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They’ve been in the Human Realm for about a week now, and no matter what he does, Hunter can’t seem to relax. The others seem on edge as well, but they fall asleep and talk freely with Luz’s mother and adjust to wearing human clothes and eating human food and using human gadgets and devices. And, before long, he’s the only one left who’s in a constant survival mode. He can’t seem to relax, whether because he’s afraid of someone else being hurt, or Camila being a threat, or something else that keeps him awake, staring at the ceiling as Flapjack slumbers against his neck.
He stares at the ceiling a lot. He thinks a lot. He only very recently had his entire worldview shattered into irreparable tiny pieces, and with all the chaos that went down immediately after, he didn’t exactly have time to process it the same way that the others seemed to. One day, he was Belos’s loyal right hand man and nephew; the next, he was putting a stop to Belos’s grand plan and watching him die.
Ah. That might be what keeps Hunter awake, because if he closes his eyes, all he sees is the Collector tapping Belos on the nose and then Belos is flying across the room and splattering against the wall and he’s dead, Hunter’s only family is gone, and—
He levels his breathing the way Gus has taught him to. It takes less and less time, lately, so that has to count for something, right? He shouldn’t be panicking over his uncle’s death. He shouldn’t be this affected by the man who made his life and the lives of so many others a living hell. He shouldn’t be hiding tears when something reminds him a little too much of Belos, he shouldn’t be upset, he shouldn’t be in mourning. He should be focusing on the portal, on the Demon Realm, on getting home. (Does he have a home, anymore?)
He’s seen what Belos did to everyone. The way that the others took a while to leave combat mode before relaxing, the burning sigil on his wrist, the golden energy being sapped from everyone during the Day of Unity. He walked in Belos’s mind, saw the spirits of the pailsmen that he’d consumed, seen everything that he’s done and all of the other Golden Guards that he disposed of. Hunter knows that Belos is a bad person, that he was more of a monster than a man at the end. He’s seen the effects and felt them and his scars ache at inopportune times.
Yet, it feels wrong to let Belos’s memory die as a stain on the wall. As awful as he was, Belos was Hunter’s only family for so long. He knows that Belos treated him horribly, he can see that now, but… some part of him still loves the man who told him tales of the Human Realm and ruffled his hair. The man who said that he’d bring Hunter to the Human Realm one day, to experience the rain that doesn’t boil. There’s so many horrible, horrible memories, but Hunter just wants to put to rest the good ones. A closure, a death of the man he thought he knew so that he can share the rage of the others in full. So he can focus his energy entirely on finding a way back to the Demon Realm, instead of staying up stifling tears with grief simmering in a hollow chest.
He’s not sure how to go about finding a closure, how to make a small memorial for Belos without the others knowing. Their trust in him is already fragile, on thin ice, and he doesn’t want to shatter it by asking how he can mourn his uncle who screwed over all of their lives. Family or not, Belos is a bad man, and Hunter is very, very sure that the others wouldn’t approve of his want to honor the man’s death in some way.
So, that leaves him with just one option. He doesn’t like it, but…
“Mrs. Noceda?”
“I’ve said you can just call me Camila, mijo,” the woman responds, setting aside the journal in her hands to look over at Hunter, who’s lingering in the doorway to her room. “How can I help you?”
Hunter hesitates, one hand pressed against Flapjack’s side, the other trembling where it’s folded behind his back. He takes a deep breath, slowly releases it, and then lifts his eyes some. He doesn’t quite meet Camila’s eyes, looking about where her nose is, unable to make eye contact. It’s rude (it’s uncomfortable, he can’t stand it) and he doesn’t want to offend her.
“How… do you mourn someone?”
The shock that flashes across Camila’s face makes him want to take it back, retreat and hide and not let her see a glimpse of him for days until he feels safe in his own skin again, but just as quick as it appeared, the shock fades and a small, soft smile replaces it.
“Everyone mourns in their own way, Hunter. I can’t tell you how to process your grief,” she says, gentle, calm. Her tone is soothing, the same one Hunter uses when talking to Gus or Willow or Flapjack when one of them is in some kind of panic.
“Back home, we would have graves,” Hunter replies, edging towards desperate. He needs a closure, he needs something, and a look of recognition flashes in Camila’s eyes. “Do… humans do that? Could I… find a way to do that?”
“Ah,” Camila sighs, standing up from her seat, gesturing for Hunter to come with her. “I think I know what you’re looking for, mijo.”
And she does.
A few hours later, Hunter leaves the house in the dead of the night, Flapjack on his shoulder and a bag in his hands, with supplies given to him by Camila. He’s quiet, footsteps silent, eyes darting around to assess for danger or for if he’s being followed. He’s not, and so he turns and he walks into the forest around the small town, deeper and deeper, a strange contraption called a flashlight helping him to see.
He walks for a while. He’s not sure how long it is before he finds a small clearing, a peaceful spot he deems good. He kneels, opening the bag, carefully taking items from it. They’re all strange human things, for the most part, and he eyes what Camila called a lighter with suspicion. Apparently, it will help him make fire, but without magic. How strange.
Next is the picture frame. He’d snatched one of Luz’s drawings of Belos, an image of him in a more humanoid form, and Camila had given him a small picture frame that she insists wasn’t in use. He’s not sure if he believes her, but he’d taken it anyway and slipped the drawing inside the glass. He sets the frame down before him, propped up in the dirt, and the glare of the flashlight reflects off the glass frame.
