Chapter Text
1920
At eighteen years old, there are a lot of things Doyoung isn’t sure about: Magic, whoever the ‘Them’ that Taeil keeps blabbering on about is, and what he wants for his birthday, seeing how everyone suddenly wants to know. It is tomorrow, admittedly. But still.
One thing he does know is that Ten is unbearably annoying. He makes Doyoung want to grab him by the collar and tighten his dumb tie until he can finally be quiet - the only reason he hasn’t is that Kun would stop him, before proceeding to ignore him until he apologises to Ten. The only reason he knows this is because it’s happened before. (Kun’s silent treatment is scathing - Doyoung cracked after the fifth disappointed glance.)
“Doyoung, focus, please. If you add too much eye of newt, you’ll ruin the entire dish.”
Doyoung also isn't sure why, at eighteen years old, he has to be involved in this witch thing. It was cool at first, being exposed to this new world, watching Kun and Ten discover their magic types - telekinesis and time manipulation respectively - but it is getting close to the six-month mark of them all meeting at Taeil’s doorstep and Doyoung has yet to have any life-altering self-realisations. Taeil repeatedly assures him that not everyone progresses at the same rate, but Doyoung has always been a quick one. That’s why his friends call him ‘bunny’ - he was sharp, precise. And he looks like one, all round-eyed and bunny-toothed, but that’s beside the point. There has never been a subject Doyoung is ‘bad’ at, and he hates that the one his fellows find so easy is the one he just can't grasp.
“You can just tell by his look, he’s overthinking something. Right Kunnie?”
It appears that none of them are paying attention to Taeil’s curry recipe; Kun wiggles his fingers and an empty inkpot hits Ten in the back of the head. If he wasn't so preoccupied, Doyoung might laugh. Instead, all he can focus on is the ease with which Kun uses his magic, the way it comes so naturally.
(Taeil tells them they were born with magic, like a secret potential hidden away. Doyoung wonders if he will ever be able to dig his out.)
Seeing how their focus has all wandered, Taeil heaves a heavy sigh and sends them away.
Ten is outside the door before Taeil can finish, disappearing from sight completely and reappearing behind them. He snickers, looking at the top of Doyoung’s head. Doyoung reaches up and -
The mother bird bites his finger, and his palm catches on one of the nest’s twigs as he pulls away. Kun levitates the nest slowly, and Doyoung lunges for Ten.
He falls on the floor when Ten disappears again.
“Damn you, Chittaphon!”
*
Doyoung has bird poo in his hair when he arrives at their accommodation. Taeil is somehow very rich (Doyoung thinks it’s fraud - he doesn't do anything to earn money, so he must just be creating it. There must be some spell for that.) and pays for his three apprentices to live in the nearby village. It was a small, close-knit community. Witches often lived that way; it helps them hide. Every village has a few loonies.
Taeil takes his role as the village loony very seriously. Every week, at the exact time, he goes out to the shops, collects the necessities, before standing on the same street corner and yelling warnings about a demon invasion - and if that isn't enough to drive away any potentially curious humans, Taeil also lives in a lopsided, rickety house, built half in brick, half appearing to be carved out of a very large tree stump. A brick turret stands on the left, slumping severely as if it doesn’t have the strength to right itself. Even the weathercock is horizontal, pointing up to the sky. Humans see anything with poor structural integrity and run in the opposite direction, which Doyoung supposes makes sense.
It won't ever fall over, though. Taeil's house - aptly named House - will never fall, and it will follow Taeil wherever he goes, in whatever form he desires. That’s Taeil’s magic. Doyoung thinks it’s weird, and can't find a name to describe it, but supposes that fits Taeil, the enigma he tends to be.
House currently resides directly on the border between the village and the woods. The woods are ancient, older than any other living thing, and they're alive. Not just alive, but sentient. Ten and Kun never believe him, but Doyoung sees them waving at him sometimes, when no one else is paying attention.
Doyoung looks out the window while his bath is filling up. His hair is wet from where he scrubbed the poo out in the sink, and a chill runs down his spine when he pushes the glass open and the air of the fading winter invades.
They're waving at him. Kun once said it was probably the wind, but Doyoung disagrees. They aren’t at all in sync, as if each branch has a mind of its own. Some move fast, frantic. Others didn't move at all but Doyoung could feel them.
Ten says Doyoung thinks too much, and Doyoung is inclined to agree. Because once the thought of entering the woods is planted in his mind, Doyoung can’t dig it out.
He takes a bath, still thinking about it. He gets changed, tries to mimic Taeil’s curry recipe he only half paid attention to (added too much eye of newt - nasty), rearranges his record collection, and he’s still thinking about it. From the depths of his wardrobe, he pulls out a leather messenger bag and begins packing.
He doesn't remember when the thoughts changed from entering once to never leaving. (He doesn't care.)
He’s debating whether to jump out of the window or take the back door when the front door swings open and Ten yells out, “Honey, we’re home!”
The smart thing to do would’ve been to ignore him, pretend he was never here. But Doyoung gets infinitely pissed off by Ten calling him any of his various pet names, so he yells back, “Shut up!” and then, to stop any suspicion when he does sneak out, adds “I’m going to sleep, there’s curry in the fridge.”
Kun yells his thanks up the stairs and Doyoung shuts his door.
It doesn't occur to him that those could be their final words to each other until he’s landed with a muted thud on a bush he didn't remember ever being there, and which didn't seem to take any damage from cushioning his fall. But, questioning seemingly indestructible plants wasn't exactly high on his list of important things to consider.
(It should be.)
He's running away. He tries to convince himself otherwise, that the woods are calling to him and he has to know, which isn't entirely a lie but it’s close enough to one.
Doyoung doesn't like liars.
He's running away because he doesn't want to fall behind, because he's afraid he can't meet the expectations set for him. He’s afraid of Them, too.
Taeil talks about Them, sometimes. It’s always vague mutterings, like he isn't sure exactly what to tell his apprentices. Taeil says They are the beginning and the end, the light and the dark, everything and nothing - but not a god. They are witchcraft itself; not just that, but they are life itself. The only thing beyond Them is the death of the physical body. Doyoung thinks that sounds fairly god-like.
Taeil says They would even make sure his apprentices can find their way back if ever they get lost. Doyoung hopes that is metaphorical, because right now he doesn't want to be found. Especially not by Them.
