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Nothing in the past few days has felt real to Hunter.
He is aware, dimly, that he’s back home. (He doesn’t know if this has ever truly been home. Doesn’t know if some matter of his bones considers it to be somewhere else.)
But it doesn’t feel real. He feels blurred around the edges, like he’s sleepwalking. Everything is fuzzy; faded. Every conversation feels like it’s padded by a thick bundle of cotton wool. His sleep is fogged with nightmares, persistent even if he’s weary to the bone. Even the Boiling Isle feels fake - whatever the Collector did to warp it, to change it has changed the place. It’s almost flipped - nothing is in its right place. The landscape they once knew is scattered. He gets lost every day. He never used to before.
They haven’t seen anyone. Not a soul. Not even Belos, who Hunter had been expecting to be lingering by the portal entrance for him. Waiting to - to -
He swallows. He can’t think about that.
And yet -
It’s all he can think about. Everything acts as a bitter reminder of how he allowed himself to be tricked. Again. How he allowed the man he’d once known as his uncle to invade his mind. How he’d been used as a hapless puppet, how he’d cracked open the spine of the first creature to show him kindness-
He feels the loss of Flapjack like an ache. It feels like something has been physically torn from him, like he’s missing a limb. He can feel his palisman deep within his soul, he can sense where he laid down wearily and gave his life for him, but he can’t reach him, and it’s driving him insane. He misses being able to confide in the little red palisman, misses the way he’d tug at his ear, misses how he’d rest on his shoulder.
He just feels -
Strange. Different.
The sliced marks on his skin serve as a reminder of that.
He hates them. Hates the way they stretch across his face, bold and ugly. Hates how they’re unavoidable. His ones from before, he could hide them if he tried. These are obvious, and stark, and he knows his friends stare at them. Even if they don’t want to, they’re impossible not to look at.
He hates the reminder of what happened to him even more, hates the reminder of how Belos had seeped into his skin and into his mind and made him - made him -
He clenches his fist until his nails form crescents on his palms. He can’t allow himself to think of that. Luz has told him, again and again, that he can’t blame himself for it. That he was tricked. That he wasn’t even conscious during it, that he wasn’t himself. And he’s tried to remind himself that; that he was tricked. Belos tricked people. He’d done it to Hunter time after time.
But there was something nagging in his mind -
He was wide awake. He was wide awake as his body was taken over, as he was used like a puppet. He was awake while he spoke with his voice, he was awake as Luz urged him to fight back. He doesn’t want to point out to her that if he’d been unaware, he never would have heard her. Never would have wrenched his own hand away from Flapjack’s neck, never would have tossed the Titan’s Blood into that lake. He was awake. He was -
He was there. And he can’t avoid that thought.
He stands up, abruptly. He’s supposed to be watching, looking, waiting for anyone, but the landscape is empty. There’s nobody here. He doesn’t know where they’ve gone.
He’d been hoping, somewhat selfishly, to find Darius quickly. To reassure himself that the man was alright. When he’d last seen the former head of the Abomination Coven, he’d been overcome with the same draining spell as everyone else in the Isle and he couldn’t tear that image from his mind. The way he’d been hunched over, weak, dying. He'd just been hoping that Darius would be okay. That Hunter would be able to sit down beside him and show him how he’d gotten better at his sewing, and that he was alright. That he’d made it out.
But he hasn’t seen Darius. He hasn’t seen anyone.
It’s far, far too quiet. He’s used to the Boiling Isle being a bustling, busy mess, a melting pot of different species and people and creatures. The lack of noise, the lack of anything but a dry, desolate wasteland is so unusual.
He hopes (prays) that people are just hiding. That the Collector has forced everybody into tight corners and hiding spots and his friends are still out there somewhere. That they’re struggling in the dark, but they’re still alive. That they’re slowly getting ready to fight.
He hopes they’re okay. He thinks they should be. Darius is a skilled Coven Head; Eda was on the run for years and still thrived; King is a Titan.
But then again -
The Collector swiped Belos out of the way like he was nothing. And Hunter was terrified of Belos for years. (Even if he didn’t quite realise it. Even if he mixed white-hot fear with tepid admiration.) To him, Belos was untouchable. God-like. (It was why he never fought back.)
He doesn’t know if this is a fight they can win.
