Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She found him skipping rocks off the high tide as the sun hovered over the Oakvale docks. His dark hair rustled with the wind and his bright eyes were fixed on the horizon. She just knew he was scheming of captaining a fine vessel across the high seas, sailing until the earth fell away, making landfall only for warm food and warmer women.

As he so often said, wouldn’t it be just grand?

He threw his last rock into the water and put his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his gently bouncing knees.

“More ammunition for you,” she said as she approached, reaching toward him with a smooth pebble in her hands. “Daydreaming again, are we?”

He scoffed. “Now, now! I don’t ‘daydream.’ I only—”

“Make promises to yourself, I know.” She hoisted herself up onto the boulder. “What’s the big promise today? Going to buy yourself a ship, as always?”

“As a matter of fact,” he said, placing his hand upon his chest and stiffening his back, “I am.”

“Made of oak and ebony?”

“Only the very best, of course.”

“As I thought.” She curled her fingers around the rock. “You’ll leave Oakvale far behind you, I’m sure.”

“I may come back from time to time.”

“You’ll never want to.”

She always was right about that. “You could come with me, you know. We’d be unstoppable with your navigation. And of course, my brilliance, marksmanship, good looks, powers of persuasion...”

“Oh, I’m not so desperate to leave as you are.” She slung her arm about his shoulders. “But take Elizabeth with you when you go, won’t you? I’m ill at the thought of her pining over you forever.”

“Elizabeth who?”

A sigh, quiet and disapproving. He heard them from her far too often. “The innkeep’s second daughter. The one with red hair.”

He grinned mischievously. “Ahh, that Elizabeth, yes. She pines?”

She shook her head. “The same way every girl in Oakvale does. There’s naught but blushes in the schoolhouse every time you drop in. You keep your distance from my girls, you hear me?”

He faced her, looking affronted. “You wound me with your accusations, my dear lady.”

“They’re better off falling in love with a good book.”

“Come now. They’re in no danger from me.” So he said, but he winked. “Though I do have some positively enchanting stories.”

“You’re more of a child than they are.” She tugged the pebble from his grasp and held it a moment before skipping it into the water. It bounced ungracefully off the shore and sank with a splop into the shallows.

“Considering they’re nearly adults, I’m not sure that’s the insult you were hoping for.”

She sighed and pulled away from him, sliding off the boulder. “You let me know when you’ve saved up the millions of gold it’ll take to buy that ship of your dreams. I’ll gather your weeping widows to say goodbye.”

“Count on it,” he replied, though it was more a promise to the waves lapping the shore than his retreating friend.

Oakvale was a flurry of activity when he returned to the town center. He was swarmed with the sounds of doors locking left and right, shouts from neighbor to neighbor, and guards trying to keep the citizens calm.

He grabbed a barmaid by the arm as she flitted past. “What’s going on here?” he demanded, his voice harsher than he’d intended.

“There you are!” she gasped. “You’d best get inside somewhere, quick—Kyre came back from Barrow Fields and said he saw ghosts, he did! A whole pack of ‘em!”

“Are they coming here?”

“No one’ll say for certain. Hook and Lester went to check, see, but we’ve not seen them for… an hour, maybe?” She gave him a severe look. “You’d best get inside,” she repeated firmly.

He frowned darkly and released her arm. She squeezed his shoulder, a concerned look in her wide eyes, before running toward a cluster of homes. Others followed her, but he caught a glimpse of a lone figure with flowing hair keeping watch by the center oak. Her.

He called her name and took a steady pace toward her. “Why are you still here? Everyone else is fleeing.”

She turned to him and her face was drained of color. “Somebody has to watch the fence. Two of the guards went to investigate some ghost claims and they haven’t come back.”

“Why all the sudden panic?”

“It’s never gone on this long.” She bit at her lip. “There were some… sounds. Some horrible, screaming sounds from the fields. I-I don’t know what’s going on. I have a terrible feeling about all of this.”

He clenched his jaw and looked toward his home—a cozy cottage tucked into a corner by the docks.

She followed his gaze and scowled. Like a spark catching tinder, she understood. “No. Don’t you dare.”

“Someone has to look. If it’s dangerous, I’m the best-suited, don’t you agree?”

“Your gun won’t save you forever. Please, just stay here. The guards will take care of it like they always do. Just… don’t leave me.”

