Chapter Text
Hunter holds the staff carefully in his hands as he turns it around, the red cardinal now static and unmoving at the tip. It’s carved finely, but there are obvious chips and batters in its form. As if it’s endured years upon years of life, its eye scarred and its wood long having lost any sort of polished sheen. It has lived—for a very long time at that, if Hunter is correct.
The scars upon its body remind him of his own. He pushes the thought away just as quickly as it trickles into his mind, thoroughly unwanted.
It still feels nearly surreal, a Palisman willingly choosing him. Out of all the people it could have chosen, he was the witch they bound themself to. A powerless one who couldn’t even use magic on their own, housed in perhaps the most dangerous place on the Boiling Isles the little bird could ever find himself. He knows little of Palisman, through his own decision, but looking down at the small creature that has decided on him—he wants to know more, even when he likely shouldn’t.
Hunter swallows thickly, sinking down onto his bed as he stares at the bird, eyes tracing the small cracks left in its body. His shaky fingers brush gently over the tip of his feathered head, Hunter’s scarred nerves just barely sparking at the unusual jaggedness. He springs to life again, chirping and flitting up to sit on Hunter’s finger, head tilting to the side. It blinks at him with a single eye, as if to ask him, what’s wrong?
“You can’t stay here,” Hunter tells the bird firmly, once again walking over to his open window, “It’s not safe.”
The bird ruffles its feather disobediently, flying up to instead perch itself on Hunter’s shoulder. Its face nuzzles into his cheek as they chirp softly once more, gentle with misplaced affection. It’s a soothing gesture, even as Hunter’s hackles rise at the unfamiliarity of it.
He scowls, even as something cracks in his chest, some sort of heavy weight falling away without him realizing it, “He will kill you.” He stresses, flapping a hand at the cardinal only for it to sit in his hair, tweeting with something that sounds too stubborn for a bird. Both frustration and relief rises in him like bile—manifesting in him huffing a harsh breath, rolling his eyes childishly.
Hunter groans in annoyance, yanking his window closed with more force than necessary, listening to the sharp clatter of the glass slamming together and feeling vindicated by the noise, “Fine. Do whatever you want. If he eats you, just know I’ll be there to tell you I told you so.”
He knows he doesn’t mean it as soon as the words leave his mouth. The cardinal must know this too, because all they do is chirp and flit about his room, unconcerned with the supposed threat. He falls back over his bed, breathing out a heavy sigh, leather-gloved hands rubbing at his eyes until they spark with irritation. His boots kick rhythmically at the ground, toeing over an old rug as he counts his breaths. He’s tired and still so damn angry at himself—he thinks of Belos’s voice, just barely raised, the spike that had almost slammed right through his face if Hunter hadn’t had the brains to move—
Hunter’s eyes open and he watches the bird from his sprawl on the comforter as he explores; tilting their head at his many books, the strewn about scrolls and plushies hidden in corners, under pillows, and behind even more books on his shelves. They titter with curiosity, as if attempting to speak with Hunter, but he doesn’t understand him.
He knows that witches are capable of communicating with their Palisman, once properly bonded. But Hunter isn’t going to do that, not when he knows he’s going to have to let the bird go if it wants to live. It’ll grow bored of the castle—bored of Hunter—eventually. Surely. Hunter just has to wait, and he’s good at that.
“I don’t know what you’re even saying.” He mutters, being met with even more tweets, as if the sheer amount of noise will make up for it. He huffs, resting his arm over his eyes. It’s too early to be getting to sleep, far earlier than Hunter would typically allow. Especially with all the work he has, all the things he very well should be doing—
But his ears catch on that soft titter, lulling him into something relaxed, nearly peaceful. He wonders if the bird is doing it on purpose, if it knows—but no, surely it couldn’t care enough to do that. But Hunter’s had a rough couple of days. Maybe a rough couple of years, if he’s being honest, even if Hunter isn’t one to complain about his duties. He knows why he’s here, and he knows what makes him most useful.
But even he isn’t immune to growing weary, every once in a while. Especially with that damn human running about, making messes and bothering him. None of this would be a problem if it weren’t for her sticking her nose in things she has no business in. Her and her supposed kindness.
