Chapter Text
He remembers closing his eyes underground, shoved in the corner of his cell. He remembers shivering, his body protesting the cold and the dark, and dreaming of rescue.
How many times had he seen that face in his dreams? Perhaps it was naive to long for comfort from a coven head, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Night after night, he would dream of Darius, of strong, warm arms and gently whispered safety.
And every morning, he would wake to the cold and dark. Without reprieve, he would be thrust back into reality, forced to confront the truth: that he was alone.
But somehow. Somehow, today, it was different. It had been awhile since he’d heard from Belos; perhaps he had finally given up on him. It had been just as long since he’d eaten or drank, and he suspected it wouldn’t be too much longer before he…
Well. He tried not to dwell on it.
Around midday - or maybe it was later, it had been hard to keep track of the time down here - he heard scuffling, the distant echo of voices, the crescendo of footsteps descending the stairs. At first he thought Belos would be visiting again, and he hated how happy it made him to think such a thing. But he soon realized there were two pairs of footsteps, not one, and that neither of the voices he heard belonged to his uncle.
But then, who?
A part of him - that naive, rebellious, hopeful sliver of his mind - weakly postured, as it often did, that perhaps Darius was here to rescue him. And Hunter, as he often did, carefully dismissed this thought. If Darius were coming for him, he would have done so already.
Who else, then?
Perhaps Whispers? They had rebelled a few weeks prior to his capture, perhaps they were sympathetic? And the second set of footsteps may have been a healer, or even the Owl Lady, if they were so bold… But that last part seemed unlikely.
Not impossible, though.
She was there that night, and the human - Luz? - would probably have told her what they saw in Belos’s mind. Maybe the Owl Lady was here, though it would be very, very stupid of her. She wasn’t public enemy #1 anymore, but her human would be, and so by proxy…
Then again, he hadn’t heard from Belos for some time now.
The thought traitorously sparked hope. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping for, though. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to know.
But you do know, whispered that voice, the one that longed for comfort and peace and healing. He hurt you. He’s still hurting you. Of course you want to see him defeated.
The voices drew nearer. He took a deep breath, trying desperately to calm his nerves. It was foolish to immediately assume - to hope - that the approaching strangers would be offering rescue. It was far more likely that they were there to…
Well. It was unlikely they were here to rescue him.
Belos was always kinder if Hunter was asleep when he came, less prone to punishment. He would be gentle, at least until Hunter woke up. He had mastered the art of fake sleeping a long time ago, but these days, it was all too easy to close his eyes in the name of a ruse, and wake up to long, sharp fingers combing through his hair…
He turned his face to the corner. He would keep his eyes and ears open, but he would relax his body, appearing to be asleep just in case…
The footsteps cease for a moment, before a deep snarl echoes through the hall.
“Golden Guard.”
He’s not fluent in beast-tongue, but he can at least recognize that. He forces himself to continue breathing, his heart caught in his throat. What in the world is Head Witch Eberwolf doing down here?
“Is he…?”
Perhaps uncle had grown bored of him. Perhaps he had decided it was time to start over, and sent someone he trusted - well, as much as uncle trusted anyone - to reclaim his bones, his heart, his soul.
He should have been better. He should have just stayed put, stayed away from that human and, and done what he was told. He should never have questioned Belos. He should have kept his mouth shut. He should have…
What will Flapjack do without him?
He sobs, silent and resigned. Distantly, he hears his name being called, but… it doesn’t matter. His name will be scrubbed from the annals of history, his existence forgotten except by a select few. He’s just the latest in a long line of failed experiments, the newest addition to the grimwalker graveyard.
Does Belos have a graveyard for them? Does he bury them himself? Throw their bones to the boiling sea?
What will become of him when the deed is done?
“Uncle,” he begs, then silences himself, for what good will it do?
Hunter will never know. He’ll never know.