He touched her shoulder gently. “Relax. I’ll be fine. I’m me, aren’t I?” He turned away, leaving her to wilt down onto a bench as he retrieved his rifle from his home before setting off toward Barrow Fields.

Chapter Text

A thick cloud of fog hung in the air, leaving a smothering haze over the field like a blanket. He furrowed his brow and squinted through the fog, scanning the horizon. “Hook? Lester?”

There was no response. He set a hand on his hip and took a few steps further. “This joke is in very poor taste.”

A mournful noise danced through the valley, barely heard over the babbling river. He shook his head. The guards – and the townspeople, for that matter – were so easily frightened by ghost stories that wind was all it took to stir them into a frenzy.

He was just about to turn away when he heard a scream. It was shrill and pained, feminine in nature, and it came from the entrance to Darkwood. It very nearly sounded like her. He loaded his rifle and began the hike into the forest. Its name was far from unwarranted; nearly all daylight was blocked by the fog, barren trees, and thick clouds. The water was deceptively deep in some places and surprisingly shallow in others. He stepped in so many patches of mud he lost any hope of salvaging his shoes—a true shame, really, since they were imported from Knothole Glade—but he might get some recompense from the grateful villagers once he could assure them it was safe.

Another scream resounded throughout the marsh and he quickened his pace. He was ankle-deep in murky water with no dry spots in sight. The rusted gates to the deserted Chapel of Skorm were wide open and a lit candle sat on a rock protruding from the water at the door’s threshold. He turned toward it, but a flash of movement in the corner of his eye pulled his attention away.

Kneeling by a half-submerged statue was a woman in a tattered white dress. She was hooded and whispering quietly, either praying or chattering mindlessly to herself.

The villager cleared his throat. “Miss? Are you… err…”

Her head turned and he was met with a black, foggy mass instead of a face. He yelped and fired his weapon instinctively at the “woman.” She recoiled in pain when it hit her and screamed again, an ear-splitting shriek that nearly brought her adversary to his knees. She faded a bit, though it wasn’t clear if that was just an illusion from the monstrous noise.

Glob-like orbs of light spun into the water and the shadowy outlines of little girls rose from its swampy depths. They swarmed their target, slicing at his knees with razor-sharp knives. He fired his rifle at them as quickly as he was able; every time he hit one, it squealed miserably and dissolved into nothing.

Just as he was poised to destroy the last of the little terrors, the wraithlike woman hissed, “Your life is as empty as your dreams. Your name will never command respect.”

He was surprised enough to drop his aim, and the hellish child lashed out at his feet. She stabbed her little blade into the top of his left foot and he cried out in pain. His knee buckled and it took all of his energy to keep himself steady enough to bash the ghostly brat’s head with the butt of his rifle. She, like the others, fell away, and he turned his attention to the wraith.

She had dropped back to her knees in what appeared to be pain, though she still hovered just above the water’s surface. He fired his weapon at her over and over again, each shot met with a wail of agony, until a blast of force swept him off his feet.

“Everyone you love will die in pain! They will scream for you as they wither away!”

He clambered upright and pulled the trigger of his rifle. Nothing happened. It, and the gunpowder inside it, was drenched. With an infuriated growl, he tossed it away and drew his only other weapon: a knife he’d only ever skinned animals with.

More of those twisted children emerged from the water and he swung at them ungracefully. As he danced away from their blades, the wraith whispered to him more and more. “You will find nothing but disease and misery until the day you die. You will fade away like your parents, dying in a bed for too many years, naught but a burden on the ones who claim to love you.”

He bellowed in his rage and sprinted toward the wraith as she again fell to her knees. He plunged his knife into her head over and over again, and as she faded away like the children she’d summoned, he slowed in his assault. He, too, knelt in the swamp, his arms limp at his sides. His knife, covered in tar-like sludge, splashed into the water. To catch his breath, he remained motionless for a few moments and shut his eyes tightly. The wraith’s words spun through his head like the ticking of a clock. It was repetitive, incessant… and it opened his eyes to the passage of time.

He pushed himself up and brushed off his vest. It was a force of habit, really; he did nothing but smudge the mud and grime further. His foot ached and he could see blood in the water around his ankles. He would be lucky if it didn’t fester thanks to this foul swamp. The glimmer of steel caught his eye and he retrieved his wet rifle from the reeds it had landed among. Once he had it propped up on his shoulder, he gave a deep sigh and began to limp out of the marsh.