Hunter knows kindness—knows that it means him being allowed to live at all is the only one he will ever be granted.
(All of those Palisman would be dead without her, crushed and cracked and nothing more than a means to an end—)
His thoughts are interrupted as the bird makes their way to Hunter’s bed, finding a place under his patchwork pillow and between one of his plushies. They snuggle under the thick covers, cooing quietly in their tiny chest. Hunter can’t help but watch him, his arm falling away from his face and behind his head.
He should just bring them to Belos. Maybe he'd be less angry with Hunter, less disappointed and pained by his failures if he managed to at least bring him something.
But he doesn’t. He doesn't, and he has no idea why.
Because he’s not attached to the small creature. Not even a little bit.
He just needs some time to—some time to think.
He sighs, kicking his boots off haphazardly, listening to dull thud of them hitting the floor. He pulls himself up the bed, burying his head in one of his pillows, a gloved hand resting near the bird’s sleeping form. His fingers twitch as he frowns, jerking away from it so he doesn’t accidentally brush up against its feathers. Even if he aches to touch—a strange sensation that he hasn’t craved since he was a child, one he has learned to live without and ignore.
But he wants.
He tugs his gloves off, flexing his scarred hands with a small sigh, and that’s the extent of the clothing he removes. He feels so exhausted so suddenly that he begins to drift off quickly, eyes heavy and rolled over onto his back, a hand resting on his stomach as it rises and falls slowly. He hears the bird coo softly before he properly falls into sleep.
He’ll figure something out tomorrow.
_______
Over the next few days, Hunter makes sure to hide Rascal’s existence from anyone else in the castle. He tells him to be quiet each day that he leaves, and doesn’t breathe a word of the Palisman to anyone, only leaving his window cracked shall the bird ever come to his senses and leave like they already should have.
He doesn’t acknowledge why he named the damn thing, nor why he hasn’t just let his uncle take them already. He doesn’t think over the reasons why he had helped that human girl and let all of the Palisman escape with her, either.
They’re all thoughts he shoves away and refuses to ponder about. He’s far too tired and busy to worry over such things. He is supposed to be a prodigy, a leader in the coven. Smart and skilled and powerful even when he often feels like he is none of those things.
Clingy Palisman and ridiculous human girls have no room to take up in his head.
He tells that to himself in late evenings when he’s reading to Rascal, old tomes on wild magic open in his lap. The bird listens intently, dark eyes following the movement of Hunter’s hands. He’s never been able to talk to someone about before—and even if Rascal can’t respond it’s—it’s good. It’s different. It’s unlike anything he’s ever had before, someone who listened.
(He begins to read more of the chapters he has about Palisman when he had previously skipped any mention of them. He was coward to have pretended they weren’t alive—but thinking otherwise meant—)
On late nights that Hunter stays up studying, he reads aloud to the bird as they drift off, as they lay on Hunter’s messy bed in the corner of his tiny, messy room. Rascal coos softly in his sleep, a small bundle of red in a snapshot of golds and browns and beige.
Hunter tells himself that Rascal is temporary on days where he comes back to his room, exhausted and in pain as he treats the bruises and cuts he only seems to be gaining more often. Belos has been growing more frustrated with him, and Hunter’s incompetence has become something completely intolerable. Hunter can’t seem to stop making mistakes.
His hands shake worse than usually do as he hisses, scarred fingers cleaning and bandaging a gash on his side. It’s a little deeper than usual, but nothing he can’t treat for himself. Rascal chirps and twitters in distress regardless, restlessly flitting around his room anxiously, as if he believed Hunter were dying rather than mildly inconvenienced.
”It’s fine. It’s just a small cut.” Hunter huffs, letting his shirt drop back down over the gauze. He could likely heal it if he had any magic of his own—but the staff Belos had entrusted to him isn’t capable of healing spells. Perhaps Belos had considered it a weakness to need such a thing, Hunter is unsure, but he can’t help but think it was inconvenient.
He sighs, slipping his gloves back on, comforted by the familiarity of the worn leather.
His supplies from the Healing Coven are dwindling as his eyes flit over to the meager items left strewn in the box. He’ll need to restock soon—the thought is added to a mental list in Hunter’s head, a task tacked at the end of the dozens that he already has.
