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The inside of the trunk was stuffy and hot. It crushed Fundy’s knees to his chest, squeezed his elbows against his sides and made it hard to breathe. He shapeshifted as soon as the soldiers' footsteps left the room, and that helped a little bit, but it didn’t make him any less scared. It was hard not to be scared while people outside were screaming.
The invaders had caught him before he could reach the tower he thought his family was fighting from. They'd scruffed him like an actual fox, teasing him with their knives and drawing shallow lines across the underside of his jaw to make him cry. They'd been so mean to him.
And then they’d locked him in the trunk and left. Fundy guessed that was good for him, since it meant he wasn’t being held hostage against the rest of his family, but it wasn’t ideal.
His dad was the heir apparent to Emperor Philza's throne, and Prince Tommy was seventeen, way past the age when a royal child would be made known. Fundy would've been introduced to their subjects on his tenth birthday, just a few weeks in the future, but in the present, no one knew his true identity yet. He dressed like a servant.
If everyone else died, that would basically be the end of their family line. One small boy— well, medium boy, whatever Wilbur said, Fundy wasn’t a little kid anymore— would have no chance of liberating his kingdom alone, especially if there was no proof that he’d ever been royal at all.
More importantly, if he was the only survivor, that meant his dad would be dead. Everyone would be dead, and Fundy would be left behind, and maybe no one would come to let him out of the trunk at all—
Panic scrabbled in him like a howling animal. Fundy clawed at the side of the trunk, scored lines in it until his paws bled from splinters, huddled into himself panting and shivering. Outside, muffled by the wood, a man screamed and cut off with a whimper. Something hit something else with a heavy thud.
The invaders hadn’t known he was a magician, either. Advantages laid in what you knew that your enemy didn’t know— that was a thing that Technoblade said, and Fundy thought it made sense. Knowledge of your resources and the enemy’s resources was useful. Playing to your strengths and their weaknesses was even better than that.
He’d tried kicking and pushing at the sides of the trunk, but they had been too sturdy, and he’d worried about someone hearing him, coming to finish him off. Footsteps kept racing by, some of them probably inaudible to anyone with human ears, and he could feel the wham of the siege engines attacking the walls as a vibration under his paws. Everything was too loud.
He’d heard crows shrieking overhead earlier that day, Technoblade yelling at one of the battlements where he was pretty sure the invaders were having a worse time than they’d had here, but all the noises close to him now were from the enemy. Anyone who hadn't been the enemy had been killed or fled at this point, and whoever was left might not agree with the first invaders' assessment of Fundy as harmless. They might murder him just for having magic.
There was one other way out, though. A magician’s last resort, something Philza had sat him down and made him promise never to do on his own no matter how fidgety he felt.
All magic had a source, whether it was the inborn ability to change shapes and cast spells or the kind of magic people sought out as adults, altering their bodies to conduct the energy. It came from minor and major gods, demons and spirits, usually without their knowledge or permission. The source of Phil’s magic was Death herself, who was actually kind of nice according to Tommy. Technoblade’s was the Blood God, who was less nice but hadn’t killed him in the end.
Fundy didn’t know his, but he knew how to meet them. He had to curl into himself and squeeze his eyes shut, reach inwards and down like following a tree into its roots. He had to put his tail over his nose, blocking out the sounds of cursing and laughter and scraping swords, and dive into the unholy glow of his magic, plunge through the deepest taproot and out again.
Fundy opened his eyes to rows of bookshelves.
The stone tiles of the floor were bitingly cold, and the ceiling was a black, starry void. He saw the stars through fox’s eyes, the way he’d seen when he was so little he couldn’t differentiate between human ears and fluffy triangle ones, fingernails and claws.
You weren’t supposed to contact the source of your magic. People said Tommy had been lucky with his, since he’d been able to fight the god whose power he stole and get away mostly unscathed, and Phil and Techno were in a league of their own, but most magicians died when they met their patrons. The beings who noticed them killed them as easily as a cook swatting flies.