So, he runs into the woods and doesn't question the way the branches follow him. The trees are tall, deciduous varieties: branches bone-bare and leaves cushioning the ground, dead. It’s damp and it’s cold. Doyoung hates it. He hates the fact he didn't remember a coat even more. The cold nips at his gloved hands, hungry for blood and flesh; whatever it can get, it takes. Including the scarf Doyoung had hurriedly wrapped around his neck.
A tag team - the wind claws at the fabric until it gives up and unravels, then the cold begins its assault. Doyoung gasps, but he’s too slow, and the knit flies out of reach. Out of his reach, at least.
A branch, high up in the treetop, catches the scarf. Doyoung watches as it is unceasingly battered by the wind and shivers, his shirt and blazer feeling like nothing more than paper, and decides that it’s hopeless, so he continues walking.
The cold and wind continue to chase him. He picks up his pace.
Maybe it’s Them, he thinks, interfering with nature’s processes. Maybe as a punishment, for trying to escape. Maybe he’s just a loony, and all of this has been in his head - maybe he’s been living a lie for the past six months.
(Doyoung doesn't like liars.)
He begins to run.
He runs until his chest feels empty, until the air he inhales gives his lungs frostbite, but his thighs burn and begin to slow down. Soon, he can no longer run. Panic turns into adrenaline that gives him a brief spurt of energy, but he soon falls short. His body reaches its limit; he loses his footing and crashes to the ground and a failing yell escapes him as he falls. Expecting pain to follow, he squeezes his eyes shut and brings his arms up to protect his face.
But rather than the damp mud ground, filled sparsely with flame-coloured leaves like the rest of the clearing, he falls directly onto a patch of thick green moss. As he catches his breath, lying dead still, he finally begins to question it.
Something strange is going on. Maybe this wood is haunted - maybe it’s a ghost, or a demon, fucking with him - or maybe he’s so lost in his own mind he can't distinguish what’s real anymore. After all, the wind had stopped howling and began to gently brush through his hair, and the cold no longer seemed quite so fierce. But still, he dares not look around him, just turns onto his back and finally opens his eyes to look directly up.
The waxing moon is directly above him, looking down. Taeil says the moon often brings with it a message; Doyoung wonders what it’s trying to say. If it’s telling him to turn back, return to Taeil, or to go even farther and return to the orphanage he had been booted from a year ago, even though there is nothing there for him. The only record of his existence left would be the daisy he had drawn on the wall after crawling under his bed, two hours after curfew, if they haven’t managed to find it yet.
He doesn't want to go back, but he doesn't want to stay. Not while he’s nothing but a liability, always a step behind, and as Ten had said on many an occasion, no fun.
As he stews over his thoughts, tears begin welling up in his eyes, so he closes them again. If he doesn't see his weakness, then that meant it was close enough to not existing, in his books. All he had to do was close his eyes, and it would all go away for a while.
Something above must feel the same, because his scarf, previously thought to be lost up in the treetops, lands neatly over his eyes. He flinches, but he doesn't move.
Everything is still for a moment. The wind still blows, gently now, but the trees no longer seem to be moving. He can't hear any leaves, because they're dead and lying with him on the ground. All he can feel is the moss beneath him, and beneath that, he feels a network of roots, all interconnecting, all fighting, as they live to do, over water, light; all trying to be the tallest, the widest, to survive the longest. Doyoung understands them.
The stillness is over before he realises, and a rustling noise erupts from all around him. It’s the plants, Doyoung thinks, it must be, who else could it be? Because Doyoung understands them now, he thinks. There’s a storm coming, and they want to protect him.
Eventually, Doyoung removes the scarf from his eyes and finds himself surrounded by plant growth. Vines, thistles, even out-of-season flowers have sprouted from the ground and formed a dome around him, weaving together - thistles on the outside, vines forming the main body, and flowers padding the interior. They've expanded even further, too. Doyoung can feel them. The clearing is no longer ‘clear’, but rather a farm of foliage has formed.
He should be scared, terrified, he should be crying out for Taeil to come and save him from these forces he doesn't understand. But he doesn't. Because, somehow, inexplicably, he understands them just fine. He trusts them, too, more than anyone else. They can't lie to him, wouldn't even if they could. They trust him too.
Smiling, he curls into himself and drifts off to sleep.
*
Taeil finds him the next morning, Ten and Kun in tow. Doyoung asks the foliage to retreat for a bit - actually, he doesn't even have to ask. They feel what he feels and retract of their own accord. It is, in Taeil’s words, “awfully nifty” - and Ten immediately glomps him, blabbering on apologies about the bird's nest, how he’ll never pick on him again. (A lie, Doyoung would soon find out, but in the moment he had appreciated it.)
The second they arrive at Taeil’s abode, they set out to work, investigating his newly-discovered magic, plus a torturous conversation about his running away incident which he has since blocked completely from his mind. But, after everything has settled, the true training begins.
Before, it was simple things - powders and potions that anyone, witch or not, could use; introducing society's hidden side and its history, and so on. Ten preferred the more practical aspects, and Kun liked learning about modern witchcraft, but Doyoung liked history the most.
It was interesting, how fear-mongering and misogyny had turned a society that once respected witchcraft as an art into one that thought it a plague, with burning, drowning and hanging as its only cures. Female witches were almost wiped out of existence, even human women were dragged down with them, thousands at a time falling into the copper-stained hands of human men. The title ‘Witch Finder’ was laughable; they couldn't see that their own trusted men, their lieutenants and colonels, were marked with the same ‘Devil’s mark’ as the women they prosecuted.
“The men were cowards,” Doyoung says. He hasn’t said a word since the lesson began, so Taeil jumps in surprise and Ten turns towards him. Kun drops the plant pot he was levitating with a bang! and Doyoung swiftly picks up the small, displaced fern and holds it while the others rush around, trying to fix its pot. Its roots slowly coil around his fingers. He continues. “Female witches and those outside the gender binary have always been far more powerful than male witches, so if anything the men should have at least tried to save them. Society would no doubt be far more advanced, socially and technologically, if they had. Instead, they aided the Hunters, framing even human women to save their own hides. It’s disgusting.”
At some point, while he was talking, Ten had disappeared and returned, out of breath, with a plant pot in his hand. “For once,” he says between gulps of air, “Doyoung is right. If they had interfered, we never would have been forced into hiding.”