He settles under the thick comforter settled over his bed, laid out on his back and gaze fixated on the ceiling. He’s tired. Exhausted, really, a bone deep sort of ache that he never seems capable of shaking. Something he’s been forced to live with for a very long time now, an, inescapable weight. He blinks, feeling the way his eyes sting, his injury pulsing with a steady spark of pain.
His wallowing is interrupted with a flitter of wings and soft chirps.
Rascal settles on his chest, curling up into a comfortable ball as he settles below Hunter’s clavicle. He breathes out, ignoring the wet catch of it in his throat, his eyes flickering with an unsteady blink.
It’s the only comfort Rascal can offer him—and in a life where he has been deprived of even slivers of care, it’s more than enough. He still can’t sleep, but Rascal’s there; a small guardian that could not protect him even if it wanted to, but a guardian nonetheless.
He reminds himself that Rascal is only temporary.
_______
On late nights after his duties have been attended to, Hunter sketches out the glyphs he had seen the human use. His teeth have dug into his tongue so hard that his mouth has already flooded with red, his hands nearly shaking as he marks out the lines that he can remember.
He knows that it’s wrong, that he could be caught and punished—but he can’t stop himself from getting them down somewhere. It could be useful, could be something that Hunter has so sorely been missing. It’ll be worth it, he tells himself.
Anything he can do to help his uncle who has already given him everything.
He doesn’t dare try to activate them though, no matter how much the curiosity tugs at him like it’s a physical weight. He can’t bring himself to go that far, to take that extra step. He’s already housing a Palisman under Belos’s own roof. There only so much grace he can be extended, and being excused of using wild magic certainly isn’t one of them.
He tucks the drawings carefully away in one of his old tomes he's read dozens of times already, and shoves the book into a box under his bed.
That’s also where he keeps the stick part of his staff, wrapped up in a sheet and stuck between the wooden boarding and mattress of his bed. Rascal himself seems to enjoy tucking themself behind his pillows or up on one of his bookshelves, mostly hidden should anyone unexpectedly enter his room.
Hunter still makes sure to remind them to hide whenever he has to leave, but there’s no telling whether they actually obey him or not. His door is always locked, but with Kikimora’s escalating anger towards him lately, there’s no telling what she’s willing to do.
He just counts on her being less likely to make a move against him so close under Emperor Belos’s nose.
Because surely his uncle would care if Kikimora tried to hurt him and he found out about it. He wouldn’t let her get away with it. Hunter is the new Coven head, Belos’s right hand, and Kikimora isn’t as important to the Coven as he is.
He reassures himself with the thought. He’s important.
The only reason he hasn’t made Belos aware of her transgressions already is the fact that it would waste his uncle’s time, worrying over him. Hunter is old enough to handle himself—and it’s not uncommon for the Emperor’s Coven to grow competitive in such a way. Hunter knows how and when to fight back, nothing of the harmless child that the others think of him as.
And despite everything: Rascal is still determined to make Hunter their witch, and Hunter is still going through every tome and scroll and book on wild magic that he can secretly get his hands on. As much as his uncle must know about his obvious interest in wild magic, Hunter doesn’t want to imagine what he would think if he knew that Hunter was so intensely studying it.
Or if he ever found out that he has glyphs in his room and is also housing a bonded Palisman. All under his own roof.
Hunter shivers, and unmistakably feels like he’s digging his own grave and he doesn’t know if he can stop it.
(Nor if he truly wants to.)
_______
When Hunter has a break, he often spends his time in the palace’s private library. Pouring over books and tomes with a sort of fervor that makes the castle librarian give him strange looks when he spends hours by himself with just his notes and dusty passages.
If not there, then he could be found in the training grounds, practicing how to fight without the aid of his artificial magic. From a young age, he had learned that if his staff were taken from him, he had no magic of his own to protect him. If he wanted to survive in the Emperor’s Coven, he had needed to learn how to fend for himself without it.
He’d be dead if he weren’t taught such a lesson, if he didn’t take great care in remembering that he was soldier, not a prince to be coddled in fine furs and silk.
