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Hunter thinks he’s in shock.
He’s certainly being treated like he is. There’s a mug of something hot in his grasp - heated Apple Blood, perhaps, though he’s never particularly liked the stuff - and a cloak draped haphazardly over his shoulders. It’s several sizes too big for him, and it almost seems to drown him.
He wants to tug it off. It feels too much like the cloak he’d worn before, the cloak he’d once worn with pride. That cloak had also drowned him, not by size, but by the weight of responsibility. By the reputation that went with the sleek cream fabric, the gleam of a golden clasp.
He’s drowning now, all the same, cape or no cape. He just - doesn’t quite know how to word that. How to explain what he needs, because he doesn’t quite know himself. How to say that he wants to be left alone, that he desperately wants company, wants comfort. That he wants to stop being lied to, wants to be treated like an adult, but he also wants some adult to hold him a firm embrace, and tell him that it’s all going to be okay.
He doesn’t know how those two feelings can coexist. Especially after everything he’s learnt. After the startling revelations of how the world really works, after finding out just how naive he’s been. Just how stupid he was.
He knows he shouldn’t beat himself up over - over everything that happened. Knows that he should sip at his Apple Blood - it’s definitely Apple Blood, he can smell it on the steam - and get some rest. But Titan, it’s hard not to think about.
Everything plays in his mind in some twisted, broken loop, flashes and fragments of what happened. Snatches of what he saw when he was torn from Luz, down, down into the ground. Things he wants to forget.
(There were so many of them. So many of - him. What he is. All dead, dead, dead, still wearing their uniforms, some of them. Others dressed in scrappy cloaks, with badges and symbols he didn’t quite recognise. He feels sick thinking about it.)
He screws his eyes shut.
He supposes he can be thankful. In some way. That he’s here, and he’s safe. That he wasn’t found by the Emperor, nor left stranded in the depths of his mind. That - that somehow Darius and Raine managed to find him. Managed to catch up to him. (Though, as he thinks about it, it wouldn’t have been an impossible task - he left quite a mess in his wake.)
But still-
He can’t help but feel useless. Useless, and now - well. Now he feels like a burden. He feels like he’s unnecessarily dragging Darius and Raine into danger, along with their unnamed fellow rebel. Because if they’re going from the castle, and they’re gone for a while, it’ll be noticed. He knows how Belos works. Knows how he has to have everything in its right place.
Like a chessboard. Knight, king, queen, and pawn.
Hunter knows what that makes him.
(Checkmate.)
His hands shake. He raises his mug to his lips, and-
And spills the drink, sending scalding hot Apple Blood down his hands, splashing his wrists and the rough skin at the back of his hands, and the tender skin of his finger-tips.
And he-
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t stand up, doesn’t shove the mug away, doesn't run his hands under some cold water. Flapjack chirps incessantly, tugging at the hem of his shirt sleeves, trying to get him to stand up, to do something, to move, move, move. He just sits, still, waiting as the Apple Blood goes sticky and clotted, watches as his skin ripples from the burn, goes red under the touch of the drink. It pools beneath his hands, warping into the supple wood of the table.
It’s not like he’s not used to getting hurt. He’s familiar with pain. Uncomfortably so.
But when he thinks about standing up, and going to heal himself, like he’s done a dozen, a hundred times before, something in him freezes. Because when he did that before, it was for a - a reason, he supposes. He was healing himself so he could go on and work another day.
But he has- he has nothing left. Everything has crumbled to dust before his eyes. He has nothing, and all of the scars criss-crossing his body are useless. The missions he got them from, the hard-fought battles he won are just as futile.
He’s purposefully steering his mind away from any other injuries. From-
Well.
He doesn’t like to dwell on it.
But deep down in his heart, he knows The Collector was right. Because -
Just to destroy them-
You enjoy it-
Admit it-
Belos must have - must enjoy it. Must have enjoyed destroying him, tearing him apart, cut by cut, blow by blow. And at the time, he’d swallowed those lies whole, taken them from his palm. Listened to everything he was fed. That it was fine. Fine because the Titan had big plans for him, fine because it was all for his own good. All for his own good, and yet-
And yet he’s -
And now he’s-
And now he’s sitting on a rickety chair in an apparent safe house, shaking. Wordlessly sobbing. Tears stream down his cheeks, unbidden, unwanted. His hands hurt. Everything hurts. There’s a rough scrape on his face, a remnant of where the earth swallowed him whole.