In passing, he glanced at the metal gates guarding the ruined Chapel. He stopped dead in his tracks when he realized the candle was smoking and the gates were shut tightly.

Chapter Text

The dark-haired villager wanted to collapse when he arrived back in Oakvale, but he held himself high until his friend started to fret over him.

“You’re covered in blood, now, look at you! You’re drenched, your foot is split open, your gun is useless now…”

“I’m fine, really.”

She set her hands on her hips and gave him that look. He was accustomed to it by now, and he knew that look was the embodiment of her severity.

“Oh, don’t put up such a fuss. You’ll put me up in your home for weeks and not once let me out to see my adoring fans.”

She scowled and began pulling him toward the center of town. “You won’t have many of them if you keep this up. Hook and Lester are dead, no thanks to you.”

He stopped and pulled her against him. “Will you stop chattering and listen to me? They were dead before I set foot in that rotting place. I got out with my life. Is that not enough for you?”

She sighed, and a tense silence rose between them. Some of the other villagers began to stare. “It’s enough,” she said finally. “But if you don’t let me tend to you, I may have to cut that foot off.”

“I do need that, you know.”

“Then get inside.” She pushed him into her house and locked the door behind her to stave off any inquisitive villagers. He reclined on her bed and watched her busy herself, readying a bowl of hot water, several cloths, and some tools.

“Moonlighting as a physician now, are we?”

“Kyre’s in shock,” she replied, running her silver comb through her hair and pulling it back into a knot. “Hasn’t said a word since he told us about the screams in Barrow Fields.”

“Hmph. A fine time for him to be traumatized. Isn’t old Miriam still sickly?”

“Her family’s tending to her now. They say she’d rather die in her home.”

He sighed and folded his arms behind his head. “And so the schoolteacher takes up the bone saw?”

“I’m sure this will shock you, but I volunteered. The girls are out of the schoolhouse for now while everything in the Fields gets cleared up, so I don’t have much else to do.” She returned to him with a wooden stool and set her implements on the bedside dresser. “Now, what is it that attacked you?”

He shifted again and propped himself up on his elbows. His mouth felt dry and he had no idea how to respond. What was it?

“Well?”

“A ghost,” he said. “Or something like it.”

She pursed her lips. “This is no time for jests. Come on, was it a balverine? Hobbes?”

“It was something I’ve never seen before.”

She raised an eyebrow skeptically. “And you say you know everything.”

“Would I lie?”

“Yes.”

He clenched his teeth when she began cleaning out the wound on his foot. “Would I lie about something like this?”

She pressed cloth to his foot to absorb the blood and pus that seeped out of it. “No. But come on, now. A ghost?”

“You’ve heard the stories of walking dead in the cemetery by Bowerstone, haven’t you?”

“Those are just rumors.”

He clucked his tongue. “You need to expand your horizons.”

“You even said they were nonsense!”

He reached out and clasped her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “This thing spoke to me. It knew my name.”

She pursed her lips. “What did it say?”

He heard its voice in his ears, like claws scraping across flagstone. Your life is as empty as your dreams.

“Are you alright?”

“Hmm? Oh… yes. Yes, fine. It was nonsense, really. Madness.”

She scowled, but shook her head and poured warm water over his foot. “See? Now you’re lying.”

“My dear, I—agh!” He snatched his leg away from her when she prodded his skin with her fingers. “You’re mad!”

“Oh, shut it. Or should I tell your ‘adoring fans’ that you squeal whenever a lady touches you?”

His lips curled down. “I’m not sure you’re entirely qualified for this.”

“Stop being a child, will you?”

“Only when you stop being so—nngh!”

An odd warmth tingled up his leg, stopping roughly at his knee and numbing everything below it. “What, err… what exactly is that you’re rubbing over my leg?”

“A poultice. It’s an old family recipe.”

He winced again as she lathered it over his wound. “And it does… what?”

She didn’t answer, not immediately – she wrapped his ankle in several layers of bandages, her tongue stuck between her teeth, and then rose to her feet with a soft sigh of satisfaction. “It does this!” she announced proudly, displaying the arcing scar on her arm. “You remember when I fell from the cliffs, don’t you?”

“If anyone in Oakvale doesn’t, I’d be shocked,” he grumbled. Truthfully, he’d paced outside her cottage for days until she woke, but he’d paid the villagers handsomely to forget they ever saw it. It took him almost a year to recover all that gold.