But that’s not where his is today. No, right now, he’s sat at an old table with a large, dusty tome open before him. The pages detail the origin of the Boiling Isles, the early uses of magic and the development of the people who had wielded it. It’s information he has read hundreds of times over now, but he has his eyes riveted to the text regardless. He’ll never tire of scraping even a smidgen of information what he can get on magic—and oftentimes, he finds himself aching to know what it truly feels like.
What it feels like for it to come from his body, to sizzle in his blood and veins, an itch over his skin and the euphoria of power at his fingertips. He’d give anything to be a normal witch.
But all he has is old passages, the recounts of what the other witches will share, and his own imagination. He supposes that it will have to be enough.
The room is quiet around him, a pocket of silence as he slips into intent focus. His fingers tap absently at the tabletop, tongue caught under his teeth as he reads, his other hand writing furiously in a thick journal. Anything that sounds new, anything that he might want to remember later is jotted down in his sprawling script to be kept safe. It’s calming, something to put his mind to work, always eager to learn something new, something more.
Not that he’s gotten very far in being particularly helpful. He tries not to think about that.
His focus is interrupted by the rhythmic click of heels over marble.
He looks up, his nose catching on a hint of raspberry and something like the crackle of powerful magic—and then his eyes find Coven Head Darius walking up to him. Hunter instinctively straightens in his seat, his fingers clenching into his palms to rid himself of the urge to fidget anxiously.
Hunter desperately hopes that the Coven Head is going to pass him by, but he stops just a few feet away from him, obviously here for Hunter and nothing else. Except he looks like he’s in pain to even be in his presence, something far too close to disgust trying to twitch over his refined features. Hunter bites at the inside of his mouth, finding himself wanting to shrink away and say something snide in equal measure.
”Sir?” Hunter prompts, tone carefully neutral. Or, he attempts to sound that way, at least. Darius nearly scowls, and he thinks that he’s likely failed on that account.
”The Emperor wished for an audience with you.” He says, clipped and low with Darius’s awfully posh voice, “He’s forgotten I’m not a servant, it seems.” He mutters, and Hunter’s hackles rise at the disrespect in his tone.
”You shouldn’t speak about Emperor Belos like that.”
Darius sighs, looking as if he wants to roll his eyes, “Yes, yes. His Majesty only deserves the utmost respect, my apologies. Now off you go, little Prince. I don’t believe he appreciates being forced to wait.”
Hunter nearly jolts, hastily closing the open tome and his journal, stacking them together and holding them close to his chest as he slips out of his chair. Darius is more right than he knows, Hunter has found out through experience. Belos doesn’t like when Hunter is late, even when he has been given no time to arrive in the first place.
He doesn’t bother saying goodbye to Darius before he’s rushing off, his mind already anxiously reeling on what Belos could possibly want him for.
“Little Prince.” Darius calls from behind him, and Hunter spins, already bubbling with irritation at being stalled—
Darius has Hunter’s fountain pen held delicately between two elegant fingers. The feather has been dyed red recently, tapered into a fine point and smooth to the touch. It’s rather well-cared for and something that Hunter has grown rather attached to it despite its innocuousness.
“Forgetting something?” Darius raises a perfect brow, lips just slightly pursed.
Hunter swallows, taking the pen carefully from him, “Right. Thank you.” He says stiffly, but as sincerely as he’s capable of.
Darius looks surprised, green eyes flashing with something Hunter can’t name—and Hunter is leaving before he can even try.
He has the Emperor to get to.
_______
Hunter knew that his grave was quick in the making, but even he still didn’t expect the consequences to catch up with him so soon.
He’s kneeling in front of the Emperor’s throne, still empty handed. It’s an action he’s repeated time and time again by now, used to the feeling of sinking to one knee, of falling into the role of subservience when it’s needed. Even when his tongue gets away from him, mistaking familial ties for an excuse to speak freely. It was luxury he forgot he did not truly have, not when it was the Emperor and The Golden Guard, not Belos and Hunter.
But it’s been nearly impossible to find more Palisman, and ever since Hunter obtained Rascal, well—
He doesn’t even want to find more.
Before, it had been easy to pretend that the Palisman were made up of just wild magic, dangerous things that shouldn’t even exist. Easy to pretend that they were just wooden tools, non-sentient creatures cracked open in Belos’s hands.
But Rascal is not dangerous, and he is far more than just a weapon to be used.