But they have to try. He made a promise.
He touches his hand slowly to his chest. Pulls it away again. He carries that promise with him; a constant reminder of what he owes to Flapjack. Carries it by the brown sheen in his eyes. Carries it by the scars marring his face and his arms and -
He shudders. Despite himself. He can’t quite get used to how they look in the mirror, in puddles of rain. It feels wrong. It makes him feel detached from his body, like he’s watching through a pane of fogged-up glass.
“You okay?” he hears someone say, and jumps, despite himself. It’s just Willow, probably coming to take over the nightwatch so he can sleep. But she still startles him.
“Yeah,” he says, and finds that he’s finding it hard to speak, his words slow like mud and treacle. He’s been so, so good at putting on a brave face for the past few days. Trying to prove himself. But it’s late, and he’s tired, and he feels exposed, vulnerable. “Just - tired.”
She nods. Goes to sit down next to him. “Yeah, me too-”
“Then-” he swallows, “You shouldn’t be taking the night watch. I’ll be fine - it’s… how long is it until morning?”
“It’s 3am,” she says, and he can’t stand the sympathy in her voice. She’s so, so kind. It’s painful. (He still can’t help but feel that he doesn’t deserve it.) “Get some rest.”
“3am isn’t that late,” he finds himself saying. He doesn’t know why he’s protesting this; he’s exhausted. But he knows that any sleep he gets will be plagued by nightmares, corrupted, twisted. “Back - back, you know, before, me and Gus stayed up until 3am all the time.”
She looks at him. “Well, that was silly,” she tells him, smiling softly, “You’re supposed to get at least seven hours of sleep a day, that can’t have done you two much good.”
“We were watching nature videos,” he tells her, and she doesn’t seem disinterested, so he goes on, “There - there was this one about giraffes, and they really are as scary as everyone says they are, and there was this one about wolves we watched as well, and- yeah.”
“Wolves?” She says, “Wait, scoot up, I wanna hear more about this.”
He does as she says, budging up so she can sit closer to him. His hands curl into his lap; he toys with the frayed shirt he’s wearing. The stitches on the wolves he carefully sewed are beginning to tear in places, he’ll need to go over the stitches again. The shirt itself is another matter - it’s dirty, and damp. He feels kinda gross wearing it so close to her - really, he should have changed it, but there was nothing to get changed into, so he’s stuck like this. He hopes she’s not judging him for it. (He knows she wouldn't.)
“So,” he starts. He doesn’t know if she genuinely wants to hear about wolves, but he’s grateful for the distraction, “The one about giraffes was just kinda scary. You know when we went to see that - that movie at the big box with seats - what’s the word-”
“Movie theatre?” She prompts. She picked up the words much quicker than he did. (Not that they need to know them anymore.)
“Yeah, that. They’re as scary as that movie.” He says. “The thing about their tongues is real, too. S’probably good they got banished.”
Willow smiles at him. “Probably,” she agrees softly, “I wouldn’t like to run into one of them.”
“You’d probably have it covered,” he blurts, “Cause you could just like - you know, use some vines around their legs, and they’ll fall down. Like in Star Battles,” he pauses. His ears flop. “I dunno if you remember, Luz showed us, the bit where they-”
She blinks at him for a moment, and her face crinkles up as she laughs. He stares at her for a moment, shaking his head quickly, forcing himself to tear his gaze away. “No, no, I remember, just - it’s a funny image.”
He grins back, teeth gap showing. “Giraffes should probably avoid upsetting you,” he jokes, almost shyly, and forces another giggle out of her, “But - anyways, uh - wolves. They’re way more interesting. And way less scary.”
“Really?” Willow asks, “But they look like they have so many teeth. At least they did when you drew them.”
He flushes haplessly at the reminder of his attempt at art, but brushes her comment off. “That’s what makes them so cool! And they’re really, really smart. And - did you know they’re pack animals? They like - live together. And travel and hunt together.” He thinks for a moment. “I mean, we watched this video of them, but I still don’t think they’re real.”
Willow chuckles at that. (He loves making her laugh.) “I mean, I don’t know why they’d be made up,” she says, “Seems like a lot of effort.”
“I guess,” he smiles, “I hope they’re real. If we… if we ever go back, I’d like to see one. Some day.”