She rolled her eyes. “It closes wounds and helps them heal, that’s what I mean. So you should thank me – and for Avo’s sake, rest.”

“Fine, fine.” He swatted her worrying hands away and slunk back to his home, waving her back halfway through the village. The people gathered anxiously around the tree in the center of town looked up at him. Many asked how he was feeling. He answered them dismissively. Wearily.

He crawled into bed as soon as his front door swung shut, but he refused to close his eyes. Every time he did, he heard that horrible creature’s voice again.

You clutch your impossible dreams so tightly. They will consume you as flame consumes wood.

He consulted a few of the books on his shelves – bestiaries, journals, fantasies. He was about to finish an old songbook discarded from the schoolhouse, banned for being too grim, when an illustration caught his eye.

A woman, hovering above the ground, in a long red dress with a shadow for a face. The rhyme below was water-stained, but he could make out a few lines in the middle.

Ankle-bite, ankle-bite

The little one comes out at night

She whispers, she whispers

And then she calls her sisters

And then you turn around to see

Her mother is a red banshee!

Chapter Text

Despite his friend’s warnings – and pleadings – the dark-haired villager traveled to Bowerstone. He needed to find out more about these “banshees” and what they could do if he had any hope of protecting Oakvale against them. It wasn’t like he could request a Hero. That age was long gone. So he had to do it himself.

And who ever said he wasn’t heroic, anyway?

So he went into the city, sprawling and grand, and searched every library and bookstore for any mention of magical or demonic spirits. He found nothing. The next day, he used every other resource he could think of: tavern rumors, magic shops, rickety inns, wandering traders. No one had any idea what he spoke of. One old man ran him out of his emporium for “unnerving the customers.”

Empty-handed and not just a little frustrated, he leaned against the bridge and sighed loudly. How could these creatures be so bloody elusive that not a single person even knew of them?

“If I am just imagining this blasted ‘banshee,’” he muttered to himself, “I’m going to be very, very cross.”

A trembling finger tapped his shoulder, and he spun around to see a woman – or at least, what might have been a woman before her skin shrank against her bones and her teeth rotted away.

“Eh?” she grunted coarsely. “Y’seen a howler?”

“A… what?”

“A howler, boy. A banshee. A woman in a long dress, shadows for a face, whispering yer darkest fears. Secrets none dare voice aloud, things no living soul knows – the howlers know.”

The Oakvale villager scowled. “And you know that I saw this?”

“Been makin’ a stir ‘round the city,” she wheezes before a long, wet coughing fit. “Nobody here knows ‘bout the banshees. Don’t get seen by the living for long, that’s a fact. ‘Cept me. Saw a man face one – little shadows danced ‘round his feet until he tripped and then… the woman in the red dress sucked out his soul.”

He grimaced distastefully. “Ah… lovely. Now, what exactly is this… whatever you said?”

“A banshee,” the old woman crooned. “A banshee’s what killed that man. Killed far more than just him. You seen one, I knows. I knows. Y’got that look about ya. Howlers’re old, son. Older than I, older than Albion, maybe. Old enough to kill a man with just a look.”

“But they don’t have any… oh, nevermind.”

“You see another one, boy, you run. You hear me? You run!” The woman screeched a horrible noise and raised one crooked finger toward him. “You best get home while you can, son! You’re marked now! They’ll chase you until they drink your life like water! I seen it! I seen it!”

He felt an awful urge to turn and run, but he stood his ground and gritted his teeth. “Fascinating. Now, unless you have anything that can actually help me—”

“But I do, I do.” She opened her satchel and handed him a book with brittle pages. Its cover was thick and damp, like it had been soaked in water. “This is their book, see. They won’t touch you so long as you’ve got this. You go to that temple in the marsh and give it back, they’ll turn your fears to gifts.”

The banshee’s words lingered in his mind. You will fade away, dying in a bed for too many years. “And what, exactly, does that mean?”

The old woman’s eyes glinted and she grinned. “You fear death, boy? You bring that book home, you’ll live forever.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“I did what they wanted,” she rasped. “Said I wanted to be with my daughter forever.” She bared her teeth and lifted her necklace from beneath the neckline of her soiled dress. “Now I am.”