When you meet your patron for the first time, you should just assume they hate you , Philza had said, when he’d explained everything for the first time. Wilbur had caught Fundy trying to summon his patron in the kitchen, because he’d thought it would be nice to offer them cookies after they appeared on the material plane. He wasn’t sure how old he’d been then, but it was probably about six, since his head hadn’t cleared the side of the dining room table yet. None of this fucking forever friends bullshit, okay? You’re a parasite to them. Think of how you’d feel if you found a tick on the back of your neck.
I eat ticks , Fundy had said doubtfully. You mean Death wants to eat you?
Philza had snorted. Not exactly, mate, just— be careful, yeah? Don’t try any of this on your own.
Fundy didn’t see any of his family coming to stop him now, though, so they would just have to deal.
The library was full of cobwebs, clouding over the ceiling and obscuring the titles of individual books, silk threads fuzzy with dust. Fundy sniffed at the spines on the lowest shelves as he passed them– sugar and cardamom, combustion powder like for fireworks, a zing like the shock after Tommy rubbed his fur hard and then touched the tips of his ears– and kept his body low, tail tucked safely in.
“Hello?” he called out, sounding human even though his mouth wasn’t shaped for it. His voice wavered, high and whimpery. “Is anyone here? I really need to talk to someone who might be here!”
His magic felt scattered, winding under his feet and up the walls. Like this whole space was the demon, attention shifting towards him so the books themselves blinked in surprise, pages rustling, cobwebs slithering into different formations. The air was so dry it made his lungs ache.
Someone was standing at the end of the room, hunched over an enchantment table. They turned around when Fundy drew closer, stiffening when they saw him; Fundy cowered back, tail curling between his legs. The demon’s eyes were as white as bone picked clean, and looking at them directly was almost impossible. Something stopped Fundy before he could do it.
He really didn’t want to die. He didn’t want his family to die even more, though, so he had to make his case now. Getting the first word was almost as important as getting the last one.
“Um,” Fundy tried before they could say anything. “I have a super good deal for you, but you have to listen to it first before you kill me.”
The demon inclined her head. She had dark curls that reminded Fundy of his dad’s, a rich red coat with golden epaulets. There was a crown on the enchantment table, intricate as a tiara and inlaid with tiny rubies.
“I’m listening,” the demon said. Their voice was deeper than Fundy had expected. “You’d be my magician, I presume? I haven’t been imposed on in so long that I’d almost forgotten what it felt like; you’ll have to forgive me the uncertainty.”
“You’re forgiven,” Fundy said, kind of confused. He thought the demon meant that, but sometimes his dad said stuff to be polite that didn’t make much sense if you took it at face value, so he couldn’t be sure. “I guess. If you want to be? I’m Fundy, I’m here to make a deal with you so you can help my family not die.”
“I see,” the demon agreed, sounding a little strange. “Is this, ah, an urgent proposal?”
“Super urgent,” Fundy pressed. “So can I make a deal with you?”
“This sort of thing requires contracts, you can’t do it in a minute,” the demon started, and Fundy blurted, rising into a wail, “I’ll give you whatever! Please! I’m in a chest and I don’t even know who’s alive still, there’s no time for this!”
The demon froze, staring at him. “Whatever?” he choked out. “You can’t just— shit. Fuck it, how about this; In exchange for saving the lives of your family and friends, as well as your life, you’ll give me whatever— is that a good deal? Are you in a safe location right now?”
“I’m in a side room,” Fundy sniffled. “They put me in a trunk and locked it, like total assholes.”
“Bastards,” the demon said, picking up the crown and placing it on his head. It gleamed weirdly, almost oily in the dim torchlight, and left a black ring on the table where it had sat. “You can’t be older than ten, that’s unprincipled behavior. My name is Eret, by the way.”
