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The six of them stand at the edge of the graveyard, breathless from battle, staffs at the ready, pre-sketched glyphs running low. They've been fighting him off for what feels like hours, hundreds of years' worth of stolen and corrupted magic a well-matched adversary for three witchlings, a basilisk, and two magic-less humans — especially since it seems they've made it their top priority to protect his unwilling host.
Belos has cottoned onto this strange, amusing new development — bleeding hearts, the lot of them — knows he's outnumbered, knows it won't be long until they find a way to force him out of their beloved little grimwalker…so he does the only thing left at his disposal, takes advantage of their soft, bleeding hearts.
They've got him surrounded, circled around him like a ring of salt around a demon, but with enough breadth between them to prevent a close-quarter attack, enough distance to ensure that no one will stop him when he reaches for the jagged dagger hidden away in the side pocket of Hunter's costume.
It seems fitting that the instrument used to cleanse the original of his sins should be the very thing that ends the long line of all those crafted in Caleb's likeness — poetic justice, Belos muses with a twisted smirk.
I'm starting to think you make those things just to destroy them. You have fun with it. Admit it!
Perhaps the Collector was right…
In one swift fluid motion, Belos draws the dagger and holds it steady over Hunter's heart, fueled by his little friends' shocked gasps and cries of outrage as Belos threatens them, in no uncertain terms, that if they do not comply and hand over the vial of titan's blood, he'll have no choice but to destroy his very last grimwalker.
"I've certainly got nothing to lose by disposing of him. I'll just inhabit a new vessel," Belos's cold, cruel, slithering voice calls out to them with a crooked smile. "But this one means something to you all, doesn't he? This failed imitation of my witch-loving brother."
Belos's lips curl into a disgusted frown, features smoothing out as he slips back into that calm, taunting tone. "Oh, but don't worry, I doubt he'll suffer much. It might even be painless. After all, it's not as though he's actually real—"
The rest of his words are cut off in a breathless huff as Willow rushes forward, trembling hands wrapping around his shoulders as she buries her face into his chest, sobbing Hunter's name. Belos staggers for a moment, caught off guard by this brazen, foolish display.
"I know you're in there," she cries, gentle hands clinging to the fabric of his t-shirt. "Please, please, Hunter. You have to stay strong. You have to fight back."
The dagger in Hunter's hand twitches, fingers loosening their grip on its tarnished, golden hilt. Belos tugs a little harder on the reins, glaring down at the vile little witch clinging to his current vessel.
"Belos is lying to you, just like he always does. Please don't listen to a word he says," Willow begs him, voice muffled by the soft cotton of his t-shirt, tears forming a small lake around the pack of wolves hand-stitched across its surface. "You are real, Hunter, no matter what you're made of. It doesn't matter whether you're a witch, or a human, or a grimwalker — you're still Hunter. My Hunter. You're real, and you're amazing, and I can't— please, Hunter, I can't lose you."
Hunter's whole body erupts in a violent shiver, the muscles of his chest tensing beneath the warmth of Willow's cheek, galdorstone heart thrumming like the wings of a caged bird. The unblemished skin around Belos's cursed form heats about ten degrees, pale skin reddening like a fast-acting sunburn at the witch's doting words.
Oh, now this is an interesting development.
"How touching," Belos coos, speaking through a mix of his own voice and Hunter's, frostbitten venom and fireside warmth warring for control. "It would appear that the witch is just as smitten as you are, Hunter."
The revulsion in his voice is redolent, sickened by the fact that yet another version of his dear departed brother fell for a loathsome witch.
"Pathetic, the way he pines for you," Belos teases with a cruel lilt. "Perhaps it would be merciful to put you both out of your misery…and wouldn't it just be so poetic if you were the one to strike her down, Hunter?"
Willow pulls back with a gasp, the silver gleam of the blade reflected in her bright green eyes, wide with shock and terror, shining with tears.
Belos raises the dagger, ready to strike like a venomous snake closing in on its prey, mouth twisted in a satisfied smirk, when his arm suddenly goes rigid, hands shaking from the effort of fighting for control, until one by one, his fingers slacken and the dagger slips from his grasp, blade sinking a few inches into the mud.
"No," Hunter's voice shines through, eyes flickering from that eerie glowing blue back to their signature red, a whole forest fire's worth of anger igniting behind them as he kicks his heel against a weak point in the hilt, snapping the blade in half. "I will not let you hurt her. I will never let you hurt anyone…ever…again."
"Get. Out," Hunter screams, and like a summoning spell, a dozen tendrils of horrible, sewage-like green sludge flow out of the entry points of his wounds, landing with a sickening squelch on the sodden ground.
Wasting no time, the others rush forward, casting fire spell after fire spell, until all that remains of the former emperor is ash, carried off into the depths of the lake by a strong gust of autumn air.
Willow has barely a moment to appreciate the overwhelming relief that Belos is finally gone, before Hunter staggers beside her, knees giving out from sheer exhaustion as he collapses into her arms.
"Whoah, it's okay, I've got you," she says as she lays him down in a soft patch of grass at the edge of the portal's archway, head carefully cradled in her lap.
"You're okay," she whispers as she brushes the hair out of his eyes, rocking him gently in her arms.
"You're safe. You're gonna be just fine," she tells him, voice quaking around the self-soothing mantra, tears streaming silently down her cheeks as she leans down to press a soft kiss against the top of Hunter's forehead.
For one brief moment of all-consuming terror, Willow wonders whether she'd been stabbed with that dagger after all, heart shattering into a thousand tiny pieces as the very real threat of Hunter never waking up again washes over her. And then—
"Willow?" comes the sound of his voice as he stirs beneath her, sighing her name like a lullaby.
"Hunter?" she gasps, heart threatening to beat right out of her chest as she pulls back to look at him — shaggy blond hair a disheveled mess, riddled with twigs and little bits of crunchy autumn leaves in faded hues of red, orange, and gold, pale skin fraught with even more angry, florid scars than ever before, bright red eyes gazing up at her, softly crinkled around the edges, lit by the golden glow of the light spells floating all around them in the darkened graveyard — and every thread of tension in her entire body unravels on a shaky sob of relief.
"Hey," he says, a soft, besotted smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"Hi," she says around a watery chuckle, her answering smile nothing short of radiant as she gazes down at him, tears shining her bright green eyes.
Hunter lifts one pale, scarred hand to brush away the last of her tears, soft pad of his thumb lingering over the curve of her cheekbone, like he's not quite ready to let her go.
Good, Willow muses. Because neither am I.
Before he can even think to let it fall back to his side, Willow reaches up to place her palm against the back of Hunter's hand, holding him there against her tear-stained cheek, breath coming out in a steadying, four-count release as she closes her eyes and leans into his gentle touch.
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