And no matter how much Hunter begs, Belos never listens to him. Never lets Hunter help, never tells him about the wild magic that hurt him, even if it could give Hunter a clue on how he could heal him. It’s what caused him to resort to books and scrolls, researching endlessly on his own time when Belos has seemed to give up.
But even still, Hunter keeps on trying. Perhaps especially now, when Rascal and so many other Palisman are at stake. He cares about them now, as inconvenient as it may be. He can help them, in a roundabout sort of way, if Belos would just listen to him.
It’s a constant cycle that Hunter can’t seem to break—can’t seem to learn from. He makes the same mistake, every single time.
“If you just told me how you were cursed, we could find some other way to help—”
“Enough of this nonsense.” Belos warns, swaying to his feet. His voice makes Hunter tense on instinct, his heart picking up in his chest. “I’ve told you time and time again, nephew.”
His tone books no argument, terse and clipped, thinly constrained anger. Hunter’s fingers clench over one of his knees, still on the floor, still trying to show his respect even as he talks back like a child. But he never stop himself—not before it’s too late.
“But uncle, if you would just let me learn more about wild magic—”
“Enough!”
Belos’s temper has been building and building for days—even weeks, now. Hunter knew he was on his last nerve, knew that he was pushing too far, knew he should have kept his mouth shut—
The late realization does not help anything, doesn’t stop what comes next.
Hunter flinches, both at Belos’s voice and the expectancy of something harsher, but he is still unprepared for the piercing pain that explodes from his side and shoulder. He gasps, his squeezed shut eyes springing open as he’s knocked back.
He grasps at his side with a short wheeze, hands quickly becoming warm with something slick as it clumps between his fingers through his gloves. His shoulder twinges when he moves it, a searing pain climbing down his arm as he tries to prop himself up on his elbow.
And then there is something tight around his throat, squeezing suddenly and ripping the air from his lungs as he tries to choke around it. He’s yanked up with a force that makes him dizzy, forcing his hands away from trying to staunch his wound. His feet dangle uselessly as they try to scrape against the floor, straining to gain balance that he won’t find. He feels minuscule beneath Belos’s cold stare, blue eyes alight behind an impassive mask.
“I will not hear a single word more about wild magic leave your mouth ever again, do you understand me, Hunter?” His voice is almost quiet, calm and measured, as if he were carefully scolding Hunter rather than choking him.
Hunter desperately tries to nod his head, his fingers scrabbling at the hand around his throat, brushing over Belos’s wrist. He can the skin leaking, the thick like sludge of Belos’s curse spilling out of his flesh, curving over golden gauntlets.
Hunter could fight back, if he wanted, he could kick and scratch and bite back—
But he doesn’t. He can’t. Not against Belos, and not when he knows that he’s done wrong.
And then he’s being thrown backwards, his head knocking harshly against the ground so hard that his ears ring. He gulps down greedy breaths, his lungs burning and his mind spinning from a lack of air. His face feels hot and wet, his lip split from his own fangs catching on the skin, and he refuses to think about the pathetic picture he must make.
“Let this be a lesson for you to be better, like I know you can be.” Belos says softly, “You know how I hate to hurt you.” The words are sickly sweet even over the ringing of his ears, clinging and cloying over his skin in a way that makes him shudder, throat caught around a thick swallow.
Belos stands several feet away from Hunter, regal and tall and almost shaking with anger, fists clenched as he fights against the curse. Hunter could almost think he were tempted to kill him, that Belos could have right there. Could have easily snapped his neck or drove a spike into his chest—breaking his ribs and finding his beating heart—could have decorated this room with Hunter’s blood and Hunter would have let him.
The thought swims at the back of his head, wriggling about his skull like a parasite.
“Now get out.” He says coldly, sinking back down onto his throne with a shaky breath.
Hunter scrambles to his feet without a second thought, pushing through the heavy doors despite the pain it sends through his entire body, like fire dancing over his skin. He stumbles down the hall, ignoring the stares he must be garnering, feet unsteady and his vision blurring from the ache in his side. His breath rattles in his chest, and the walls are swimming around him, a silvery tang on his tongue from his own blood.
He wants out. He wants to get as far away from this place that he can.