“I’m Fundy,” Fundy said, feeling a little relieved. Step one of his last resort had gone pretty well. “I’m super smart, so if you want books I can find books for you for sure.”
“Oh, sure, and what demon wouldn’t ask for books first thing,” Eret said, a little hysterical. “They’re such a reasonable thing to ask for. Come along, Fundy, we’re going to get this done.”
They scooped Fundy up and stood, too fast for him to yelp a protest, and suddenly he was in the trunk again, huddled into his corner— except the lock snapped and the lid opened pretty much immediately, and Eret was there on the other side.
Outside of the shadowed library, Eret could’ve been one of the scholars who came in and out of the castle for its library or to give reports: dressed in sensible white and deep blue, with dark glasses covering their creepy eyes. The crown was gone, but the sense of it was still there— it was in how the demon stood, like something rested on their head.
The floors were splattered with blood, two bodies slumped in a corner with red puddled beneath them. One of them was a servant who worked in the kitchens, a big man who was good with a butcher knife; the other was an enemy soldier, face hacked apart. Her sword stuck out of his stomach at an angle.
Fundy whimpered. Eret caught his shoulder and guided him away, into the hallway where more of the fighting had taken place, and paused at the assortment of bodies, enemies in their green and others clothed in Antarctic blue left limp and broken, some scorched or thrown into tapestries so they collapsed with them in a heap. Another magician had been here, working for the opposite side.
“Which uniform is yours?” Eret asked, low.
Fundy said, ears pinned to his skull, “Blue. The bad guys are in green.” He glanced cautiously at the end of the hall, willing himself to turn back to human, but his stupid body stayed in-between: fluffy tail and human cheeks, whiskers and fox’s ears and claws at the tips of his fingers. His weight was different on his heels.
Eret nodded. She towered over him, taller than Wilbur or Technoblade but not quite as tall as Ranboo. “You’re taller than I thought you’d be,” Fundy added, wanting to be distracted. “Is it because you’re made of magic?”
“No, I’m just a long boy,” Eret said. They seemed like they were already distracted. “Long girl, alternatively. Would killing all enemies within the castle grounds work for you? There are six hundred present and living.”
Fundy blinked “That’s it? Techno said there were more.”
“Well, there probably were,” Eret said doubtfully. “Take hold of my hand?”
Fundy bristled, took a step back. “Why? Are you gonna kill me with magic? Because I will scream if you do, I’ll scream so much and your ears will bleed and you’ll regret it because I’ll also bite your fingers off—“
“What? No, that doesn’t even make sense, screaming wouldn’t stop me from killing anyone,” Eret said, and before Fundy could run they added, “Anyway, it’s just to protect you. I don’t want to hurt you by mistake, especially since you’ll be close to me while I do my work.”
“Of killing bad guys and saving my dad and everyone,” Fundy pushed. His tail lashed. He wanted to wring his hands together, but that was a little kid thing to do, so he resisted. Good comportment was important.
“Yes, that.”
The castle interior had been painted with images of the royal family when it was built, shortly before Fundy was born: Technoblade fighting three Withers, Philza descending on the enemy from above, Wilbur as a bright-eyed child at his father’s side. The ceilings had a stylized sun and stars, intricate wood carvings— or they had had those, until the invaders’ magician had burned them unrecognizable.
Fundy tiptoed around the bodies on the floor, scampering to keep up with Eret’s long stride, and as the demon passed, the bodies withered brown and black, crumbling to pieces under their feet. Flowers collapsed in their vases.
This part of the castle was quiet now. Fundy wondered how long he’d taken summoning Eret and hugged himself, hoping he wasn’t too late. His dad was strong, right? They were all strong. They wouldn’t have died that fast.
It took a few minutes for someone to shout behind them. Fundy jumped and turned around, seeing a group of invaders emerging from the stairs leading to the kitchen , with food in their hands like it didn’t matter even a little bit that they’d killed the cook and a lot of his friends—
“Right, that’s green,” Eret said, and the soldier in front staggered as he drew his sword, fell to one knee.