Outside, something clatters to the ground, and he catches his breath, wipes his tears on his sleeve. He will not go out crying. He will look Eberwolf in the eyes, tell them to send Belos a message…
You will all burn in hell, he thinks, strange words that he heard uncle mutter under his breath once, slamming the door on a room full of coven heads. He doesn’t quite know what it means, but Belos will, and that’s all he can ask for; one final message, one last fuck you in the face of death.
He squeezes his eyes shut, braces himself as someone draws near…
But the hands on his shoulder are gentle, not cold, not demanding. He knows, instantly, who uncle has sent to kill him, and his stomach drops.
“Darius?”
He’s sitting up, back against the wall, and there’s a horrified look in those green eyes, and something in his gut twists - you can reason with him, it says, desperately, you can still beg, and if you’re lucky…
“Please,” his breath comes in short bursts, and he has to close his eyes again, because it’s too much, it’s too much, to think that his only dream has come true in the worst way possible. “Don’t…”
Don’t hurt me, he thinks, but that is too direct, it won’t work, it won’t work. He has to choose his words carefully, or he will die, and he can’t breathe, can’t see - it’s suffocating and dark and he doesn’t know what to say.
“I promise, I won’t try to escape again.”
Hunter wants to sob, but he promised himself, he promised he would go out with dignity. He’s already stooped too low with the begging, and he can’t even do that right.
Something flashes across Darius's face, and his eyes begin to glow, his skin twisting for a moment as it gives way to abomination clay.
This is it. Darius is going to kill him.
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
His form stabilizes, and he stares Hunter down with kind green eyes, holding him with gentle hands.
But he…
He was sent to kill Hunter. Wasn't he?
"I promise."
It's a dream, he tells himself, breathing heavily, it doesn't matter either way, it doesn't matter if you live or die…
Hunter can’t breathe. His lungs scream in his chest, but he can only keep himself as still as possible, listening in disbelief to Darius’s words. Words, not a scythe to the chest. Words.
It’s another dream, he reminds himself, and some of the pressure is relieved; he takes a breath and the world stops spinning quite as fast, Darius’s face coming into focus…
“We’re going to get you out of here, Hunter,” he says, voice quiet, soothing, like he’s talking to a wounded animal and not a person. But you’re not a person . “You’re going to be safe from now on.”
And despite it all, a thought appears: even if that's true…
“He’ll find you,” he whispers, and Darius still has that look in his eyes, though it’s muddled by something else, something Hunter can’t quite read. “You can’t escape him. He has eyes everywhere.”
And he realizes this is the first time he’s tried to turn Darius away in a dream, the first time he’s protested his own fantasized rescue. He doesn’t know why; he wants, so badly, to be safe, to be cared for, to be anywhere other than here.
But it’s not fair. Not for him, and not to Darius. Even in dreams, Hunter has to do what’s right. He has to.
Years of serving Belos, of hunting wild witches, of sending palismen to their doom; he has to make up for it. Even if the price is his own death at Belos's hands.
“He’s dead,” says Darius in the dream, and Hunter wants to cry again, because this is the one aspect of his life he should be able to control. If he wants to dream of withering away, of being executed, of being torn apart to make way for the next grimwalker, then who is this impostor to tell him no?
And why does he feel so relieved to hear it?
“He can’t hurt you anymore, Hunter.”
What little is left of his resolve crumbles, and he begins to sob openly, leaning into Darius’s iron grip. He dreams of a strong embrace that doesn’t bruise, of gentle hands and soothing words, softly whispered assurances.
He stops fighting it.
He wants to be safe, he wants to be saved, and so he lets himself believe, just until he wakes, that he is.
It's the same as every other dream. He doesn't know why he cries in this one alone.
But when he hears the pounding of footsteps, feels in his soul that Belos must be approaching, Darius in the dream stands guard over him, carries him out of the dungeon and into the world, free, unchained, unfettered.
He is usually awake by now, but he doesn't protest. It will be another long night, and in the dream, he will be safe.
He becomes like a bird in the sky; he takes one long breath, spreads his wings, and begins to fly.