When he saw the cord, decorated with a child’s teeth, he abandoned his pride and sprinted down the bridge. Her voice rang above the city as she screamed you’re next, you’re next until the guards hauled her away.

Chapter Text

When he returned to Oakvale, the village was in disarray – again.

His friend ran to him, her long hair streaming behind her, and his gut fell when he saw that she was carrying a pistol. She almost bowled him over when she embraced him.

“Thank Avo you’re back!”

He only sighed. “You really can’t manage without me, can you?”

She slapped his arm hard. “This is no time for jokes! Kyre is gone!”

His head fell lower on his shoulders and he leaned against his rifle. “What do you mean, gone?”

“Nobody knows! He just… left in the middle of the night! He’s gone!”

“People don’t disappear.”

“Of course they don’t, you arsehole! Something happened to him! Maybe something took him, o-or he went into the marsh, or—”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “I’m sure he’s fine. I just came through Barrow Fields and I didn’t see him anywhere. He probably just went to Bowerstone. Maybe he hates long goodbyes.”

“Try explaining that to the others. Everyone is terrified they’ll be next. I’m the only one bloody brave enough to come outside!”

He held her gently by the shoulders to keep her steady. “Shh. It’s alright. I’m back, you’re safe, it’s alright.”

A dreadful scream came from the Fields, and she clutched his vest.

“Oh, heaven help us, not again!”

He drew his rifle and pried her fingers off his clothes. “Listen to me, listen well. You run home and you shut everyone inside, do you understand? Everyone. Even the guards.”

“No! You’ll be killed! Look what happened last time!”

“I can do it,” he promised. “I can do it.”

She met his eyes and watched them. After a moment, she nodded once and said, “Come back to me. Please,” then dashed into town and began warning everyone.

He set his jaw and loaded his rifle before slinging his satchel over his shoulder and marching back into Barrow Fields. They were shrouded in fog, denser than that of the marsh.

“Alright, ‘banshee,’” he muttered under his breath. “Let’s see how you fare this time.”

As if summoned, the shadowy figure emerged from the fog. “The defender returns. Have you no regard for your own life?”

He shot at her, but his bullet passed through her form as her white orbs shattered against the ground. In their place, the shade children rose and charged toward him.

He slashed at them with his knife if they got too close, but concentrated his gunfire on the banshee. She hissed in pain whenever he landed a shot or blow against her daughters.

“You will never amount to anything! You are a coward who cannot stand the fear of fulfilling your own dreams!”

“Shut up!” he roared, flinging his knife at her hooded face. Against all odds, it hit her squarely where her nose should have been, and she screeched viciously and clutched her head as she thrashed about in the air.

A veritable army of her little ankle-biters rose from the ground and he began to shoot at them, too. Now he wished he’d purchased a pistol in Bowerstone, but he didn’t have enough time to contemplate it as he frantically bashed the butt of his gun into the faces of the shadow children.

“Your… life… is… pointless!” the banshee rasped laboriously.

He fired his gun at her hazy body until it jammed, and then he started slashing her with his knife. He only stopped when he stumbled forward after hitting naught but fog.

As he knelt in the damp grass, his hands and blade covered in a sticky black mess, he exhaled slowly and thought of the old woman.

You go to that temple in the marsh, they’ll turn your deepest fears to gifts.

He looked up toward the dying trees of Darkwood and watched the sun glint off the domed roof of the Chapel of Skorm. A temple in the marsh.

Maybe he would have to pay a visit to those gates.

Chapter Text

When he returned to Oakvale with clean hands and his head high, she was combing her hair on a bench. She rose as soon as she saw him and hugged him tightly, lingering against his chest.

“I’m so happy to see you!” she mumbled into his vest. “I’ve had such a dreadful feeling all day and I was going mad just sitting here waiting for you to return.”

“I told you I could do it, didn’t I?” He grinned as he settled his chin atop her head. “And was there ever any doubt? I killed the last one. I’m me, after all.”

She smacked a hand against his back. “Get off it, won’t you? You’re lucky to be alive!”

He chuckled. “Such faithlessness from you, my dear. There was a time when you actually believed in me, you know.”

She lifted her head to see him. “I know, I’m sorry. Everything’s just been happening so quickly. My students are terrified, Miriam passed last night, the tavern is closed… it’s all a mess and I don’t know what to do.”

He dropped his satchel onto the grass. “You don’t need to do anything. I’m here now. You know I can fix it.”