(He’s cracked, unwhole. Like one of the palisman he’s seen Belos consume. Split open like ripe shellfish.)
He hiccups, and coughs, and splutters, helplessly trying to hold back tears. He feels- he feels unimaginably pathetic. Sobbing over Apple Blood. Sobbing over a simple spillage. Crying like a child at - at something like that. Something so easily fixable. Something so easily preventable.
“Kid?” Darius says, and Hunter flinches, “You good?” There’s a brief pause, as the man emerges from the shadows. He looks more relaxed, donning a deep purple dressing gown - Hunter isn’t too sure if it’s made out of Abomination gloop - and what could be a face mask. It wouldn’t surprise Hunter, not from what he knows about Darius, he likes the fine things in life.
“M’fine,” Hunter mumbles and leaves it at that. Hopes the dim of the room disguises his burnt fingers. Hopes that Darius doesn’t see the blatant teartracks streaked across his face.
He doesn’t get that lucky.
“You don’t look good,” Darius points out. Hunter hears him move, he’s crossing the room, coming to stand by his chair. “What happened here?”
“Split it,” he says, and leaves it at that. He’s dropped to simple sentences, he’s realised, things that don’t take that long to think about. All delivered in the same dull monotone.
Darius nods, and purses his lips, like he wants to say something else. And perhaps, another time, he might have, but for now he just guides Hunter to his feet. The touch on his shoulders is feather-light; Hunter’s no longer being manhandled, he feels like a vase, perfectly polished glass.
Darius leads him to the sink.Waits, and turns the handle. Cold water comes seeping out, and Hunter pokes a finger tentatively into the stream, jerks away like he’s been burnt after a fraction of a second.
“Kid, it’s not going to help if you don’t properly soak your hands,” Darius tells him, his tone unusually gentle (then again, Hunter’s seen a completely different side of the man in the past few weeks), “I’ll run you a bowl of water. Would that be better?”
There’s something so - so caring in his tone that Hunter’s skin crawls. He tries to tell himself that it isn’t false concern, that nothing bad is going to happen to him if he dips his hands into the water, soothes the burns, washes away the stickiness of the juice, but-
Titan, his mind doesn’t want to listen.
Still, he nods. Nods, and sits in a stilted, stiff silent, Flapjack’s quiet presence on his shoulder the only real thing keeping him grounded.
The head witch stoops, and opens a cupboard, before closing it again. His brow furrows. He pulls open another cupboard, and shuts it again, more abruptly.
“ Where the… where does Whispers keep their fucking bowls, Titan above…” the man swears softly under his breath. He yanks open another cupboard, and with a sigh of relief, withdraws a chipped blue bowl.
Hunter watches the entire altercation with a dazed, wide-eyed expression, flinching as Darius swears to himself. He swallows, thickly, and waits as the man fills up the bowl slowly with chilled water, carrying it over to the table, along with a cloth to clean up the spillage. Some of the water spills over the lip of the bowl as he sets it down. Darius doesn’t seem overly bothered.
“There,” he murmurs, and Hunter steps closer, “There you go, little prince. Soak your hands, and then we can both get some rest.”
Hunter stops listening after his first statement. Something about that - that nickname. It at first makes him pause, and then it makes him freeze, and then he’s staring at the bowl of water, unmoving and silently panicking.
“Hunter?” Darius prompts, and Hunter pushes the bowl away, suddenly sullen.
“M’fine,” he murmurs again, “Promise, my - my hands are fine. I’m fine! Doing great, even, I’m- I’m great! Why do you-”
“Hunter-”
“Why do you keep- why are you talking to me like that? I’m not a kid. I’m not a- prince. Or anything like that. And I’m- I’m fine,” his words would be far more effective if he wasn’t on the verge of sobbing again, or if he wasn’t stumbling over every other word. Hunter didn’t know why he was suddenly being so defensive. Or why he was pretending that everything was going to plan, and that he was coping. Coping with everything that had suddenly been pushed on him.
