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For all the research Hunter has done on grimwalkers, he still knows very little about them. All he knows is that he’s the last one, most likely. He’s some sort of…copy, a replica of someone else. He’s made of palistrom wood and selkidomus scales, with a galderstone for a heart and the stolen lungs of a stonesleeper. And, somewhere under the rough bark, is a chunk of bone that was taken from…whoever it is he’s a copy of.
It’s not enough information. It barely even begins to scratch the surface of being useful, but he’s scoured every source he could get his hands on. There isn’t much else to know. Everything else about grimwalkers is all theoretical and scary stories, told to children late at night to keep them from getting into trouble. Just a tall tale, nothing more.
It’s strange, being something that has been regarded as merely a legend for centuries. Maybe at one point, the existence of grimwalkers was common knowledge—but that time has long since passed. Every book on them only tells of old stories and poems, almost lost to the ages before historians found and recorded them.
At least they’re interesting. And they are effective—if anyone had read these to him when he was younger, he certainly would’ve improved any bad behavior.
That’s what the Titan was for. He shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath. Flapjack chirps softly.
But none of it is of any real use to him. It’s just making Hunter feel more numb, more disconnected. He’s used to this feeling, of being untethered to the world, to his own body. It’s happened ever since he can remember.
He shuts the book in his lap and gingerly sets it on the ground, then pulls his legs up to his chest. The world around him is fuzzy, out of focus. His chest feels tight.
There’s no answers here. Maybe he’ll never find any. Unc— Belos . Belos most likely…got rid of any information on them. Hid it. Banned it. Wouldn’t want anyone figuring it out, or attempting to make their own. That would lead to nothing but trouble.
That’s what he feels like, sometimes. Nothing but trouble.
Distantly, Hunter can hear Flapjack chirping. The school bell is ringing—no, screaming . Titan, it’s loud. Footsteps, chattering, squeaking and banging and thumping. It’s all noise , loud and nonsensical. The feeling gets stronger. Whatever it is that’s holding him to his body, it’s slowly unraveling. It’s hard to breathe, hard to even feel any of his aching body, which is strange. The pains are constant. They’re faint, now.
He’ll never know why he doesn’t have magic. Never understand what’s wrong with him. Grimwalker. Grimwalker. Grimwalker . It feels like nothing, like it’s not real, like he’s not real. Nothing is real. Everything is a lie, always has been, always will be. Grimwalker. Grimwalker. Grimwalker. I’m sorry, Lord Belos. Still alive. Work to do. Hurts every time. Such a shame. Just hang on. Nothingness, darkness, cold and terrifying and he can hear them, Philip and Luzura and and and—
It hurts. Something is yanking on his hair, then pecking at his face, goes back to his hair. Hair, face, hair, face, hair, face, over and over. Chirping and twittering and squawking and crying. Breathe, breathe, it’s okay, come back, come back, come back, boy. My boy, my boy.
Hunter sucks a breath in, sucks himself back into his body. His lungs scream and burn. The world is a blur. Everything is hot and cold. His insides are tied into tight knots. Everything is achy and painful, just like always. It’s quiet, save for his unsteady breathing and Flapjack’s frantic tweeting. They’ve stopped pecking at his face, now they just keep tugging on his hair.
Everyone must’ve gone to class. He slowly stretches his legs out, his face scrunching up in pain with the effort. Eventually, he catches his breath. But everything inside of him is still tied up, it just feels a little more hollow. Like someone dug a space inside his chest and left it as it was, instead of using it for anything. Why dig a hole if you’re not going to bury something in it?
His vision is blurry. He reaches up to feel around his eyes, and his fingers come away wet. Is he crying? His next exhale is shaky. Flapjack finally settles down, resting in his hair. Their talons gently scratch at his scalp.
It’s okay, it’s alright, you’re safe, you’re safe. Shh, shh. My boy. My dear boy. Safe. Safe.
Hunter opens his mouth to reply, but he can’t get any sound to come out. He squeezes his eyes shut as he lets out a sob. Dammit.
He’s real. Painfully so. It’s a cruel contradiction.
He shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t be real. He isn’t supposed to exist. But he does, he does, he does.
Ever since Hunter has existed, he’s been in pain. Whether it’s his hands, his eyes, his ears, his brain, his everything , something is always hurting. Sometimes, it’s not so bad. He doesn’t notice it as much and he can go about his day fine. Sometimes, it’s the worst thing he’s ever felt. Worse than the shame of failing, than being hit, than suffering for the Titan. He can barely move without agony surging through his body. He always pushes through it. He can’t sit around, he has work to do. So he grits his teeth and presses on.
It’s not just the pain, though. The world will get fuzzy, in a different way from the untethered feeling. Everything seems to slow down, it gets harder to think, to do anything . He can’t focus on work, can’t read or write or talk , can’t remember his schedule or what he’s even supposed to be doing. He wants to and he tries to. He just can’t .
Maybe that’s what being a grimwalker is. This endless pain, the moments of fuzziness, the numbness, the disconnection from everything, the lack of magic, the way his eyes and his hands ache, the reason why everything is just too loud, too bright, too much. Everything that’s wrong with him. Maybe that’s what it is.
Or maybe it’s not. He’ll never know.
Hunter slowly opens his eyes and wipes at his face, taking deep, even breaths. Flapjack chirps reassuringly, gently mussing his hair.
Rest, boy. Will feel better.
No. He probably won’t. He doesn’t think he could sleep if he tried, anyways. But it’s a nice thought. So he stares ahead blankly and lets himself drift.