Kun nods in agreement, half distracted petting the leaves of the fern in apology. They bat him away and he frowns, glancing at Doyoung who shrugs. Plants just come alive around him - he has no control over their actions. Taeil says he will eventually, but Doyoung doesn't know how much he likes that idea. He’d much rather stick to politely asking and rewarding them rather than becoming some tyrannical ruler.
Whenever these types of discussions come up, however, Taeil stays silent. Says he wants them to come to their own conclusions. Eighteen-year-old Doyoung thinks it’s strange - he is supposed to teach them, after all - but as the years pass, Doyoung begins to appreciate it more and more.
Doyoung stays with Taeil for the next five years, training and training until he can communicate better with flora than humans. They feel his emotions, predict his actions, and they love him. He can feel that, their love for him, constantly - he doesn't know what he did to deserve such unchanging adoration, but he sure wasn't going to question it. Humans are too complex; he likes having the unspoken affirmation that he knows can't be a lie, because plants can't lie. They can try, but he always knows when the ivy has clogged up the gutter, or when the dahlias begin to grow over the other plants. Because they’re connected.
Their connection runs so deep, Doyoung isn't sure if he can bring himself to move away - Taeil had said he could stay for as long as he wished, but Kun has already found a job and a house in a nearby town, the one he was born in and where his childhood sweetheart lives, and Ten had been struggling to plan his global adventure for months before he heard about the travelling circus arriving and has since been practising his ‘act’ (also known as how to use your powers repeatedly and not get caught: a precarious guide ). Doyoung does not like being left behind. He reasons with himself, that it isn't just the plant life here that he has his connection to, but everywhere, and widening his horizons would help him improve. That way, his powders and potions would be more potent, and hopefully, no humans would be trying to sue him for faulty products.
Within the month, Doyoung finds the perfect place. A small village that lay at the base of a hill, surrounded with forestry and only a few miles from a large industrial town, with factories and a police force and even a hospital! (Doyoung would never need it when he can cure his own ailments - so rarely they occur - with a single, carefully procured potion, but it is quite exciting nonetheless.) The hill is entirely uninhabited, and Doyoung thinks it would be the perfect place to build his home. He would buy the land with help from Taeil, then enlist Kun and Ten to help him build a little cottage - one final project before they part ways.
Before that, though, they have to say goodbye to Taeil. Doyoung expects it to be emotional, maybe even with a tear-jerking speech about how proud he is of them; the only time Doyoung has ever seen Taeil cry was when he chopped his onion the wrong way while demonstrating to them how not to cut an onion, and proceeded to wipe away his tears without washing his hands. It was a fiasco.
But, Taeil does not cry. Or so Doyoung assumes, but in actuality, he can't quite see over the wad of cash he has been handed.
(Taeil, somehow, is absolutely loaded. Which kind of makes sense, because he is almost two hundred years old, but Doyoung has never seen him do any kind of work, ever. Not even selling his creations as most witches do. Taeil said he didn't believe in banks, and warned his apprentices all to never invest in stocks because he has a “bad feeling about America,” whatever that means. Something about stock markets and road incidents. So, he pulls up a certain floorboard to reveal the foundations of his home, filled not with cement, but with paper money that he pulls up in bundles the size of crates and gifts to each of his apprentices. They don't question it.)
“I know you will do well, all of you. I would say to come and find me if you so wish, but I doubt you would be able to - House and I are planning to travel, but I will make sure to come and visit. Don't spend your money at once, try not to argue, and no turning people into frogs, Ten.”
Ten just giggles, still struggling with his cash bundle, and the next second Taeil has a daisy in his hand. Doyoung feels a quick, sharp pain from the flower, winces and glares at Ten who shrugs, feigning ignorance. For Taeil’s sake, Doyoung doesn't start anything. (He could have at least dug it out at the root, so it has a chance of being replanted, honestly.)
Smiling, Taeil bids them a brief but bittersweet farewell. He had always hated goodbyes. Doyoung decides he does, too. This, he realises, is his first real goodbye, to a person who had cared for him for so many years, to someone he loved, and to someone who loved him back.
He fights the urge at first, but Doyoung has always been weak-willed. Dropping his things (which are caught by a particularly speedy weed growing through the cracks in the pavement) and launching himself towards Taeil, Doyoung envelops the small man in a hug. Ten and Kun follow suit, far less hasty.
Taeil welcomes them easily and it’s all too reminiscent of the day they all washed up on his doorstep, five years ago. He had known they were coming, the moon had said as such. And now, he knows it is time for them to leave because the moon never lies.
Because the moon isn't a liar, he knows they’ll be just fine - he lets them go as easily as he had welcomed them.
And so, armed with their life’s belongings, funds and, as per Doyoung’s insistence, every potted plant they could hold, the trio board a bus that croaks painfully under their weight and set off, bumping down the dirt road to their futures.
*
1925
Doyoung’s future, as it turns out, involves lots of building.
After the professionals finish, the three of them still take another three weeks to complete Doyoung’s dream home. Ten and Kun save him a lot of time using their magic - Kun would levitate the wooden planks and such into place for whatever helpful plant Doyoung enlists to secure in place with screws, and Ten - well, Ten often supplies them with snacks, while Doyoung and Kun pointedly ‘forget’ to ask where they are coming from.
Ten also gifts him with a window. The peculiarity of which is fairly on brand for Ten, but in Their name, Doyoung loved it. He had been complaining about needing more light in the living area (for his plants) while in the planning stages and a week later Ten had pulled up with an arched window nearly twice the size of him with an iron grill more beautiful than Doyoung thought a hunk of metal could ever become. It depicted a garden, writhing with life. Doyoung, in the words of Ten himself, was "a whore for biodiversity", and Doyoung started to think that maybe he wasn't exactly wrong. Something about healthy, thriving gardens making a home for so many different species of plant, no matter how different - it tickled his fancy, to put it one way.
A minor setback, however, was due to its size they had had to rethink the upstairs, turning the landing into more of a balcony, overlooking the living area, but there was no way Doyoung wasn't going to use it.
He looks up at it now with his legions of potted plants, new and old, all dancing happily around him, sunshine beaming down and warming his being, and feels as though this new start might be better than he had ever dreamed.