“Hunter,” Darius says again, more slowly, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” he goes on, and Hunter goes to interrupt him, before realising that he doesn’t quite know what to say. Doesn’t know why he’s so affected by the nickname. Because it was just that- a nickname.
But it-
Hunter knows who it’s tied to. What it means.
It means that he’s Belos’ plaything. That he was - because he isn’t anymore, that’s gone, a thing of the past - he was the Golden Guard, the shiny little centrepiece on Belos’ round table. But now - he’s just a thing. A monster. A creature. He’s not even a powerless witch. He’s a grimwalker; not a prince.
“You don’t have to say that you’re okay if you’re not,” Darius is speaking slowly, methodically, like he’s thinking over every word. Hunter presumes he is. “A lot happened, yeah? Heck, I’d be worried if you were really doing fine.”
Hunter makes a soft noise of acknowledgement, low in the back of his throat.
“And you don’t…” Darius looks visibly uncomfortable, now, “You don’t have to talk about it now. But it’ll do you good to talk about at some point.”
He takes that in. Gives a small, shaky nod, because something about Darius’ clumsy awkwardness is oddly reassuring. He swallows, and tugs the bowl of water towards him, dips a finger in, and hears Darius breath a relieved sigh.
“How long do I need to leave my hands in here?” he asks after a little while, pointedly ignoring what Darius had said before. Mainly because he does… he does want to talk. He just doesn’t quite feel ready for it, not yet, not for a while. He supposes he could start to pick apart what happened, start it slowly, pick it apart, take it one painful step at a time.
Darius hums thoughtfully, scrubs at the table with the cloth. “A few minutes, I would think. Until your hands don’t hurt.”
“They didn’t hurt.” Hunter tells him. Lies. “I can cope with a little bit of boiling water.”
“Still,” the man blinks at him, and shrugs, “Just soak them. And then I’ll fix you some more Apple Blood.”
Hunter represses a shiver. He thinks he’s done a decent job, but Darius raises a brow at him, and he clears his throat. “Absolutely not.”
He looks at him, and for a second, Hunter thinks that somehow he’s managed to get in trouble. But then Darius chuckles, low and somehow booming. And for a brief second, he thinks that maybe things will be fine. Maybe he’ll make it to the next sunset. That it’s not just- it’s not just him, not anymore.
“Not a fan of Apple Blood, then?” Darius asks, and Hunter shakes his head, lips pursed.
“No, not…not in the slightest.”
“I’ll make you some tea,” Darius tells him, “Is that agreeable?”
“Don’t worry,” Hunter murmurs, “I’m fine. I’ll just… wait until my hands are fine. And then… then I’ll sleep…?” His voice pitches up at the end, like a question. He doesn’t know where he’s sleeping, firstly, neither Darius nor Raine had shown him to a room. He also doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep. Thinks that the moment he closes his eyes, all he’ll be able to see is - well. Nothing. The blankness that had greeted him in the split-seconds when he’d thought he’d been dead.
“Oh, yeah,” Darius gives a vague gesture towards a door in the corner of the room, the entrance cloaked by shadows, “There’s a spare room in there. You’re lucky, kid - I’m sleeping on their couch.”
“Sorry,” Hunter murmurs, “You’re - you can have it. Don’t think I’ll be sleeping, so.”
“Oh,” Darius winces, “Was it… was it that bad?”
Hunter doesn’t speak. Doesn’t trust himself to. He swallows, and nods, a fragile gesture, eyes fluttering closed as he does. He swirls his fingers in the bowl of water, watching through barely-opened eyes as the water spirals and whirls beneath his touch.
“You can talk about it tomorrow,” Darius murmurs, tone reassuring, “Well, later today. We should both get some sleep, really. Things will look better when it’s brighter outside.”
Hunter nods. Pushes the bowl of water away. “Yeah. I’m… I won’t keep you up.”
“Hey, it’s fine-” Darius starts to say, before cutting off mid-sentence. Hunter turns around, blinking at the head of the Bard Coven as they enter the room. They look tired, sleepy, dressed in a matching pyjama set, rubbing at their eyes languidly. Flapjack chirps as they enter, twittering out a bright greeting.
