Chapter Text
“Never pray to the gods that answer after dark.”
Early 19th Century
“Marinette! Marinette! Come back!”
The voices were trailing her, but she pushed them out, focusing instead on her huffing breaths and the ache in her lungs. Twigs and fallen leaves caught in the train of her dress, but she kept running. When her feet hit the damp earth far from the church, she almost fell in absolution, but she pushed forwards, racing the sun.
“Marinette, please!”
No.
This is not the life she wanted. Luka was nice, but he was older, already had two kids and one dead wife. Marinette was always told that would be her future- living in the same small village, raising her own kids to be model village citizens. Dying here and being buried here, in the same small plot outside the same church she was desperately trying to escape.
Life was made to be lived, and in her 23 years, she had barely left her village.
The old shed was buried in the forest, decrepit and empty for as long as Marinette could remember. She had come here, in the past, to be alone, to make her prayers, and leave her sacrifices. Mostly sketches, sometimes her favorites pens and erasers. When she was truly desperate, she left some baked goods that she and her parents made in their small bakery. Croissants and pastries, cookies and even fresh loaves of bread buried in the dirt as her words coated it in desperation. Still, no gods had ever responded to her prayers. They always left her alone as the sun sunk behind the horizon and she had to slink home, alone and all the more desperate.
She was sure someone was listening. There had to be. But where were they? Were her offerings never good enough? She had always been told that she had to offer the gods something worthy, something she treasured. It was hard to get pens and paper out here, and she had offered her most treasured drawings, the best pens, even whole pads of paper. Unable to escape her village, all she had was these drawings. She knew their worth, to her, the emotional attachments to the eyes she had been sketching for the better part of a decade, the physical toll her drawings sometimes took, leaving her fingers blistered and numb. Her offerings contained blood, sweat, and tears, and yet…
Ducking into the old shed, dodging fallen branches and bare patches of earth, Marinette dropped to her knees, soling the perfect white cotton of her wedding dress. Her hair was loose, the delicate ribbons her Maman twisted in the intricate braids unraveling. Propelled by fear and the voices that were echoing amongst the trees, Marinette pulled out one last offering.
It was the last drawing she had made, with charcoal from the bakery and her last piece of paper. It wasn’t much, just sketches, smudged in some places. But they were eyes she was familiar with, ones she had mastered drawing after so long. She didn’t know who they belonged to, what inspired her to draw them that day by the river. They were cat like, green slitted pupils with flecks of what she wanted to imagine were gold and hazel, upturned at the edges. Hair brushed along the eyebrows, and long eyelashes fluttered against cheeks she rarely drew, not wanting to sully the eyes with a face that didn’t become them. Every time she tried to give the eyes a face, something felt wrong. It wasn’t her skills- she had drawn hundreds of people over the years, both real and imagined, but she just couldn’t seem to capture what she saw in her head when she thought of the eyes. She always drew a mask, a simple black one that exaggerated the eyes, but also left Marinette feeling some kind of completeness despite the lack of a face or body.
She dug her fingers in the dirt, flinching as the hard packed earth fought against her. She shoved small piles to the side, and when she thought the hole was deep enough, she clutched the paper in her shaking hands, the dirt smudging the sketch.
“Please,” she breathed, a desperate prayer for the last time.
Covering the paper with the dirt, Marinette sat back on her feet, head bowed and hands clasped together.
In her desperation, she didn’t notice the chill in the air, the sun setting behind her, and the first stars of the night staring to twinkle as the village houses lit their candles.
The voices faded, the warmth of day disappeared, the birds quieted and still, Marinette prayed.
“I have long waited for this day,” a voice slithered around her, soft and slow, and Marinette’s breath hitched. She opened her eyes, knuckles white and fingers numb from her hours of clutching.
The shed was dark, and her heart stuttered.
Oh, no.
In the purple hued dusk of twilight, Marinette observed shadows, twirling slowly around the shed, just feet away from her. The smell of dirt permeated her nose, but so did the smell of burning, and something softer, like a warm loaf of bread left to cool in the window on a summer’s day.
“Are you here to help me?” Her voice sounded surer than she felt, her hands trembling as her eyes tracked the shadows.
A husky laugh traveled around her head again, and she whipped her head around. “Why won’t you show yourself,” she demanded, fingers curling into her dirty dress.
“When you are as old as I am, the weight of a body is something less than desirable.” The words sent a shiver down her spine despite the sweat trickling down her temples. “But, I suppose, I could inhabit a form. Just for you.”
Marinette watched, rooted to the dirt, as the shadows coalesced in the corner, They deepened, rippling and shining like physical night. In other circumstances, Marinette might be awed.
It happened fast and slow, simultaneously. Where there were shadows, there now stood a man, tall and muscular, with blond hair that curled around his ears and fell across his forehead in delicate waves. One minute he was shadows, the next he existed.
Simple black pants and a white cotton shirt, he looked like any other man in the village, until she reached his face.
Marinette stopped breathing. Air hitched in her throat and she thought she might choke.
She didn’t know the man before her, but she knew those eyes.
She had made those eyes.
The man chuckled, turning his hands and adjusting the clothes. “I thought this form would be one you could…trust,” he said, pink lips upturning in something akin to a smirk.
“How-how did you…”
“You didn’t think your prayers were going unheard, did you, Marinette?” He raised his eyebrows, the mask flexing with the movement. It was a simple black, and like Marinette knew, it brought out all the details of her eyes.
“I took some liberties, since you only ever provided the eyes,” he said, walking towards her. “What do you think?” Marinette could’ve sworn he purred.