And for a time, it is. He scurries on down into the village where a stall had been arranged for him in the small market space, and the villagers each come down to greet him. It’s only a small village with less than 200 people, but from the get-go, Doyoung already feels welcomed. They have a great reception to his products, too. So well, Doyoung wonders if they maybe had another witch before he arrived - they ask questions, but nothing that could threaten his identity. Most of them had already seen him before he had properly moved in, when Ten, Kun and himself were staying at the small inn at the bottom of the hill.
It’s really, really nice.
As the years pass, he develops a routine. He spends his weekdays wandering around the village, greeting familiar faces and shopping for necessities. Most thing’s he could grow himself, but other things, like bread, he wasn't quite as talented in making.
On weekends he opens the stall just before midday, greeting villagers as they come to inspect which concoctions he has for sale that day. He has a handful of regulars, too. Most come for cosmetic purposes, like his makeup range, or his fool-proof plant food.
Five years after his business begins, he gains a new regular. She can't be older than six, always wearing the prettiest dresses, marred with patches of grey. Every Sunday, she buys his cough medication - originally two shillings per flask, but lowered to just one after she came up short the fifth week around.
When it reaches the tenth week, Doyoung finally musters the courage to ask what she needs it for. He has never been very well socialised - what else can he expect after growing up isolated from the others in the orphanage and then only talking to the same three people for five years - but children are easy. Bring yourself down to their height and put on your best smile and most of them can blabber away for hours without you saying anything. So, Doyoung does just that.
The girl, unfortunately, is different to expectations. She remains mum, only looking longingly at the corked flask Doyoung holds captive. They stay in a deadlock for ten more minutes. Doyoung tries and tries to get her to open up but to no avail, until a passerby notices, recognises the girl, and takes mercy on the obviously struggling Doyoung.
“‘Er mother’s a smoker.” He’s the innkeeper, Doyoung recognises. He takes a drag from his pipe and exhales while looking at the sky. “‘S taken a right toll on ‘er lungs. Coughs more than she breathes. Poor kid,” he says, giving the girl a final, pitying look before he walks away.
“Is that true?” The girl doesn't respond to his words, but Doyoung continues. “If it is true, I can help, I promise. This medicine works, doesn't it? I can make a better one that will really help your mother. Can you trust me?”
For the first time in all of their encounters, the little girl speaks.
*
Doyoung spends that night concocting.
Begin with a base: water, salt, honey. Optional two drops of blood for strengthening the spell. (Doyoung adds three.) Powdered charcoal, pepper, and sage for cleansing, as well as a handful of cloves for good luck. Stir and bring to a boil.
It begins to smoke. Start again.
More pepper- more cloves- more water- more and more until Doyoung’s cloak is blackened. More and more until he's batting away the wisps of dark energy that grow with every failed attempt. More and more until it’s right.
By the next day, it’s ready. He pours the thick liquid into a jar and places it carefully into a canvas bag, lighting his gas burner before he leaves and laughing as the dark wisps begin to flail while the scent of rosemary and rose fills the air. It makes him feel rejuvenated, a bit. As if he actually slept.
It’s well into the afternoon by the time he reaches the village. The girl waits for him, hopping impatiently from foot to foot. She’s still in her school uniform and starts sprinting towards her home the second she notices Doyoung. Doyoung, despite having been awake for far over twenty-four hours, is forced to chase after her.
While she dodges through the crowd, Doyoung follows, pushing his way through. His apologies merge into one mass of sound by the time they arrive. The downstairs window is open, the bushes below it dull and suffering - Doyoung makes note to research how to remove smoke particles from leaves. If he can do it for human lungs, surely it’s possible.
With newfound motivation, he enters.
The girl’s mother must hear the door open because she calls out a name that Doyoung doesn’t quite catch; it’s muffled, but the girl lights up upon hearing it and dashes into what is most likely the living room.
Doyoung is still standing by the door, frozen. For a second, he feels as though he’s intruding, but all such thoughts leave him the second he realises the state of the home. Everywhere he looks is blanketed by a film of grey, a haze just in front of his eyes. The smell is close to unbearable too, and will probably stick to his clothes for weeks to come no matter how many pots of baking soda he empties in an attempt to banish it.
He doesn't move until a body appears in front of him. Someone short, hunched over as she holds a hand over her chest, struggling for breath; it’s just as he had thought. This woman’s lungs were black. It’s an issue human doctors are only just beginning to discover, but a deadly one, and just by looking, Doyoung can tell her condition is very, very bad.
She invites him inside, saying her daughter explained everything to her, but Doyoung refuses. He solemnly hands her the remedy with a warning and a prayer.
As he drags his feet along the path of flattened grass leading up to his home, he allows himself to hope. Hope that the mother would listen and quash her addiction before it’s too late, or maybe They would take mercy and help her heal. Doyoung doesn't want that little girl to grow up without a mother. It’s too cruel.
Three weeks later, Doyoung sees the girl with her mother. They flutter from shop to shop, perusing as their bags get heavier and heavier and Doyoung allows himself to smile.
Then he sees the lit cigarette between her lips and his smile is extinguished. He drops his hand where he had moved it to wave and heaves a sigh.
Humans, really. The more you tell them not to do something, the more they do it; once they start, they can't stop. It’s ridiculous, but it’s fate.
She told him she would quit. She said she would try. But, she lied, and Doyoung hates liars.
It’s cruel. Fate.
(Ten years later, Doyoung stands on top of his hill and watches over the funeral progression. The grief seeps into the grass, the trees, the ground itself and Doyoung fights back tears. Not even liars deserve to die, he decides.)
*
1945
Doyoung likes his life. It’s simple but fulfilling. He doesn't have much in the way of friends, since he spends most of his spare time in one of three places: his home, his garden, or the woods. Or he has his ear against the trunk of a tree, trying to listen in to the woods when he’s too lazy to walk there. There are lots of cars in the village now, but Doyoung isn't a fan, not when the fumes make his orchids wilt. They're fickle to begin with - Doyoung doesn't want any more trouble.
The closest thing he has to a friend is the innkeeper. They drink together occasionally, discussing the happenings around the village, as they had for the past twenty years. (Doyoung makes a potion that makes him appear older, but never too much. It’s good advertising for his anti-ageing cream.)
His life is easy, stable, great even. Until it isn't.
