not in seconds But in metrical feet, Not in heartbeats but in verses, Not in life but in language.
And I think: this is what happens When you get exactly what you asked for. When visibility comes at the cost Of everything that made you want Visibility in the first place. When mattering means becoming The kind of matter that's more monument Than man, more legend than life, More story than soul.
XIV.
Casimir Grey. Apirael. The Death Poet. The man with the grey heart Who loved Lenore enough to destroy her, Who saw London clearly enough to manifest its darkness, Who wrote truth with such precision That truth became weapon, Became contagion, Became the thing that killed him One poem at a time.
I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I'm still here watching. I'm sorry I chose to witness Rather than intervene.
But someone had to record this. Someone had to write down What we all lost when we told you To be more, to write better, To refuse digestibility, To matter at any cost.
Someone had to testify: This is the cost. This grey heart. This death poet. This man who learned too late That precision without mercy Is just prophecy with a body count.
XV.
The poem ends. The poet doesn't. He keeps writing. Will always keep writing. Because writing is what's left When everything else— Memory, sense, presence, choice— Has been traded away For the power to make words Matter.
Simon set down his pen.
His hand was shaking. Not from exhaustion—from recognition. From seeing his own thoughts arranged in language, from witnessing his fear and love and horror given form through verse.
He looked at Apirael's sleeping—ceasing—form across the room.
The black hands. The rigid posture. The way the morning light seemed uncertain how to illuminate him, seemed to pass through rather than around.
Simon folded the poem. Placed it in his coat pocket. Not to publish. Not to show Apirael. Just to have. To carry. To keep as evidence that Casimir Grey had existed, had mattered to someone, had been witnessed during his transformation from man to mechanism to myth.
And as the sun rose over London, Simon Carrow sat in a chair beside a death-poet's bed and thought:
I chose this. I chose to watch. I chose to be alone together. And now I'm the only one who remembers who he was before he became what he is.
The only one who knows the grey heart still beats.
Even if it beats in meter now instead of mercy.
Apirael's eyes opened.
Those grey eyes. Those cataloguing eyes. Those eyes that saw Simon not as friend but as potential, as truth waiting to be written, as the next manifestation gestating in the space between observation and expression.
"Simon," Apirael said, and his voice was morning-rough, unused. "You've been writing."
Not a question. An observation. Simon felt something cold move through him.
"Yes," he admitted. "A poem. About—" He stopped. Started again. "About you. About what I'm witnessing. About—"
"About the grey heart," Apirael finished. "About what I'm becoming. About what I've cost." He sat up slowly, his body remembering how to animate. "May I read it?"
Simon's hand went to his pocket. Protective. Possessive. "I don't—I'm not sure—"
"Please." The word was gentle. "Let me see how you see me. Let me know what I look like from outside. Let me—" Apirael's voice cracked. "Let me remember what Casimir Grey was before I forget him entirely."
Simon pulled out the folded pages. Handed them over with shaking hands.
Watched Apirael read. Watched those grey eyes track across lines, absorb verses, catalogue observations about being catalogued.
When Apirael finished, his face—what remained of his face, what hadn't been consumed by transformation—held something that might have been grief or might have been pride or might have been both at once.
"You write well," he said quietly. "You've captured it precisely. The grey heart. The consumption. The cost." He handed back the pages. "Keep this, Simon. Keep this somewhere safe. Because someday—when I'm gone, when Apirael has consumed Casimir entirely—someone will ask what happened here. What we did. What I became."
He stood. Moved to his desk. Pressed thumb to fresh paper.
"And you'll be able to show them this," he continued, beginning to write. "Show them that someone witnessed. Someone understood. Someone recorded what we lost when we stopped being human and started being precise."
Simon watched him write. Watched the black blood flow. Watched reality prepare to accommodate whatever truth was being authored.
And thought: The grey heart beats on.
Da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM.
In meter.
In mercy's absence.
In the terrible rhythm of manifestation.
And London woke to another day of fog and commerce and murders that would become legend, written by a poet who was becoming more legend than life, more story than soul, more death than poet.
All because someone once told him:
Don't be digestible.
And he'd listened.