“Right, because you can do anything,” she muttered. “You can’t leave anymore. We need you here.”

He began stroking her hair softly, that specific way he knew she liked. The way that had half the village thinking they were married and the other half swearing they were siblings instead. Nobody ever did believe them when they insisted they were just friends.

“You worry too much,” he insisted. “Those… things will stop butting their heads against our walls once they understand we can fight back.”

“But what if they don’t? Without you, I don’t know what we would have done. None of us can fight like you.”

“I know, dear.”

“We need you here,” she repeated intently. “I need you here. I’m afraid to leave the village at this rate.”

“I know, dear.”

She pulls away from him and crosses her arms as she glares toward Barrow Fields. “I’ve always hated that bloody marsh. What with how wet the Fields have been getting lately you know it’s only a matter of time before it’s right at our doorstep. Then what will we do?”

He smiled warmly at her. “Why, we’ll buy a ship and sail away, that’s what.”

“You and that damned ship. You know I love your dreams as much as you do but…” She shook her head and sighed. “Just be realistic. Please. You can’t just run away from everything. And neither can I.”

When he answered with nothing but silence, she returned to the town square to assuage the villagers it was safe to emerge again.

 He scowled at himself. Or maybe her. He couldn’t decide which of them was being unreasonable. Was he too unconcerned or was she too afraid?

It didn’t especially matter. He picked up his satchel again and made the long walk back to his cottage on the hill and sat down on his bed for some much-needed rest.

But first he opened the book the old woman had given him. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t just dropped it in the river on his way back, after all – something had just… compelled him to keep it. So he scanned its pages, looked over its illustrations of shadow figures and dying humans, and attempted to make sense of its text.

It looked like gibberish, mostly. Some was legible, some was not, and most was in another language. Some were understandable, but didn’t follow any sort of grammar he’d ever learned. He was of half a mind to show it to his friend – after all, who better to try translating something than a teacher? – but then he felt a deep, resounding no in his gut and thought better of it.

What would he tell her, anyway? “A crazy old biddy gave me a strange book and told me to bring it to the marsh if I want to get rid of my deepest fears. Can you read it for me?”

No, definitely not. Definitely a bad idea. Definitely something that would have her scolding him for a week after they dropped the book down the nearest well.

Oh, his dear, dear friend. As much as he adored her, she could be so terribly dense at times.

Chapter Text

Not even a week later, under cover of night, he stood at the rusted gates of the Chapel of Skorm with the old book in hand. He narrowed his eyes at the two candles that burned by his feet and the reddish glow they cast. He touched the handles and a gust of wind blew them wide open, extinguishing the candles. He staggered backwards, but regained his balance in time to see a shadow dart across the path to the Chapel.

So he straightened his vest and set off toward it.

A mournful howl sounded throughout the marsh and he shivered. The trees themselves seemed to bend away and the thorns parted at his feet as he walked the narrow, flooded path, his eyes never leaving the ruined building before him. Its catacombs had been revealed by time and erosion, and the old Chapel was now just an ornament atop the great stone complex beneath.

He stared at the carvings on the doors. Worn images of monsters and demons covered the panels, reminiscent of the illustrations in the book. Again, the doors opened on their own when he reached for them, and the hair on his arms stood on end.

The catacombs were lit with a few sparse torches – though who lit them was uncertain – and covered in cobwebs. He could feel the disgusted expression he wore freezing on his face. Some of the coffins were broken, some were still sealed, and others looked as if they’d been carefully and purposefully opened.

He descended flight after flight of stairs, refusing to linger in any one room for too long. Just when he thought the ruin would never end, he nearly stepped off a ledge and into an abyss. He threw a shard of a broken pillar into the blackness and it never hit the bottom.

He backed up until he hit the wall… and very nearly jumped through it when a tall shadow with red eyes materialized on the other side of the chasm.

“Welcome,” it intoned in a deep, resounding voice.

Another appeared by its side. “Welcome,” it echoed.

A third completed the row and they all opened their arms. “Welcome,” they said in unison.

“You bear our tome,” the first announced. “Do you seek our boon?”

His mouth was dry and his throat was swollen. His knees felt weak, but he stood tall and managed, “What are you? What boon?”

“You have come before the Court of Shadows.” Whenever the first creature talked, the walls themselves seemed to shake. “We can see your fears, and we can remove them.”

“There must be a catch.”