She looks up at him. There’s a glint in her gaze that he doesn’t think he likes. Something too searching. “Do you think we’ll go back?” She asks, and there’s a soft kind of vulnerability in her voice.
“We have to, don’t we?” he says, “We need to take Camila back. And…” he swallows, “Luz might want to go back.”
Willow’s eyes widen at that. “You think she… she wants to go back?” She asks.
And Hunter doesn’t know. Because she’s so, so happy with Amity, and he knows how much Eda and King mean to her. And he can see how much she loves magic. Every time she touches a glyph, every time she watches someone else wield their palisman or cast a spell, she’s almost transfixed. He doesn’t know if she’ll want to leave that behind.
But -
So, so many people he cares for have left him. As much as he hopes that Luz won’t do the same, he also knows how much her mother cares for her. How much she’d missed her home.
“I don’t know,” he admits softly, “She might.”
Willow swallows, and for a moment, he thinks she might be holding back tears. (He wouldn’t know how to deal with that.) But instead, she -
She just nods. “I… I think I’d understand that,” she swallows, “I miss my dads too.”
He looks at her. Moves his hand, and withdraws it again like he’s burnt himself. “We’ll find them,” he promises, knowing it’s something he can’t keep as much as he wants too, “We’ll find all of them. And then we’ll - we’ll find Belos, and we’ll -” he can’t say kill, “Take him out, and then we’ll find the Collector.”
Willow nods at him. Once. Slowly. “For Flapjack?” she says, and she’s holding out her hand.
He’s definitely about to cry. He doesn’t want to. He can cry in front of Luz, but he just - can’t in front of Willow. He’s supposed to be strong. He’s supposed to keep her - keep all of his friends safe. Letting himself be that raw, that vulnerable - it’s something unheard of for him.
Taking her hand, he wipes furiously at his eyes with his other. “For Flapjack.” He repeats, and his voice breaks.
“You don’t have to… to not be sad, you know,” Willow whispers, and Titan, he doesn’t want to do this. Because if he thinks about it too long, he’ll crumble. “I get he meant a lot to you. And - you’ve been through a lot, you know?” She glances at him. He wonders if she’s looking at his scars.
(He’d once thought that he liked who he was. Who he looked like.
Now he hardly knows who he is.)
“Yeah,” he rubs helplessly at his tears again, “I know. I… I don't like them either, but I can’t - can’t get rid of them.”
Willow looks at him. “Hunter, I wasn’t… wasn’t talking about… that. Thought that’s - it’s definitely a lot to deal with,” she raises a hand to her own face, tracing where the most prominent of his new scars are, “I was talking more about the… everything with Belos.”
“Oh,” he glances down again, “Sorry. I just - they’re…” he trails off. He wasn’t going to continue his sentence, but there’s something in the way that Willow’s looking at him that makes him feel like he has to. “They remind me of him.” He blurts. “And they’re - I can’t hide them, I know it’s just you guys, but - but if things go back to normal, everyone will see.”
“So?” Willow says.
He stares at her. “So they’ll see that I was - I was stupid. That I just - let all of this happen to me.”
“You didn’t.” She says quickly. Her tone is quietly furious; he hopes it’s not aimed at him. “You were tricked. You said it yourself! It’s what Belos does. He tricks people.”
“I guess…” He doesn’t believe in himself, in his own words. He doesn’t know how he could.
“You were tricked,” she tells him again, “And you fought him off. He could have - he could have killed all of us, Hunter. And he was - he was in your mind, and you still fought him off. All by yourself,” she blinks at him earnestly, “If people see your - your scars after all of this, they won’t think that you’re stupid. They’ll think you’re a hero.”
Hunter truly doesn’t know what to say to that. She’s so sincere, and earnest, that he could almost believe her. He just swallows, and nods. Doesn’t trust himself to say anymore. He doesn’t want to break out into frantic tears again. Doesn’t want to crack and break and fracture without anyone to hold onto.
“I just - the Flapjack thing,” he blurts, quickly. Changes the subject. It’s infinitely more painful, but Willow stops looking at him like that. “I miss him. I miss him so, so much, I just - I can’t - I can’t feel that properly. Not until we’ve… we’ve finished.”