Doyoung can't pinpoint where the rumours start - by the time he hears of it, a message through the grapevine, it’s too widespread. Before, he hadn't really noticed; most of his regulars had given a reason as to why they would no longer be buying from him which he had accepted without a second thought, and it wasn't as if his business was dead, rather he assumed it was just slow. They’d had a lot of men sent off to war, too, and only a few had returned recently; the village had been in a slump for six years now. But there is something else, too.
He had heard of the disappearances in the town, everyone had; over fourty people, the first dating all the way back to the 1800s. And he had heard about the disappearances in the village, too. Three people over the course of thirty years, all the same age and in the same place. They all entered the forest but never came back out.
He just doesn't understand how it could lead back to him.
“Don't mind it,” the innkeeper says. “There’s no point. Just continue as you are.”
And Doyoung trusts the innkeeper, trusts his friend with the wicked smile, so he does. Tries to.
He keeps his stall open, even if he only has one customer. She comes by every Sunday, but doesn't buy cough medicine, hasn't for the last five years, but instead buys his fool-proof plant food. (Doyoung has seen her garden; it’s quite impressive, and all her plants are very, very happy. It makes Doyoung happy just thinking about it.) She’s twenty-one now, no longer a little girl, but Doyoung still feels as though she is because of how little she’s changed. Still of few words, still in the village, still wearing pretty dresses. Her dresses are homemade and one of the few things she talks about - Doyoung is yet to work up the courage to ask her for the pattern so he can give it a go. He doesn't expect to be any good, but he’s getting slightly bored.
His conversations with the village folk, even the shortest ones, used to be the highlight of his day. There were fewer things more interesting than humans, despite their flaws.
Now, even the cashier ignores him when he buys his produce.
Instead of talking to him, they talk about him, even when they know he’s listening. They know because they're always watching, staring, looking to spot anything that could prove the rumours.
They call him a witch, which he doesn't exactly mind. To be offended by the truth is the first step in becoming a knobhead, after all. But they also call him ‘evil’, ‘untrustworthy’, ‘dangerous’. The most dangerous thing about Doyoung was the giant hogweed guarding his gate, nothing more. It hurts, but Doyoung is good at guarding his heart, and ignoring stares and whispers is something he’s used to, comes with the territory of being Ten’s friend, boisterous and loud as he can be. But with each passing day, the whispers grow louder. Like wildfire, they spread slowly at the start, leaving a trail of scars, scorched into the ground in their wake - until it catches on something, and begins to consume everything it touches. It bounces from person to person, an unending round of the telephone game where the phrase becomes more and more outrageous as it is passed along.
He tries not to listen, but the whispers become too loud. Flames lick in his chest, burning. And for months, every night he is trapped in dreams of pyres and fire and cheers until he can scream himself awake. Confiding in his friend is his only solace, so he takes his time to explain his fears, finding comfort in the innkeeper's presence. He feels safe. He trusts that his secrets are safe, too.
The next day, as he begins his descent to the village, the whispers scream in his ears: “Burn.”
At the bottom of his hill is a pyre.
His friend adds an armful of kindling before looking up at him and smiling. Wicked.
His friend is a liar, he realises. Doyoung hates him.
(He hates himself, too.)
*
Doyoung becomes a fairy tale.
After years of police knocking on his gates, people trying to sneak onto his property, whether that’s taking an axe to the plants that have formed a border around the perimeter or making an attempt to jump over the gate only to be brought back down by a vine wrapping around their ankle, they begin to forget. Those that don't believe use tall tales of him to frighten their children into behaving, and the ones that remember warn their children never to meet the witch up the road, lest they disappear like the others. Eventually, they give up, label him dead and move on.
He pays his taxes with the money Taeil gave him until he stops receiving the bill in the mail, expects they think he’s dead. Sometimes he thinks he might as well be.
Unfortunately, Doyoung is not dead. Quite the opposite - he’s doing fairly well for himself. Since being excommunicated from the village, Doyoung has become entirely self-producing. He grows his own food, fixes any issues with the house on his own - and has even taken to creating his own clothes. He attempts to dress as he once did, suits and trousers, but unfortunately, he lacks talent in the sewing department, as expected. Thus, he has begun wearing a selection of long, hazardously crafted circle skirts, which are made with mismatching, uneven floral patterned fabrics as a result of frequent screw-ups and a severe shortage of fabrics, paired with whatever shirt he could dig out. Meaning that most of his clothes are now well over fifty years old and it’s very much roulette to find a shirt without a hole in the breast pocket.
For fifty years, his only company is himself and his plants, though, so he doesn't take too much notice of it.
(Well, almost fifty years. In the beginning, Ten and Kun managed to sneak in - only They know how they found out about the situation, but they tried to convince Doyoung to fix it. Doyoung had set the giant hogweed on them to chase them out and keep them out. Since then, he hasn’t seen them.)
Being alone really isn't as bad as humans make it out to be. Maybe because fifty years is just a fraction of his estimated lifespan as a witch - 1/5th isn't that much, anyway - or because of his plants making sure he never really feels lonely, he can't say. But, fifty-or-so more years would be easy to manage, no? Then, he can go back down to the village at the bottom of the hill, and it will be filled with unfamiliar faces. No one will know him; he can start again.
His plants don't like his plan. For a while, they enjoyed having him all to themselves: weeds and ivy invaded his floor and walls, and the vines were finally able to stretch out, winding themselves into the wicker of the living room loveseat, the one that sat in the corner with no other furniture as company. All the while, they saw Doyoung’s condition deteriorating. The first ten years of isolation are the most difficult, after all.
They didn't think much of it, at first - Doyoung isn't exactly a human, but he’s close enough to one and humans are weird. They don't make sense, especially not to plants, but it eventually reaches the point where even they can tell.
Doyoung feels their worry like he feels their guilt, but can only reassure them in one area.
“It’s not your fault,” he tells them. “I should have been more careful.”
The thing about Doyoung’s power is that it doesn't just connect himself to flora. It gives them sentience and their own power, entirely separate from his own. Comparing their two powers is a bit of a stretch, too - Doyoung’s, given by Them, whatever They are, versus his plants, who are connected to the earth itself. (In reality, Doyoung doesn't know how the two compare. Legitimate books on witchcraft are rare to begin with, and They are a subject very few are brave enough to dive into. Though, some omniscient, incomprehensible thing pitted against the centre of all known life? No competition needed, in his opinion.)
