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Hunter wasn’t sure how long he ran.
He wasn’t even really thinking about running, he just knew he couldn’t breathe. Everything was just too close. The walls of the house, the pale hand of the owl lady, and above all that cape. That stupid cape that he had loved so much. The cape he had spent his time carefully mending and putting back together.
Hunter was like that cape. Just bits and pieces haphazardly put together, sewn with empty gaping spaces still left. It had burned his skin, reminding him over and over that they were the same. Just scraps of something that used to be whole. Even tearing it off hadn’t helped, the scorching sears of its memory still laced up his arms and twisted around his lungs.
He had run out of the house not to get away, but because he had hoped that there would be air outside. There wasn’t. The oppressive walls were replaced by an endless sea of dark purple branches and thick leafy foliage. He had kept running, instinct making his body move while his mind stayed still. It was like being back under the ground, swallowed up by the dirt and stones. He had used Luz’s glyphs to escape then, but was there a glyph for turning time backwards? That was the only way things would be right again now. Was there a glyph to make his lungs work right again?
Eventually the inevitable happened, and his foot snagged on one of the gnarly roots that were ripping themselves out of the soil the same way he had torn himself up from down below. Hunter went tumbling, curling up into a ball as he fell. He went on rolling until he hit something hard and heavy and collapsed in a heap, still hyperventilating. Even now he couldn’t catch his breath. Running probably hadn’t helped, but when had Hunter ever helped himself? He could only make things worse.
That was what he was made for after all.
All at once, his breath seemed to come back to him, and Hunter gulped down a huge gasp, coughing roughly as he did, but repeating the action over and over. His throat was being ripped up, but the threads of the cloak that had been wrapped around his lungs were starting to ease. Hunter kept his eyes closed as he forced oxygen into his body, but he could feel the familiar scratch of bark under his fingertips.
Grimwalker.
Galdorstone, Palistrom Wood, Stonesleeper Lungs, Selkidomus Scales, Bone of Ortet. Five little ingredients to make life. Shockingly, it wasn’t that hard to make one. The ingredients weren’t easy to procure, and it was forbidden of course, but such things wouldn’t matter at all for someone like Belos. For the emperor? It would be child’s play. Hunter had just never even considered that his uncle would even think of doing such a thing.
Because he had been blind. Blind, naive, and foolish. The obvious truths had been sitting right in front of him the entire time, and Hunter had chosen to ignore them. Why? Because it was the easier answer? Because he had wanted to believe the stories?
Because he was made to be obedient?
A shiver ran through the boy’s body and he curled up tighter. Now that it had started, he couldn’t stop the thoughts. He didn’t want to, but he didn’t know how to redirect. How much of who he was was actually real? Was any of it?
A soft chirp sang close by, and the shuffle of wings. Another little noise, and then there was a tiny feathered presence nudging against where Hunter’s arms were covering his head. The teen unlaced his fingers and pulled his hands away, untucking his chin and opening his eyes. Flapjack was sitting on the ground in front of him, staring up with his one good eye. His palisman was uncharacteristically silent, just waiting to see what his boy was going to do.
“Is that why you were drawn to me?” Hunter managed to get out, hating how fragile his voice sounded, “Because we’re made of the same thing? Did you sense it or something?”
Flapjack fluttered his wings, hopping a little closer with an affronted twitter. Hunter was still getting used to understanding his palisman’s language, but he knew enough to know when Flapjack was saying No.
“Th-then why?” It shouldn’t have mattered, not when there were a thousand and one more important questions, a million more urgent issues. It shouldn’t matter, but it did. It mattered because this was the only question he might get an answer to. Belos was never going to tell him the truth, and even if he did, Hunter would never know if it was. He was never going to know why, or what of him was real. This was the only thing he could know.
“Why me?” Hunter whispered, pulling himself into a sitting position and pushing backwards until his back was straight against the tree. Once it was, he pulled his knees in close and wrapped his arms around them, “I’m not a real witch, I’m not human, I’m not even real. ”
He cut himself off there, not able to speak past the hard rock that was growing bigger and bigger in his windpipe. Flapjack chirped and flew up so he was perched on Hunter’s knee, staring directly at him. The little bird whistled a low tune. Hunter couldn’t really understand it, not with his emotions running this high, but he did pull one word.
Mine.
“You should pick someone better,” Hunter murmured. He had said it before, more than once. His palisman could have had anyone in the Boiling Isles, and anyone else would probably have been a better choice. Someone safer for Flapjack, someone who hadn’t been made by Belos. No matter the reason, Hunter had been created by the emperor, which made him just as bad. He had done so many things, things he knew weren’t right, all for the love of a man who saw him as nothing more than a convenient puppet. A man who would replace him whenever he no longer had that convenience. Who had replaced him. More than once.
“You should pick someone real,” Hunter insisted, waving his hand and forcing Flapjack off of his knee and into the air, “Go pick someone better, leave me alone,”
The cardinal sang the same tune, and Hunter could make out more of the words.
Chose you. Mine.
“Leave me alone!” Hunter shouted, ripping his throat in the process. He forced himself to his feet, hands wrapping into tight fists, the muscles in his legs burning and wavering after his frantic escape from the owl house, “Just go! Go back to the owl lady, or Luz, or anyone else!”
Flapjack stubbornly just continued to warble the same few notes over and over. Hunter couldn’t make out any more words, and the ones he could understand were already overwhelming.
Chose you. Mine. Chose you. Mine.