“There is… a price.”

He swallowed. “What sort of price?”

“For each, it differs.”

“Of course it does,” he muttered quietly. “What is my price?”

“You must first tell us your wish.”

“Stop attacking Oakvale,” he replied before he could think. Then he cursed his impulsiveness.

The three shadows whispered among themselves for a moment. The leader turned and declared, “We are not the foe you faced.”

“No? Explain the banshees.” He crossed his arms and set his jaw, despite the fear rising like bile in his throat.

“What is your wish?” demanded the first shadow. It seemed to be getting impatient. “You waste time with your stalling. We can already see your darkest fear.”

He froze. So the banshees really were the handmaidens of these… monsters.

“You fear time,” they chanted together. “You fear death.”

His words failed, and he stood lamely as he floundered for something, anything to say.

“Ask for our boon.”

He weakly asked, “What is your price?”

“Life for life. You will live forever, but time must be taken from others. Once a year, you will send us a subject. Once a year, their time will be yours to live.”

He shut his eyes. The very walls seemed to whisper never die, never die, and as the shadows stared down at him with their blood-red eyes, his knees wobbled and he knelt on the floor.

“Your dreams will be within your grasp. You will reign eternal on land and sea. Love and life and all its pleasures will be yours for the taking. You will be immortal. You have but to say yes.”

His eyes snapped open, and in a voice that tasted like someone else’s, he screamed yes.

Chapter Text

A frigid rush of air slammed into him and he fell on his back. The tome’s pages flipped wildly and it spun around in the air before dropping into the abyss.

“Your boon is granted,” hissed the three shadows. “Now, lives for yours.”

He shot up and clambered to his feet, realizing what he’d done, and he took off in a sprint for the stairs. He took them two – no, three at a time, and raced all the way through the wailing marshes back to Oakvale.

He heard the screams from the Chapel’s gates. Men, women, children, sobbing and yelling and dying.

He reached the fence line too late. The village was already burning. Banshees descended upon the town and their ankle-biters flooded the streets. Blood and sludge and grime covered the grassy paths and weathered porches of Oakvale.

His village. His price.

He heard her voice, a long, drawn-out scream. He leapt over the fence, bolted toward her house, flung open the door… and found nothing but her silver comb. So he ran for the schoolhouse.

Her students were scattered across the yard. He stepped over their little bodies until he reached the door, where a tall banshee was hovering. She roared angrily at him, but disappeared and let him pass, and he pushed aside the tables and desks until he reached the back of the hall.

She laid in a pool of blood, clutching her stomach – or what was left of it.

He cried her name and skidded to a halt beside her, gripping her hands, pulling her onto his lap, cradling her head as she gasped for breath.

“You… where…?”

“Shh.” He pressed a trembling finger to her lips. “It’s alright. I’m back, you’re safe.” A sob escaped his chest and he clutched her tighter. “It’s alright.”

“Please…”

“I’ll never leave you again. Come what may, I’ll stay with you forever.”

She exhaled painfully and curled her bloody fingers around his vest. “You are… so brave. I’ve always—ngh—wanted to be brave like you.”

He shook his head and tears dripped onto her cheeks. “No, dear, no. I’m… I’m a coward. I’m such a bloody coward.”

“You go and… buy your ship. Name her for me… won’t you?”

“I will. I’ll never forget you.”

“Run… love, run.” Her eyes fluttered and she coughed up a mouthful of blood. “Run!”

He dropped her back to the floor as she breathed her last and dashed out of the schoolhouse, out of Oakvale. He was halfway through Darkwood when he tripped and collapsed into the mud, weeping.

The sight of her broken body burned in his mind. He curled his fists and pounded the ground, splattering dirty water all over his clothes and face, and wailed louder than he ever had.

Her silver comb slipped from his pocket as he rocked back and forth. He lifted it gingerly and cupped it in his filthy hands, and then he cried harder.

He’d never see her beautiful hair again. That teasing smile. That knowing look whenever he lied. Never hear her singing at gatherings or combing her hair by the sea or clutching his shirt and insisting that she had a bad feeling.

He cried himself to sleep in the mud, head heavy and limbs sore. His vest didn’t matter. His rifle didn’t matter. His lovely imported shoes didn’t matter.

He murdered everyone he knew. He murdered her. Only that mattered now.