“Finish…? Oh.” Willow blinks sadly at him. “He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t be upset with you if you… you take a few moments to properly grieve him. Revenge can wait.”
“I don’t know if he’d be upset or not. He’s - he’s dead, okay?” His voice is harsher than he’d intended it to be; Willow gives a faint half-flinch. “He’s dead,” he says, again, softer, “And he’s… he’s not coming back. He - he died for me, okay? And - and maybe - maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t done that because I tried to - tried to-”
“Hunter,” Willow says gently. She takes his hand. Her fingertip brushes over the indented callouses of a new scar, feather-light. “ You didn’t try to do anything. That was Belos.”
“But-” he’s forcing himself to look away from her, he can’t meet her gaze, “I could have - have fought him off sooner. I could have just - not get possessed in the first place! I could have-”
“How, Hunter?” She asks, and the question throws him. He falls silent, she presses on. “How did you get possessed?”
“I… I still don’t really know,” he has a sneaking suspicion. But he doesn’t know for sure. “I could have been more careful, I guess.”
“No,” she shakes her head. There’s something fiercely protective in her gaze. “Don’t blame yourself. This was all Belos. It wasn’t your fault.”
They sit in silence for a few moments. She’s still holding his hand. He’s too scared to squeeze tighter, too scared to let go.
Then -
“I heard Luz,” he murmurs, “When she was telling me to fight back. And - and I could feel my hands when - when Flapjack…”
“Oh, Hunter,” she says softly, “I’m - I’m so sorry, I had no idea, I-” she falls silent, abruptly, eyes narrowing. He blinks at her, slowly, quizzically. “Did you - did you hear anything? When you were… asleep?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. I just… the only thing I could feel was Flapjack. When he… it was warm. I… I dunno why.”
“So you didn’t hear Luz say anything?” She asks.
“No…?” Her tone is somewhat unnerving. “Was it… important?”
She looks as though she wants to say something more, but she drops it. “Probably not,” she whispers, “Not to me, anyway.”
Hunter feels like some other time, he’d question her further. Try to find out what she means by that. But he’s so, so tired. And he just wants to sit here, and slowly slip back into menial, almost silly conversation.
“Okay,” he says back, “I… tell me some other time, yeah?”
She squeezes his hand at that. He feels her thumb press right up against one of his worst scars, pressure both comforting and terrifying. “I will,” she whispers, “Promise.”
Quiet stretches between them for a few more moments. They’re still holding hands. Hunter doesn’t really know what to make of it; but he’s grateful for the soft touch all the same. It’s a silent comfort he sorely needs.
“We’re gonna be okay,” Willow tells him, voice soft like winter snowfall, “All of us. And that includes you, Hunter. You’re going to be just fine.”
“I…” he blinks at her again, “I… I hope so. It’s just - gonna be so strange without him.”
“You’re not without him,” she says, and he doesn’t get what she means, until a neat trailing vine presses against his heart, “He’s still with you. You just can’t see him. Don’t forget that.”
“Yeah,” he’s coming dangerously close to crying again, “You’re- you’re right.” He forces out. He doesn’t want to cry. He knows Flapjack wouldn’t want him to mourn him. Not like this. Not everyday, with tepid bitterness deep in his chest, slowly mounting a deep resentment towards himself. Flapjack wouldn’t want Hunter to be feeling everything he’s feeling.
He keeps that thought at the front of his mind. Flapjack wouldn’t want this. Flapjack wouldn’t want the tearing pain deep in his chest at the thought that he’ll never see the little red palisman again, never hear his chirps right in the shell of his ear. Flapjack would want him to listen to Willow.
He swallows, and does just that.
“Course I am,” she grins at him, “Now, get some sleep. Please.”
He nods at her awkwardly, and drops her hand, standing up with a stretch. “Aye-aye Captain,” he says. She giggles after him as he walks away, he waves a hand after her, smiling softly. He smiles until she fades from view, keeping his head ducked. He keeps it to himself; something quietly treasured.
Falling into the clump of collected blankets he’s been calling a bed, he slips quickly into sleep.
His consciousness fades to the faint sound of gentle birdsong and kind laughter. It’s both comforting and haunting. He’s eased to sleep feeling vaguely uneasy, yet peaceful.
(The birdsong rings in his ears well into the night.)