He put his hands over his ears, but that did nothing to stop his palisman. Hunter had researched it after Flapjack had made it clear he was sticking around no matter what. Understanding what a palisman said didn’t really have anything to do with actually hearing the sounds they were making. It was in the mind connection, the intricate web of magic woven between a witch and their familiar.
Except Hunter didn’t have magic. Hunter wasn’t a witch. Hunter was Galdorstone, Palistrom Wood, Stonesleeper Lungs, Selkidomus Scales, and Bone of Ortet. Hunter was a handful of components pushed together to resemble something close to living, given just enough sentience to understand what a monster he was. He was nothing, or rather he wished he was. Being nothing was better than being this.
Chose you. Mine. Chose you. Mine. Chose you. Mine.
“Stop,” Hunter mumbled, “Just stop,”
Flapjack kept going, floating a little closer and continuing to trill. Hunter pressed his palms impossibly closer, unable to escape the music. He tried to drown it out with the thunder of pressure crushing his ears to his head, but the palisman song cut through with ease.
“Please, stop,” Hunter whimpered, past the point of feeling pathetic for begging. He was pathetic, a pathetic creature that was far too weak to be worthy of a palisman. Couldn’t Flapjack see that? It was so painfully obvious, and now that he knew the truth, it always had been. He had always just been a pitiful sorry boy that had so quickly latched onto the idea that he was special.
Special, even the thought of the word made acrid bitter salt coat his tongue. Hunter wasn’t special. The Titan didn’t have some grand plan for him. Hunter was the same as the dozens of other ‘Hunter’s that had come before him. Just poor things that Belos had created to do his bidding. The only grand plan that included Hunter was the one where Belos destroyed everything.
Chose you. Mine. Chose you. Mine. Chose you. Mine. Chose you. Mine. Chose you.
“Stop it!” Hunter screamed, “Stop it! Stop it!”
It was too much. It was just too much. He couldn’t breathe again, the world was closing in too tightly. The boy reeled back until he slammed into the tree. He fisted his fingers in his hair and tugged, pulling down and roughly scratching across his face. When his hands were in front of his face he screamed into them again, no words this time just something primal and bloody that was bursting out of his chest. He didn’t even really sound like a person. He sounded like an animal, an animal caught in a trap, howling at a broken leg and its inevitably grisly fate.
Like what he really was.
Hunter quieted himself, forcing the next scream longing to come forward back down deep in his belly. If he let it out, he would just keep screaming and screaming until he died. He didn’t let himself think about how that would probably be better for everyone. All of the sounds that had been holding onto him were going away. All that was left was Hunter’s own harsh breathing, and the wind in the trees.
And one note, not the full song, just a single tiny croon.
Mine.
He let his hands fall to his sides, letting his head fall back against the trunk of the tree and closing his eyes against the burn. Hunter’s legs were in agony, and his heart was breaking in half, and a deep numbing exhaustion was taking over. Flapjack must have sensed his trembling resolve, because the bird fluttered closer. He sang his full melody, and the words of it came out plain and simple, Hunter unable to push them away.
I chose you, because I knew you were mine.
The tears were hot and heavy, dripping down his cheeks and clogging his nose. Hunter didn’t do anything to stop them. It would’ve been a losing battle, and he was so, so tired of fighting. There was nothing left to do but let them come.
“I can’t be anyone’s,” He croaked, his voice cracking and breaking, “I’m not real,”
Flapjack got even closer, giving a sharp trill that was impossible to not hear.
You’re real to me.
But why? Why would this palisman care so much? Didn’t he understand what Hunter was? Couldn’t he see how it changed things? Flapjack gave another warble, this one soft and gentle and close to his ear.
Doesn’t matter. You’re still mine.
It felt like a secret. Not the dirty rotting kind that had been living inside of him for so long. Not the terrifying ones that he had held from Belos in spite of what he was created to do. It was the warm kind, the ones that held promises and were really only meant for two. Something special, an authentic genuine special that Hunter couldn’t help but latch onto. The boy let his breath go, sliding down the tree until he was back sitting against it. He held his hand out without opening his eyes, and Flapjack nestled there, making himself comfortable.
Hunter stayed that way for some time. Time meant nothing at this moment, and he floated with it, listening to the wind in the trees and the occasional melody coming from his palisman. He didn’t open his eyes, he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to see the world and be reminded of the reality of his situation.
He wanted just this to be real. Not Belos, or the owl lady, or even Luz and her friends. He didn’t want magic or humans or the responsibility of trying to find out what he was now without a purpose. All that was real was Flapjack, the wind, the tree, and Hunter.
Eventually though, eyes always open. No matter how much he didn’t want to, he had to come back. When he did, Flapjack was looking at him again, that one eyed stare pinning Hunter down..
“What do we do now?” His palisman had only one word for him.
Home .
Where was home? Hunter thought of the word home, and the image that came up was stained glass and dusty floors. Haphazard piles of junk, and overeager voices that always managed to sound affectionate regardless of the words. Was home always a place? Or could it be people too?
Hunter wasn’t positive about the answer, but he was positive that it didn’t matter much at this moment. Because as he looked around at the tiny alcove he found himself in, he was staring at a completely unfamiliar place. Peering past the cluster of trees, he couldn’t see any paths, not even the one he had ran to get here. It all looked the same. Just…trees.
Even if he wanted to, and he still wasn’t sure that he really did, Hunter had no way to get back to the place and people he was starting to think of as home. He was lost in far more ways than one.