His plants have a mind of their own, and their reach is infinitely farther than his. So they offer to help him; to investigate these disappearances and prove his innocence so he can return to the life he so loved. Doyoung doesn't even try. The pleasure of life has long since been lost to him.
He moves, sluggish, day by day, through the motions. Tries to convince himself he’s alive, that his lifeforce hasn’t been absorbed by the plants he accompanies himself with. Some nights, he looks up at the moon and watches it laugh while the stars pity him. At least it’s honest, he thinks before he forces his eyes closed, again.
The moon is playful tonight. It jumps in and out behind the clouds, and the stars giggle along with it, sparkling. They’re planning something, Doyoung thinks, something that will most definitely be a huge pain in his backside, and they are most definitely enjoying it.
Around midnight, though, they suddenly change. As if receiving bad news, the stars' light dims and the moon hides behind a thick, dark cloud in shame.
The moon brings with it messages, but it’s ever so inconvenient that they never quite make sense.
*
Tending to his gardens has become the main bulk of his day to day - he even planted a few trees around the graveyard that lay at the bottom of the hill behind his house to liven up the place, well aware of the irony, but isolation really makes one do strange things.
The front of his house isn't nearly as impressive as his back garden, though still show-worthy. From the ivy climbing the walls to the array of flowers he was currently fretting over, everything was pristine, all while preserving the natural biodiversity of the area; if someone were to see it, they would easily have their breath taken away.
That being said, no one is ever going to see it, and so Doyoung returns to antagonising over picking rose petals to make rose tea. (This happens every time, and every time the roses try to convince him it’s okay but every time he ends up on the verge of tears as he reluctantly plucks them. He knows they’ll grow back the next blooming season, but still .)
He’s so absorbed in his stress, he barely hears what the ivy is telling him. ‘Human at the gate?’ Hasn’t happened in a while, but it’s nothing new. Probably another estate agent. They’re always nosing about these parts, but no one ever gets through the gates, so Doyoung doesn't pay it much mind. He finishes his petal plucking and moves on to digging holes to plant another batch of roses while humming a song he remembers hearing in the ‘30s. It’s the ‘90s now - no doubt the music is terrible.
The trees begin to rustle their leaves excitedly; blades of grass release their hold on Doyoung’s shoes and desperately try to up their roots. Even when the roses start quivering in excitement, Doyoung interprets it as fear and begins to profusely apologise.
“Uh, excuse me?”
The sound comes from behind. He doesn't react at first - it takes a few seconds for Doyoung to remember what words sound like when they’re not coming from his own mouth. But when he does, he freezes.
There’s an uncertain pause, but the human continues. “Do you know the witch that lives here? Are you her assistant?”
It’s then that Doyoung’s self-preservation instincts kick in. He fumbles on the ground for a few moments before locating his blunt, rusted hand trowel, spins around with it held in both of his hands and points his weapon at the intruder, who throws his hands in the air.
The roses' reaction tells him it’s a man, one that they are incredibly excited to be in the presence of, and Doyoung slowly realises that all of his plants are the same. The grass hugs his feet, the ivy is resisting the urge to latch onto him and never let go. Even the giant hogweed likes him. Doyoung tsks.
“So much for keeping humans out,” he mutters under his breath. He doesn't take his eyes off the man, who doesn't hear him, just moves his hands in front of him in what Doyoung recognises as a placating gesture and keeps talking.
“Woah there, I come in peace. I heard a witch was living here?”
“How did you get in here? How did you get past the giant hogweed?” He jabs the trowel forward in a hopefully threatening way to punctuate each question.
The human furrows his brow, mumbles- “Giant hogweed?-” before he shakes head. “The gate was unlocked,” he informs. “I just walked in.”
Doyoung is speechless. Walked in? No human has stepped foot on his land for fifty years! And now this one just waltzes in?
His hands lower slightly in his disbelief, and the man squints at his now-revealed face and points. “You're-” he begins, but cuts himself off. Doyoung notices him taking a step forward and retreats, trowel raised again. The man stays put and, after a brief warning, reaches into the front pocket of his denim overalls (questionable outfit choice for the height of summer, but Doyoung was hardly one to talk) to pull out a photograph.
It’s black and white, not of him specifically, but his then-thriving stall is just captured in the background. His face can barely be seen, hidden under the flat cap he wore for almost the entirety of the 1930s, but his wide smile is easily seen. His fashion back then was at its peak - he had a different two-set suit for every day of the week, and more suspenders and ties than he could count.
He looks down at his outfit now and sighs. It has been three days, and he’s still wearing the same shirt with a hole in the breast pocket and patchwork, ankle-length skirt, only having changed to sleep. Dirt covers him from head to toe, evidence of his escapades in the garden, and he smells. Compared to the strange man- well, he looks about in the same state as Doyoung, really. Denim dungarees that only reach his ankles (he was very, very tall) and a hideously patterned and extraordinarily seasonally inappropriate turtleneck jumper. And his hair looks as though it has been slicked back with oil, so maybe he is in a similar situation. It is only Doyoung’s weariness of the man and the fact he is still holding the trowel that stops him from walking up and checking how he smells.
“This is you, right? You look exactly the same… but, this is the witch’s stall, right? So you are the witch’s assistant! I need to speak to her, where is she? Ah, I’m Johnny, FYI.”
Doyoung does not know what FYI means, nor does he care, but he does care about this ignorant human assuming witchcraft is a gendered profession. What does he know? Humans still think they eat children instead of a Sunday dinner.
“It’s my stall,” he sneers.
Johnny takes a moment to process. “Ah…” he laughs awkwardly. “My bad. Didn't mean to assume! So… you’re the witch, yeah?”
Oh, Doyoung thinks, shit.
But, before he can even respond, Johnny is talking again.
“I’m here to help! I’m from the city on the other side of the woods and I saw a blog about some unexplained disappearances, both in the city and ‘round here, so I decided to check it out.” also from his pocket, Johnny produces a pad of paper and a pen that clicks and Doyoung has to clamp down his curiosity. He’s been stuck in his own bubble of still time for the past half a century, so the modern era was still foreign to him, but in Their name, did it seem odd.
Then, Johnny asks, with no hesitation, straight-faced: “Did you take those people?”