She couldn’t find her voice, not when he was circling her like prey. She turned her head away from him, focusing instead on the decaying wooden wall in front of her.
“I was never praying to you,” Marinette said to the wall, the shadow man settling behind her. He untangled one of her hands from her dress, intertwining their fingers. His were soft, and warm, and Marinette had to fight the urge to fall into him. Instead, she tried to make a fist, wrenching her hand from his. He held fast, his grip still somehow soft, but now firm.
“Does that really matter to you now?” he whispered in her ear, and Marinette couldn’t fight the shiver the raced through her body. “I saw all your gifts, and when they were ignored by the gods you were so desperate for, I took them for myself.” She could feel him shrug against her back. “There are no rules for the night.” The words were whispered against her neck, and Marinette tensed her whole body. His hand was still gripping hers, the other delicately tracing the outline of her hip.
“I can offer you anything you want, Marinette. Just ask.”
She clenched her jaw, her teeth rubbing together harshly. She turned her head away from him, felt his smile grow in her neck. Attempting to pull her body away from his again, the man let her go, and Marinette stumbled, tripping in the mound of dirt she made.
Back to the wooden wall, Marinette was left facing the man, illuminated by the dusk. He shown, whether because of his light hair or his otherworldliness, Marinette couldn’t tell. Her let her rake in his appearance, and didn’t flinch away when she stared into those eyes.
She knew those eyes so well, it ached to see them given flesh. She had dreamed of someone with those eyes, making a connection with someone who didn’t exist, could never exist. Yet here he was, art given flesh, and she couldn’t focus.
“What do you want, Marinette.” He said it like a statement, like he knew she wouldn’t- couldn’t- turn away from his offer.
Before she could think too much about making a deal with a god she was told never to pray to, all her fears came forth, bubbling from her throat too fast to dam to words.
“I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to marry Luka and I don’t want this life. I don’t- I don’t want to be trapped here.”
“That’s all fine, but I asked you what you wanted, not what you didn’t want.”
“I want-“ What did she want? Despite all her prayers and offerings, she really was beginning to think there were no gods, at least, none that would ever bless her. She just knew she wanted to get away, to see what the world had to offer and experience the things she never could in her village.
“I want freedom. Time.” She sounded much surer than she felt.
The man smiled, his lips pulling over his perfectly straight teeth. “And what will you give me for all this time, Marinette?”
Without hesitating, Marinette replied “Anything.”
The man stepped towards her, his stride languid and his boots clicking on the old wooden floor. Looking down his nose at her, he tipped her chin up towards him with a finger, cat-like eyes flicking to hers before he leaned forward, quick as a viper.
He caught her lips in his teeth, nipping, and pulling her body against his. Distantly, Marinette knew she should be fighting this, but it was like her mind was detached from her body. She leaned into him, placing her hands flat against his chest and letting him slip his tongue in her mouth. He pushed into her, tilting her head back farther and gripping her hips. Marinette clenched his shirt in fists tilting her neck almost painfully to take his ferocity. Pulling back, he bit her lip, teeth digging in and making Marinette yelp. A small bead of blood bubbled on her bottom lip, and the shadow man darted out his tongue, licking the bead, before smashing their lips together once more.
He pulled away as quickly as he had approached, and Marinette was left winded. Her lips throbbed, and a small tingling sensation was threading through her bones.
“It’s done,” the man said, voice calm as he wiped his lips with his thumb. He smiled at her, his eyes shiny through his yellow fringe. “I’ll see you again, Marinette.” And he disappeared.
Marinette’s head was throbbing, knees shaking. Nothing felt different, and she was still in the same old shed.
Sinking to her knees, Marinette used her fingertips to dig up the sketch she had just buried. But there was nothing there. The only sign what had happened was real, and she deflated.
She was always told not to pray to the gods that answer after dark. Now she made a deal with one, and nothing had changed.
Picking herself off the floor, Marinette made her way back to her home. Soft leaves crunched under her feet, and the closer she got to her home, the more foreboding she felt.
“Maman?” Marinette said, pushing open the door to their small home. Her mother was standing in the kitchen, kneading something, but she stopped and whirled when she heard Marinette. “I’m sorry I ran, I-“
“Who are you?” her mother demanded, one hand clutching the fabric on her chest, and the other holding onto the counter so tightly her knuckles were white, fingertips purple.
“Maman? It’s me, Mari-“ Something got caught in her throat, her name falling back like hot coals.
“Do not call me that!” Her mother looked frantic, cheeks a bold red. “I don’t have a daughter.”
“Wh-what?” Marinette mumbled, her fingers going numb. “You do! I’m right here!” She stepped farther into the house, reaching her arms out for her mother, and she screamed.
“TOM! TOM!”
Marinette whirled, her father’s thunderous steps pounding down the stairs. “Sabine?! Sabine, what’s happening?!” When he appeared in the kitchen, his face flushed. His worried features shifted in the blink of an eye. Marinette had never been scared of her father before, but the look he was aiming at her was withering.
“Who are you?” he demanded, stalking towards Marinette and grabbing her shoulders. “What are you doing in my home?”
“Papa, it’s me, Mari-“ again, her words, her name was caught in her throat. She couldn’t breathe.
“Do not call me that! We have no children.” He looked to Sabine, who had wide eyes and a face paler than Marinette had ever seen.
“You need to leave,” Tom said, stern, as he pushed Marinette out of the door.
Marinette couldn’t come up with any words, couldn’t stop her father as he shoved her out of her childhood home and slammed the door in her face. She heard the deadbolt click, and all she could do was turn and make her way back to the woods.