He shoves past guards that try to talk to him, ignoring whether they intend to help or sneer at him, swaying down the halls until he nearly falls through the castle’s entrance doors. He holds his side as he makes his way across the bridge, having no idea where he’s going but needing to leave.
He needs to find somewhere he can breathe again.
He blinks, and Rascal is flying in front of him, the stick part of them clutched in their talons. They tweet at him, a pitch that makes his head pulse with a fresh wave of discomfort.
“What are you doing?” Hunter slurs, blindly reaching for the staff. Once in his hand, Rascal takes their place at the tip and Hunter leans heavily forward, tripping on clumsy feet.
He grasps at the staff and it catches him, swaying mid-air and keeping him from hitting the ground. He think he wants to thank him, but the words won’t come past the heavy cotton of his tongue, his breath whistling past his lips.
Rascal takes off without a command, rising further up into the sky.
His stomach swoops and he slumps further into the staff, Rascal directing it more than him. That’s fine, Hunter thinks. He’s far too tired to do it himself, and he can feel blood soaking through his clothes, sticky and warm and nauseating. His face stings, the wind whipping against his cheeks, the wetness of his eyes indiscernible.
He breathes out slowly, and wonders what would happen to Rascal if he died right here.
He hopes they’d find a better witch, one who was powerful and actually able to use them, one who would be able to take care of them. One who would let them be free and explore, where they wouldn’t be confined to one tiny room with a witch who was powerless. One where he’d be safe, far away from anything that would hurt him, out of Belos’s reach.
He hopes Rascal will find someone better than him.
_______
Luz is tucking in for the night when it happens.
She startles awake to the sound of Hooty yelling, abruptly sucking her out of the half-asleep state she had been in. She grabs her glyphs on instinct, one of the stacks of paper she leaves around her room for easy access.
When she finds Hooty, he has the door wide open and the body of a teenage boy slumped against the doorframe. A boy who is swathed in red from blood and grasping onto his staff like it’s the only thing keeping him from face planting.
And as Luz walks closer, the light of the moon catches on platinum blonde hair and she suddenly realizes that it’s The Golden Guard in the doorway. Hunter.
Her breath catches, and her mind starts running itself in circles. What had happened? Why is he here? What in Titan’s name is she supposed to do?
And is that—
The cardinal breaks off of the staff Hunter has in his grasp, tweeting frantically, and that’s when Luz finally moves.
“Hooty—”
She doesn't even need to finish her sentence before he’s helping her move him. Hunter only groans when she touches him, blinking blearily around the room but not looking like he’s able to even process anything.
Luz’s heart is beating frantically in her chest as she leads him towards the couch, not even having the mind to pay attention to the blood stains that will likely be left behind.
And the blood. There’s so much of it that Luz can smell it in the air, the thick metallic scent of it clogging up her nostrils. One of his arms is soaked in red while the entirety of his side is soaked in more. His face is scratched, bleeding but thankfully far less than anywhere else.
Luz tears at his clothes, ripping off his cloak and moving his armor. Her mother is a nurse, she must deal with stuff like this all the time. It’ll be fine.
She repeats the mantra in her head over and over again until she can’t even understand the words anymore.
Hunter wheezes, “What—” He blinks at her, glassy eyes confused.
“Stay still.” She says, tone clipped as she tries to get rid of the last layer.
She peels away his shirt, and that’s when her heart begins to choke her. There’s so much blood, smeared across his arm, side and chest. And even beneath the red of it Luz can see scars, old and new and long and deep.
Her breath shakes and Hunter whimpers and that’s when she starts screaming.
“Eda! Eda, can you please come here!?”
Eda comes stumbling into the living room as Luz tries to put pressure on the wounds, her hands becoming drenched in blood.
“What’s wrong—” Eda abruptly cuts herself off with a surprised noise, and Luz is being gently pushed away a moment later.
“No!” She cries out without thinking, as if her hands leave him she’s sure he’ll die, bleeding out on their couch.
“It’s okay kiddo, I’m gonna help him.” Eda soothes her, taking Luz’s place kneeling in front of the couch, “Go get my medical supplies, okay?”
Luz sniffles but does as she’s told, wiping at her tears with rough hands and she ignores the way that they shake.