“Are you-” they break off to yawn, “Are you two still awake?”
“What does it look like.” Darius says, and a weak smile twitches at the corner of Hunter’s mouth.
“Sorry,” Raine whispers, “I mean. You should both probably go to bed. It’s…” they yawn again, “It’s late. And tomorrow-”
Darius sighs. “We need to sort out stuff for the kid, I know, I know,” he says. Hunter takes a glimmer of offence to that, though he’s too bone-weary to fight it. He guesses he’s just tired of being referred to like he’s not even there, like he’s just fading into the background. “Talking of which-” Darius goes on, “Have you made contact with her, yet?”
“Who?” Raine says. They’re playing dumb, and even Hunter can tell that.
“The Owl Lady.” Darius frowns, “I swear, I told you about this earlier-”
“You did, I just… forgot.”
“How did you forget, I just asked you to see how you could get some kind of message to her.”
“Yeah, and I… I couldn’t work it out?” Raine offers, with a weak, shy smile.
“Pftt. Sure. Sure.” Darius grumbles, “By the way, why doesn’t your house make sense? Why are the bowls in with the saucepans? It’s absolutely preposterous.”
“They’re the same… same kinda shape…?” Raine answers, “It is my house.”
“Wait, this is your house?” Hunter blurts before he can really help himself. “Shoot, sorry, I spilt, uh, - sorry.” He winces, and hangs his head, feeling - he thinks it’s shame. He just feels bad, and itchy with guilt. It’s just a table, but he was trusted to stay here, and not - not fuck things up like he always does, like he loathes himself for doing, every time.
Raine glances at the spillage, and shrugs, and smiles. “Hey, don’t worry about it, kid. You alright? I know what hot Apple Blood smells like.” There’s something wistful in their gaze, but it’s fleeting, and temporary.
“M’fine.” Hunter mumbles, and leaves it at that. He tugs his hands out of the water, and pushes the bowl away - his fingers don’t sting, the pain has dulled down to a faint, aching throb. He knows his hands will be red in the morning, but it’s hardly the worst thing he’s ever dealt with.
Darius turns back to Raine, brow furrowed. “We still need to get a message to Eda.” he says, and his voice is unusually soft.
Hunter swallows. Clears his throat. “Why don’t you just…” he starts, and both adults go quiet to let him talk, which is- strange. Usually, he finds himself being talked over, being drowned out, everybody else’s voices overlapping over his until he can’t even hear himself. (Can’t even find himself.)
“Yeah?” Darius prompts, voice friendly, encouraging.
“Message her, or something?” Hunter suggests, “Do any of you have a Penstagram?”
They both nod.
“Whispers,” Darius turns to Raine, tilting his head to the side, “Do you have her Penstagram?”
Raine, for some inexplicable reason, flushes a deep rose-pink, blushing to the tips of their ears. “Erm.”
“What?” Darius asks, regarding them with a glint in his eyes. It almost looks like he’s suspicious.
Raine looks down at their hands, clasped at their front, fingers interlocked neatly. “Well. Erm. The thing is, I, um, kinda blocked her?”
“Why?” Hunter asks, before he can stop himself. He’s not exactly one for gossip, never has been - he tends to ignore whispers around the castle. It was an unnecessary distraction, and he also just - just couldn’t bring himself to care.
Though, he wonders vaguely if things may have been different if he did listen to gossip. If he might have picked up some sly whisper, discrediting Belos, calling him what he really is. A liar, a mockery, a murderer.
He looks up suddenly. He doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t think it suits this quant, quiet little kitchen, this neat house.
Darius blinks at him, rests his hand briefly on Hunter’s shoulder. It’s a quiet reassurance, but Hunter feels the warmth of it down to the marrow of his bones. He pats his shoulder, once. “Eda’s their ex.” He explains, a teasing lilt in his voice.
“Oh.” Hunter murmurs. That makes - makes slightly more sense, he thinks. Why Raine had been so protective earlier, why they’d refused to bring him back to the Owl House with the sting of Hunter’s betrayal (because that was what he’d done, he had to face up to it) still smarting.