Doyoung stares at him for a good while, but he doesn't really look at him. He’s focussed on his eyes, almost reeling from how genuine he looks. Doyoung has never been asked about that. No one ever bothered, simply because it was easier to assume and shift the blame than to conduct a fair trial. But here Johnny was, fifty years late, but still here.
“No,” Doyoung lowers the trowel and replies truthfully.
Johnny nods and jots something down.
A pause. “You believe me?”
Johnny doesn't even look at him, just flicks through his notes and hums with a slight nod.
The trowel drops to the floor, landing with a soft thud that makes Johnny look towards him. What he sees is Doyoung, face flushed, eyes red and welling with tears before he drops into a squat and cries.
Without hesitation, Johnny drops his things and rushes to envelop Doyoung in a hug. He pats his back and even lays a hand on his greasy hair without recoiling in disgust, and it’s nice. The last time someone held him like that was Ten and Kun when they first parted and Taeil when he had left. It’s dearly missed. Doyoung cries some more.
*
Johnny doesn't leave, so Doyoung invites him to come inside. And Johnny, for whatever reason, accepts. He struggles to not step on any of the potted plants and Doyoung is still too busy reeling from the fact that he cried to help him. The plants probably wouldn't mind - they love Johnny. It’s inexplicable. They had never been fond of humans, even before the ‘incident’, and Johnny is about as human as they come, undeniably and unchangeably so.
“Uh,” he’s standing under the arch of the hallway as his eyes scour Doyoung’s sorry excuse for a living room. Midday has been and gone, and the first strings of golden light seep in through the large window, the one gifted by Ten. “Nice window,” Johnny says.
It’s not nice right now; it’s dirty and the ivy has long since grown over it. Typical human politeness.
“Thank you.” Doyoung tries to match Johnny’s tone, but it comes out stiff and weirdly clipped at the end, and his ears heat up in embarrassment.
“Could use a clean, but the design is hella fly. Custom?”
It’s a bittersweet reminder of the last time he, Ten and Kun were together, but Doyoung mumbles a confirmation anyway before trying to remember what to do with a guest in your house. He remembers one of Taeil’s many rants and, clearing his throat, asks: “Would you like some rose tea?” When Johnny says yes, he goes to turn towards the kitchen, but soon remembers that humans are awkward when in other people’s houses and won't do things unless they are told to. So, Doyoung tries.
“Take a seat,” he says, gesturing towards the wicker seat in the corner. There’s a nice, clear path leading to it because Doyoung likes to sit in it sometimes and read library books that he never got the chance to return, but Johnny still looks confused. For a few moments, Doyoung tries to work out why: do people in the 90s not have wicker chairs? No putting furniture in the corner of a room? He ponders on the subject for a few moments, then promptly gives up.
When he returns with a cup of tea in each hand, the number of chairs in his living room has doubled. Now, there are two, positioned around a rectangular, wooden stool that Doyoung recognises is supposed to be with the piano he has never used. Johnny is rearranging some plants that must have been in the way, not looking the slightest bit perturbed as they caress whatever part of him they can reach and carefully carrying them in the direction they show him: primroses in the shade, lavender in the sun, etcetera. It’s surprisingly heartwarming. For a human, anyway.
Johnny places down the last pot and spins to face Doyoung after he treads on a squeaky floorboard, smiling sheepishly.
“Sorry for just moving your stuff around, but I figured we’d need some space to talk and stuff.” Johnny scuffles over to his arrangement and spreads his arms, hands jazzy. “Ta-da!”
With everything Johnny does, Doyoung becomes increasingly more baffled. But, nevertheless, he nods in acknowledgement, settles the tea on the ‘table’ and sits in the new chair, one taken from the dinner table. It’s dusty, with fingerprints from where Johnny has picked it up. Doyoung doesn't know if he should be embarrassed or not, so he ignores it.
Johnny sits himself in the wicker chair without any explicit invitation, which Doyoung is very thankful for as it spares him from the horrifying ordeal that is social cues, and immediately starts talking.
“I have a suspect,” he says. He doesn't touch his tea, just leans forward with his hands on his knees.
Doyoung furrows his brows as he looks at Johnny over the rim on his mug. “You do? Then why did you have to ask me?”
“Just to check!” he squeaks after a slight falter. “I didn't know if you were involved with them or… or whatever. Do witches and demons get along?”
Doyoung stands up so fast, he knocks his chair over and spills his tea all over himself and the floor. Luckily, it’s lukewarm. “Demons? Actual demons?”
“Well… maybe?” Johnny is facing him, head tilted up slightly from his seated position, but his eyes are on the upended chair, frowning. “There was one that looked human, but the eyes were like- Red. And there were these monkey-looking things too, doing what the human-looking one told them.”
“I- just- just tell me from the start.” Doyoung rights his chair and sits, leaning as far forward as he can. “Where, when, and what did you see exactly?”
This is easy. Johnny will just talk at him, giving him all the information he needs, then Doyoung will say something (probably) before he sends Johnny on his jolly way and figures this out on his own. (Or not. He hasn't decided yet.) No faffing with emotions and small talk the Doyoung no longer has any skill in, just easy.
But of course, humans can never be easy.
Johnny doesn't start right away. He’s frowning, staring at Doyoung’s tea-stained clothes and the puddle on the floor. Upon noticing, Doyoung huffs quietly and gets up, but Johnny is faster than him. He pushes Doyoung back down before he disappears into the kitchen and reappears with a selection of tea towels. A few he lays on the floor to soak up the spillage and another he brings over to Doyoung. For a few seconds, it seems like he’s going to try and dry Doyoung’s clothes himself. Doyoung freezes. Johnny also pauses, takes a look at Doyoung, and hands him the towel.
While returning to his seat, Johnny says: “You should dry off. You might catch a cold, otherwise.”
Doyoung doesn’t tell him he hasn’t had a cold since the industrial revolution, and he doesn't quite know why. So, he ignores it. (He’s getting good at that.)
Then, Johnny begins his story. He’s quite good at storytelling, minus the weird pop culture references that Doyoung doesn't understand and the overly detailed descriptions he includes.
“Johnny-” Doyoung interrupts him, and Johnny pauses- “I don't need to know what degree of green the leaves were. The ‘hell-monkeys’ you mentioned must be imps, so there is no doubt the ‘human’ leading was a demon, as you said. But, what could a demon be doing in the overworld…”
Before he realises, Doyoung is out of his chair and wandering to the door of his office that lies adjacent to the front door. He enters without so much of a thought of his guest, who belatedly scuffles across the unvarnished wood floor to join him as he begins scouring the wall of books for anything demon-related.