The next hour is perhaps the worst of her life. Maybe just under the moment Eda had been captured by Emperor Belos.
But Eda helps Hunter, just as she had said she would, but Luz can hear his stifled whimpers, the whines as she stitches him up.
She said she couldn’t let him fall asleep, not when she thinks he has a concussion. The matted blood on the back of his head had told them as much. Even still, Luz’s heart squeezes at every pained noise he makes, every weak movement he makes to push Eda away.
And as Eda carefully cleans him off, Luz catches the ring of bruises around his neck, the scars that become more visible once the blood has been completely wiped away.
The cardinal flits around Hunter and Eda nervously, perched on the back of the couch. Luz stays and watches, even when Eda says she doesn’t have to. But she wants to stay, to make sure he’s okay, to watch as the blood is cleaned and the wounds are closed.
Waiting in her room and trying to sleep sounds impossible, not when she would know Hunter was awake and in pain the next room over.
Eventually, Eda says she’s done the most that she could. She makes Hunter drink an assortment of potions, and in his half-conscious state he thankfully doesn’t protest, and she finally allows him to sleep. He’s quiet then, but he hardly looks at peace. His brows are still scrunched and his lips are pulled down into a frown, and the bags under his eyes look like bruises with the deep color of them.
But even still, he looks younger than he does when he’s awake. It makes the nicks on his face and marks on his neck pang harshly in Luz’s chest. He’s barely any older than she is.
She pulls her knees up to her chest, sitting on top of her sleeping bag that she had dragged into the living room after Eda had gone back to sleep. King is likely still snoozing away in her room, unbothered.
She looks at Hunter’s sleeping face, the spare blanket that Eda had pulled up to his chin. She wishes that he would suddenly wake up and they could bicker about nothing, like two dumb siblings, or maybe he would tell her more about wild magic if she annoyed him about it for long enough.
But he stays still and quiet, the Palisman—or well, perhaps it’s his Palisman, sleeping in the crook between his neck and shoulder.
Luz slowly lays down, curling up on herself. It’s not long before she falls asleep, blood still under her nails and tear tracks on her cheeks.
_______
Hunter wakes to the feeling of a splitting headache and Rascal asleep under his chin.
He blinks up at the ceiling, his vision clearing and coming into focus in intervals. He doesn’t remember his ceiling looking like that, or his bed feeling so small.
And then he remembers. Belos hurting him, him running away, Rascal flying him somewhere. Blood between his fingers and a staff under his hand.
His heart lodges in his throat and he jerks up, the movement making him feel as if his brain is rattling in his own skull and his side and shoulder ache and sting. But he’s in far less pain than he should be, and when Hunter looks down his wounds have been patched up.
He reaches for them, his hands thankfully still gloved, and runs his fingers over the gauze covering his skin. But he’s also shirtless, and he pouts a bit when he can’t find his own shirt or cloak. His scars ache from the cold, and his shoulders and back feel stiff.
And then he hears a soft snore to his left and his head whips around to see Luz the human sleeping on the floor only about a foot away from him.
He needs to get out of here. He doesn't know how long he’s been away from the coven, and if Belos knew he was fraternizing with The Owl Lady’s human apprentice, he’d kill him.
And perhaps Hunter has learned just how true that threat really is.
He carefully wraps the blanket in his lap around his shoulders, unwilling to think about where it could have possibly come from, and tries to stand up. Rascal chirps loudly and Hunter hushes them, trying to quietly inch his way around the sleeping human and towards the door.
“Where do you think you’re sneaking off to?” A voice suddenly says, and Hunter jumps, twisting around and pulling the blanket around him even tighter.
It’s The Owl Lady, donned in pajamas and holding a mug in her hand. Her eyes are narrowed, but she doesn’t look angry, just assessing.
Hunter refuses to fidget under her mismatched stare, “I’m leaving.” He says, or, well, he tries to. His throat clenches, and the words only come out as a broken rasp. He clears his throat, and represses the urge to cough.
The Owl Lady frowns, her face falling as if he’s something to feel pity for. It makes his hackles rise, his back stiffening until he’s at full height. It hurts, and there’s not much height there to begin with, but there are very few scraps of dignity he’s able to scrape together at the moment.
“Who did that to you?” She asks, blunt as she sips at her drink.