“Darius!” Raine splutters, eyes going wide beneath the circular frame of their glasses, “He didn’t need to know that…”
“It adds more context. No need to get so heated, Whispers.” Darius remarks back, stepping away to pick up the bowl from the table with a tendril of abomination gloop, and carry it back over to the sink. Despite his earlier snark at Raine’s organisation skills, he tucks the bowl neatly back where he’d got it from in the first place, right beside a saucepan.
Hunter shifts stiffly in his chair. “Why’d you… why’d you block her?” He asks.
Raine looks at him. Hunter suspects they’re sizing up if it’s a question worth answering, wondering what Hunter wants with the answer. He doesn’t want anything with it - he’d be more surprised if Raine chose to answer him than anything else. He knows that he’s not the most trustworthy person. “It’s… it was easier that way. If she kept talking to me, we’d both just get hurt.” They say at last, with a brief, darting look to the side. “Besides, she can’t find out I’m not. Y’know.” They say, and stop talking.
Darius looks around from where he’s wiping down the surfaces of the kitchen, sweeping each counter with slow, methodical movements.
“Brainwashed?” He supplies, and Raine nods.
“Yes. That.” They say, electing to move on quickly, “So, my account is out of the question. Darius, do you have a Penstagram?”
“Yeah, but I’m not gonna message her,” Darius says, and before Raine can interject, he goes on smoothly, “Kid, could you… it’ll just make it easier.”
Hunter starts. Nods.
“Yeah. I… okay,” he mumbles. He doesn’t have his scroll with him, and he half wishes that he did. He wants to talk to the Emerald Entrails, tell them they were right all along. He wants to check in with Luz, make sure she made it out okay, check that she’s doing - well. Not okay, because he isn’t, and he suspects that she’s doing much the same.
“Good,” Darius nods at him, shooting him a quick smile, “I’ll let you log your account on my scroll. I’d hope that you haven’t brought your scroll along with you.”
Hunter shakes his head quickly. “No, it’s still in my room,” he murmurs, and feels a pang of regret.
Darius blinks at him. “Well. I’ll get you a new one,” he says, with no more preamble, and Hunter has no time to express his sheer gratitude before he goes on, “Kid, isn’t it past your bedtime?”
“I’m sixteen.” Hunter replies, thrown.
“ Way past your bedtime, then,” Darius says, and points towards the spare room again. “Raine, is that still alright for him to use?”
Raine jerks their head up, and quickly nods. “Uh-huh,” they say, “I… I gave it a quick clean. It’s probably not the comfiest bed you’ll ever sleep in, but I did what I could in a pinch,” they pause, and step away, heading back to their own room, Hunter guesses, “Goodnight, you two. Sleep well.”
With that, they slip into the shadows. Darius steps away too, and Hunter shakily stands up. Now that it’s finally, properly sinking in that he’s safe, that Belos - Belos shouldn’t be able to find him, (Titan, he hopes not, prays that he won’t) everything is catching up with him. He’s bone-weary, absolutely exhausted, but he knows he’ll find no solace in sleep. But he can close his eyes, he supposes, and lie down, and wait for the horrible, horrible day to pass by.
Hunter wanders over to his - it’s hard to think of it as his - room, lingers in the doorway. His hand traces over the handle. The inside, he can see, is perfectly pleasant - there’s a single bed in the corner, a window with the curtains drawn, a bedside table complete with flowers in a vase. Mundane, and simple.
He sits down on the bed. The springs creak worryingly under his weight. He pulls the covers over himself, not bothering to change clothes.
“Goodnight, Hunter,” Darius calls from outside his room. Hunter hears his footsteps begin to fade, he’s not expected to reply, he knows that. Knows Darius has a scope of what he’s been through, knows he’ll just want Hunter to get some kind of sleep.
Still.
Hunter swallows.
“Goodnight.” He whispers back, and rolls over. He knows his sleep will be haunted. Knows that gleaning a single moment of rest from the night would be nothing short of a miracle.
But he knows that tomorrow will be better. Knows that he can start to- he doesn't know. Change.
(He wants to say recover.)
He has people now. People with him, people who want to help him. He just needs to - to trust them, and reach out for those he’s beginning to care for.
It’s all he can do.
He closes his eyes, and waits for morning.