Chapter Text

The dark-haired wanderer sold everything he had and took out as many loans as he could. Still, it wasn’t enough, so he worked for a year. His hands were rough by its end and he had burns on his fingers from the forge… but his overseer didn’t have time to punish everyone else for late mornings once his annual visit to the Shadow Court was through.

“I’m here to order a ship,” said the wanderer, proudly dropping a heavy sack of coin onto the master shipbuilder’s desk. “Made of oak and ebony. The grandest you can build.”

“Her name?”

He said her name, just as he promised, and the builder shuffled through some paperwork on his desk before pursing his lips.

“Already one in the registry,” he grunted. “Second choice?”

He faltered. Name her for me, she’d said. And after so many months of waiting, planning, working, preparing… he couldn’t.

He ground his teeth. “The Banshee,” he replied firmly. “Call her the Banshee.”

Months passed. Every day, he’d visit the docks and marvel at his new vessel as she came together piece by piece. When her nameplate was finally fastened on, he saved his tears for his pillow and tried to feel pride instead. She gleamed in the sunlight, her silver accents casting rays across the wharf, and his chest swelled like a father setting eyes on his first child.

His first steps on the Banshee’s deck were surreal. The wood creaked beneath his feet and the ship swayed with the waves. It was everything he’d dreamt of and more.

He slipped the silver comb out of his pocket and pressed it to his lips for the briefest of moments before replacing it. “You’d love it here,” he whispered into the wind. “She’s ours.”

The day the Banshee crashed, forty-six years, four months, and twenty-nine days past her christening, the dark-haired pirate carved her name into the ship’s broken bow and watched it sink below the waves. His first mate of twelve years merely shook his head. None of the others understood.

He didn’t even know if he understood anymore. He could order a new ship. He could capture a new ship. In fact, after the Banshee sank, he boarded the second ship of his small fleet and sailed it back to Bowerstone for proper repairs.

But something about that vessel would stay with him. Every subsequent ship had silver accents. The rings, the hooks, the handles – if it could be made of metal, he ordered it in silver. There was no compromise.

So as he stood on the docks, carefully watching the workers assemble his newest ship, he rubbed his thumb across the edge of her silver comb and sighed quietly.

Even now, almost fifty years later, his chest ached when he thought of her. So he made a choice.

He dropped the comb into the sea, and named his ship The Shadow.

Chapter Text

As he posed for a statue, the dark-haired king of Bloodstone let his gaze wander about the sitting room. Portrait upon portrait of himself hung on the walls, each from another year, another look, another man. He could try on any hat he wanted, play whatever game he wished, and no one could tear him down. Politics? Of course. Pirating? Done that. Business? He’d fix the economy overnight.

It was only when his eyes fell on a silver hand mirror that his thoughts darkened. He made a mental note to discard that particular item. It was a gift – from whom, he didn’t know and didn’t care – and silver was not his color. Gold or platinum, nothing else.

No, silver was her color.

He very nearly forgot the name of that woman from Oakvale. Nearly. He knew he’d never let himself, no matter how much he wanted to leave it behind with the rest of those memories. His nightmares only grew more persistent as the years rolled by – grim visions of blood and fire and ghostly figures in the marsh. They’d become so bad he stopped walking through Wraithmarsh altogether.

He’d considered moving, leaving Bloodstone for the rats and scum. Maybe Bower Lake, if he could civilize the place. He was growing weary of walking past hovels just to see the shore.

He blinked away the images last night’s dreams had burned into the back of his mind. Her, combing her hair, singing mournfully by the sea, but when she turned around her face was shadow and she unleashed a terrible scream. Her students rose from the ground, just bones, and attacked him viciously until he awoke in a cold sweat.

He hated his dreams. He hated his past. He hated her.

And he hated the dreadful silence in his mansion. He called for the sculptor to pause, then clapped his hands to summon one of his henchmen.

A dirty man with rotted teeth appeared at the door. “You called, sir?”

“Yes, erm… whoever you are. Fetch a cellist. Or violinist. A fiddler, even. Bring me a musician.” He waved the man away just as quickly as he’d arrived. “Go on. Laissez-moi tranquille.”

He hurried off, his bare feet pattering on the floors. The Pirate King hoped he actually understood what a musician was.

And just then, his door opened again and a lovely, lovely visitor walked in as if they were on a mission.

“Well,” he purred, finally dropping those unsightly memories in the past where they belonged. “Hello there.”