Hunter flinches, and Rascal rubs their head against his face, their feather’s soft against his cheek.
He looks down at Luz. Does she think that he’s just one of the human’s friends? Surely she wouldn’t care who did or didn’t hurt him if she knew who he was, not when it’d likely be more convenient for her if he were dead rather than alive.
“I’m with the Emperor’s Coven.” He rasps with the best unimpressed face that he can manage. If she doesn't kill him now, at the very least he hopes that she’ll just let him leave and be on his way.
But The Owl Lady only snorts, “Yeah, kid, I know who you are. Luz filled me in.”
Hunter’s lips part in surprise before he can stop himself, his head tilting in confusion, “I’m your enemy.”
The Owl Lady’s lips quirk, her brows rising as her eyes sweep down him, “Yeah, you look quite intimidating right now.”
Hunter shuffles, knowing how he must look with his socked feet, a blanket wrapped around him, and injured. His face feels hot.
But then The Owl Lady’s expression suddenly turns serious, “I still want to know who hurt you.”
Hunter’s hands clench into the blanket around him, and he looks away.
“I messed up.” He says quietly.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Hunter’s lip trembles and he clamps his teeth together, his jaw creaking, “It doesn’t matter.”
He can hear The Owl Lady sigh, and he wonders if she’s frustrated with him. He wishes he was wearing his cloak, wishes he had his mask.
“Okay. You don’t have to tell me.” She says, and Hunter’s eyes trail up to her, “Why don’t you just come and eat?”
Somehow, he thinks that she knows the answer to her question anyway.
Rascal chirps, and Hunter begins to wonder if he actually is dead and this is the weirdest afterlife he could have ever been shoved into. He watches her trail off into the kitchen, and the thought doesn’t dissipate for several minutes, his lips pressed together and a strange ache settled behind his eyes.
And when Luz wakes up, he really is convinced that he’s dead. Because she hugs him and probably wouldn’t have stopped if The Owl Lady—or, Eda as she insists he calls her—hadn’t pulled her off. It makes his side flare up in pain, but he hadn’t shoved her off like he had meant to, and he doesn’t think of the reason.
He ends up borrowing one of Luz’s oversized shirts, one with a large picture of a cat with sparkly eyes emblazoned on it. It’s still too short, the hem stopping somewhere just below his waist, but it’s soft. The material is far nicer than the stiff uniforms thats he’s used to wearing.
Luz and him argue and bicker over breakfast over absolutely nothing important. Mostly, she argues over the importance of something sweet to start off the day, and he tells her how ridiculous that sounds—which she doesn’t budge on, not even a little. Their—demon pet eats at the table with them, stacking the food into an army that he “conquers” by eating them all at once.
But afterwards Hunter tells her things he’s learned about wild magic in exchange for being able to read the books that she has. It seems The Owl Lady has a rather decent collection herself. And Luz has a lot of questions that he’s surprised he can answer, his hands moving in the air with a sort of excitement that he tries to temper.
Luz looks far too smug about it, but Hunter ignores it in favor of getting his hands on new reading material.
(“I never would have guessed someone from the Emperor’s Coven would be my go-to wild magic expert.” She had said at some point, holding her face with a sparkle in her eye that Hunter had not liked at all
Hunter had sniffed delicately, scowling at her, “It’s good to know how to counter the enemy, human.”
Luz had given him a decidedly placating look that Hunter had chosen not to comment on.)
He’s not sure how many hours it’s been since Rascal had brought him to The Owl House. Several by now, he’d assume. He’s not typically away from his duties for so long. He certainly knows better than to attempt shirking them so casually.
But staying away from the Coven for a day couldn’t hurt, especially not when he’s gathering valuable information. He’ll return before tomorrow, he swears to himself.
Just after one more book, he promises, and then he’ll return.
And he’ll have to thank Rascal for bringing him here, later. That bird had likely saved his life, as much as Hunter doesn’t want to admit to it. And these people have helped him, despite their separate affiliations. It’s perfectly fine grounds for a truce, even so briefly.
He can stay here, just for a moment, a temporary reprieve. That’s all it is, that’s all he’s doing.
And then he’ll go back. He always does.
Even when he shouldn’t.