They search for a while, the only sounds being book covers brushing against each other and the rhythmic turning of pages. Doyoung, absorbed in scanning every last page (books about demonology are always tricky - sometimes the most important information is in the small print. Or charmed to be invisible, which Doyoung hates), forgets about Johnny for a while. It’s only when Johnny innocently decides to look on the shelves closer to Doyoung that he remembers, and suddenly his presence is oppressive. It makes Doyoung’s head hurt and his chest feels tight and he realises he wants him gone.
He says as much, very bluntly and not at all in a socially acceptable way, but his socialising gauge has long since run out and he doesn't have the patience to explain. Despite his shock, Johnny collects himself and apologises. In Doyoung’s experience, most humans get awfully offended when the word “please” isn't used, but Johnny just scans him from head to toe, noticing the tense line of his shoulders and unfocused eyes, and calmly leaves.
Johnny leaves without the sun that guided him on his first journey and with the promise of returning.
His plants give him the cold shoulder for forcing Johnny to leave, which Doyoung is only able to remedy after regaining his wits, wherein he also realises that, ignoring their less-than-satisfactory goodbyes, he, actually, hadn't hated having Johnny in his home. His home, which had been inhabited solely by him for fifty, lonely years.
It has been fifty years since Doyoung has spoken to a human, and somehow, he thinks he missed it.
*
When Johnny returns the next day, Doyoung has not slept. Instead, he spent the night in his study, trying to bury the unsettled feeling in his chest by scouring his entire book collection for any relevant information and proceeding to create a three-page long fact file containing everything he could on demons, which he shoves into Johnny's hands the second he steps through the door. (He, once again, waltzes in with the plants fighting to touch whatever part of him they can, not even stopped by the door because Doyoung hasn't locked it for the past thirty-five years. Maybe he should start if his security system was going to continue welcoming any human they think is cute.)
“This is… thorough,” Johnny comments, seating himself in the wicker chair once again and offhandedly commenting how Doyoung hasn't changed the set-up. Doyoung, as well as doing the demon research, had also grabbed the first novel he could find and spent the entire night reading, trying to re-learn basic communication skills - he replies with a hum, to which Johnny smiles before he disappears into the kitchen to make tea, feeling proud.
When he reemerges with a mug in each hand, Johnny has forsaken Doyoung’s fact file in favour of playing with the vines that have woven themselves into the wicker of his chair, letting them wind around his fingers and in his hair - the chrysanthemums were almost vibrating with jealousy, stuck in their pot on top of the piano. He might have been upset that the nuisances were getting more attention than his painstakingly crafted project, but the sight of Johnny being so… unperturbed by everything suddenly reminded him that, to humans, sentient plants were not particularly normal - nor was witchcraft or demons. And when they were introduced to it, well. From his experience, they didn't take it awfully well. (A shudder runs through him; he ignores it.)
“Johnny,” Doyoung begins. Johnny looks up, directly into his eyes, and Doyoung suddenly struggles to get the words out. “Why- why aren’t you more, well, surprised that demons and imps and, well-” he gestures vaguely to himself, cursing the heat in his face- “witches exist?”
Johnny just shrugs. “I knew someone whose mum was a witch.”
“Really? A female witch?”
“Is that not common?”
“I mean, not anymore. I’ve never met a female witch.” he’s about to ask Johnny more about his apparent connection, but his words wash over him once more, and he frowns. “Wait, did you say your friend’s mum? ” Johnny nods in agreement, and Doyoung’s frown deepens. “That doesn't make sense. Witches never have offspring because we always outlive them. If anything, our apprentices are like our children.”
The words have Johnny freezing, no doubt burning with questions, but the betrayal of his acquaintance takes priority in his mind. “Do you use weird rocks? And, like, have them lying around?”
“Geodes and such are only used for larger spells: cleansing and such like. So, no.”
“Incense?”
“Again, only for cleansing. The plants don't like it.”
“Can you even do magic?”
Doyoung gestures to the vine that has now wrapped itself around his wrist with no intention of letting go. “I could also turn you into a frog,” he adds.
With an alarmed look, Johnny shakes his head. “Please don't.”
“Alright.”
The ensuing silence is a delicate balance between painstakingly awkward and somewhat decently comfortable. Doyoung can't stand it, so he takes the initiative.
“I don't have enough books here. There’s a library in the village, I’ll find the key to the forbidden section - that’s where all the books we need will be.”
Johnny takes a few seconds to work out what Doyoung is trying to say. “You want me to find them? But… I don't really know what I'm looking for-”
“Anything that mentions demons. Everything, even.”
Another silence befalls them, one which Johnny breaks with a question, unrelated to the library issue. Doyoung answers him unnaturally quickly and the rest of the day passes with the same speed.
Johnny leaves that night with a key that no human should ever have hold of, newfound knowledge of all things witchy, and probably more questions than answers when it comes to Doyoung himself. Doyoung heaves a tired sigh as he closes the front door, without the click of a lock. He lies on the floor of his living room and allows himself to relax along with the slowly changing colours of the sky - being social is exhausting.
It occurs to him sometime later, while he’s tucked away in bed and halfway through another novel, that Johnny most definitely wanted to know why Doyoung wouldn’t go to the library himself or join him. Doyoung thinks about it - humans are so incessantly nosy, and the ones like Johnny are usually especially tactless, so why wouldn't he just bite the bullet and ask? - but he draws up a blank.
Johnny seems to just accept it. There’s no mention of it when he arrives the next day with a stack of demonology books, or the day after when Johnny tries to explain to Doyoung what the internet is, or the day after which Doyoung spends criticising witchcraft forums. (“Some of this is real, Johnny! And you said anyone can see it? What poor concealment skills. They are going to get us all exposed, gosh.”)
He does, however, start complaining. The commute from the city to the village is too long; his feet hurt from walking to the library, which was at the farthest point away from Doyoung’s home as it could possibly, and up the hill every day. Awfully persistent he was, even going as far as to try showing Doyoung the blisters on his feet - maybe that was why Doyoung didn't stop and think about the hyperbole in his words. Instead, he offered the only solution he could come up with.
The next day, Johnny moves in.