Two candles, both white in color. He examines them for a moment, before reaching for the lighter, keeping one of the candles in his non-dominant hand as he flicks the lighter open and almost drops it in surprise when the flame bursts to life. He lights the candle, stares at the doodle of Belos inside of the picture frame, hesitates. Quietly, he sets the candle down on the left side of the drawing, before reaching for the other one. He lights that as well, liking the satisfying little click that the lighter makes as it sparks the flame. Hopefully Camila doesn’t need it back, because he’s inclined to keep it. It’s useful, and pretty, and fits well in his hands.
He sets down the second candle, and Belos’s photo is illuminated fully. He turns off the flashlight and stares, sitting with his legs crossed. The doodle is of the Belos that he remembers from before he met Luz, the man with the long hair and sometimes-kind eyes and the talks of the Human Realm whenever the two of them were alone. It’s the man that’s caused some of his scars and all of his pain but at the same time, for sixteen years Hunter viewed this man as his only family.
His uncle.
Hunter exhales slowly, folding his arms across his chest, bringing his knees up to meet them. He rests his chin against his knees, looking down at the photo, at the flickering flames and the dripping wax. It’s not very much, nothing like the grandeur of what would have been a royal funeral, but… for what Hunter can manage, it’s enough. It’ll be enough. (It’s more than a monster like Belos deserves, he’s pretty sure that the others would say. And he’d agree, nod along and look away. The ache in his chest never quite dies down.)
The others aren’t here right now. Hunter doesn’t look over at Flapjack, though he can feel the bird nestling against his neck, bumping against his jawline with their head. A small soothing gesture. Hunter appreciates it, he’s pretty sure. He always appreciates Flapjack. He’s not very sure what he’s feeling.
He’s angry, he thinks. Angry at Belos for lying to him, for manipulating him, for not telling him anything. For keeping so many secrets. For not revealing to him what he is. He’s angry at Belos for activating the draining spell, angry that the man branded him with a coven sigil so young and made him experience the feeling of his life being slowly, slowly, painfully being ripped away from him. He’s angry at Belos for hurting his friends. He’s angry at Belos for trying to destroy the Boiling Isles.
There has definitely been anger. Hunter knows that. But at the same time, there is grief.
Grief, because he lost his only family and was forced to watch as Belos was killed before his eyes by a power he still doesn’t understand. Grief, because he had to run through the remains of Belos to escape. Grief, because he lost his life and his childhood to the Emperor’s Coven and it’s years of time that he’ll never get back. Grief, because he experienced the rain of the Human Realm without his uncle.
It doesn’t burn. At least Belos was truthful about something.
Hunter exhales slowly, watching the candles burn lower and lower. He thinks he’ll stay until they go out. Do it his way. Sit and think and let himself mourn, because he can’t do that around the others. He’s afraid that they’d think he’s insane for mourning Belos, for being sad that he’s dead. He’s a monster, they’d all probably say. How can you be sad that he was killed? It was for the greater good.
It’s horrible how familiar that phrase would be. It’s something Hunter himself has said time and time again, it’s the backbone of the Emperor’s Coven. The greater good, and his only family is dead. Hunter clenches his jaw some, a scowl working across his face, his eyes burning with the alien sensation of tears. He’s been crying more than he thought was even possible within the last few weeks. Going from never shedding a tear to watching water drip down his cheeks. He thinks he blames Luz, for all her expressiveness and displays of emotion. But it’s not important at the moment.
He wipes at his eyes absently, breathing a bit shaky. Belos’s photo stares back at him. His uncle would find his tears pathetic, no matter the reason they’re shed. Hunter wishes he had the energy to be upset about that thought, but he doesn’t. He’s tired, he has barely slept more than one or two hours a night since coming to this realm. He watches and patrols and thinks. He tries to create magic as best he can, with Flapjack’s assistance. He keeps himself sharp to his best ability, and he helps look for a way back to the Demon Realm. He tries to piece together what he is when he has the time, to understand the two brothers that caused it all and what he was created for.
“I think that I hate you,” he whispers to Belos’s photo. “Or, that I want to. You hurt me. You hurt a lot of people. But you were my family. My uncle. I want to hate you. But… here I am.”
He scoffs, looking down again, away from the photo. Flapjack twitters nervously next to his ear, and Hunter gently strokes a finger along the palisman’s back.
“Rest easy, uncle,” Hunter murmurs. The photo doesn’t respond, though he never thought that it would, and Hunter lowers his face to his knees and lets his tears soak into his pants. His only family is gone, ripped to shreds before his eyes, and he’s all that remains of it all. He’s all that remains of Caleb, of Philip, of the Wittebanes and of the small town Luz is from. He’s a walking myth, in more ways than one, and he’s the only thing left. He’s all that’s left of the Emperor. Perhaps all that’s left of the Coven, as well. It’s better off that way, but it leaves a horrible ache in his chest.
Tomorrow, he’ll pick himself back up and continue to help the others with the portal, continue to listen silently as they rage at Belos, continue to offer whatever he can. Tomorrow, he’ll go back to being Hunter, to being their friend, to being someone who’s not his past. Tomorrow, he will breathe easier knowing that his uncle has been laid to rest and it’s for the better knowing how much Belos had suffered the effects of being alive for so long and having a curse beneath his skin.
Tonight, he is the Golden Guard. Tonight, he is his uncle’s nephew, and he mourns for what he has lost, what was stripped away from him. Tonight, he cries into his knees as Flapjack tries to console him to little success. Tonight, he lets the grief consume him beneath the waves and sink him to the ocean floor and never let him see the light again. He can swim tomorrow, but tonight, he drowns. Tonight, he is a Wittebane, and he watches as the candles he lit for his uncle burn down to nothing.
Tomorrow, he is a Noceda, and he will leave the photo of Belos and its frame to rot in an abandoned clearing in the woods.