Kept falling, flesh chipping away like dead foliage and leaving a skeleton behind. The other soldiers tried to run, except for one who grabbed her sword and charged, but it was a moot effort: their bodies shook apart too, withering into ash before they could scream.
They tried, though. Fundy was close enough to hear the first soldier try.
He felt kind of shocky and distant, like he was watching himself through a telescope. “I don’t feel that good,” he managed, stumbling back. He landed on four paws, hunched with his fur on end, and his fox brain made the world clearer, easier to understand.
The bodies weren’t an issue because they were dead, and dead things couldn’t eat or trap him. The demon wasn’t an issue because he seemed familiar— and maybe Eret was familiar because Fundy was a parasite on his magic, but Fundy didn’t care much about that, either.
“Fuck,” Eret said above him, and swept him up in their arms again. Fundy settled in and laid his chin on his front paws, snuffling into their shirt. “I guess we’re doing it this way now. Don’t look next time, all right?”
Fundy deliberately paid no attention from there. It was easier closing his eyes and letting the demon carry him, curling into their arms as invading soldiers screamed and stopped screaming. It was easier, and it went on for a long time, and Eret’s walk felt like floating on the sea, a see-saw rocking that followed him into his head. The castle felt like the library, like Eret was in front of and behind and above it, magic spreading like billowing smoke.
Why didn’t people summon demons all the time? Why had Fundy never seen one in person before, except for Death that one time in a dream? It made no sense. Eret was so powerful, they could maybe do anything except defeat his family— it made no sense that magicians wouldn’t summon their patrons more often, even adult magicians who knew more spells than the one to change their shape.
Eret didn’t feel evil. They felt like Fundy’s magic did, down to the little details. Like Fundy was composed of the same matter.
The sounds stopped eventually. Fundy opened his eyes and saw people in the courtyard below the parapet Eret had taken him to, soldiers in blue dragging injured friends to shelter, but aside from the crackle of flaming wood and some quiet sobbing, it was silent. The invaders had gone away.
“We’ll wait here, I think,” Eret said, stroking a hand over Fundy’s head. He leaned up into it. Eret scratched behind his ears. “It shouldn’t be long. Do you want me to put you down?”
Fundy gnawed on their finger, less out of protest and more because he was a fox and his brain wanted him to bite something. They hadn’t found anyone yet. How could they be sure his family was safe unless Eret went to them, possibly carrying Fundy so he didn’t have to put his feet in pools of blood anymore?
“Fundy,” Eret sighed, sounding almost amused, and a shadow passed over them both.
Eret stiffened. Philza said, cold and grim from where he'd landed at the other end of the parapet, “You’re gonna want to get the fuck away from that kid before I decide to make you.”
Fundy perked up, scrambling upright in Eret’s arms. Phil’s face and arms were soaked with blood, but he stood upright, and his wings were black and feathered, hardly seared at all. There weren’t tears on his face, either, so the rest of Fundy’s family was probably alive somewhere, too.
“I don’t plan to harm him,” Eret said. “Is this your castle? I hadn’t expected Death’s angel to settle down anywhere.”
“Shows what you know,” Phil said. His sword was out and waiting, dripping with leftover gore. “Put him down, mate. Carefully.”
Eret put Fundy on the ground, moving slow so he could stretch his paws and touch the brick first. Fundy shook himself off and bolted to Phil, sniffing around him to make sure none of the blood on him belonged to someone important, and Phil said, a little more mellow, “He summoned you, then?”
“That’s right.” Eret cocked their head. “Is he a relative of yours? I assumed from his clothes and the circumstances that he was a servant, but—“
“He’s my grandson,” Phil said, and when Fundy whined up at him— he was being ignored here— he spread a wing to brush him back, sword still out and ready. “Whatever he promised you, I’ll be the one taking responsibility.”
“He promised me—“ Eret started, and then paused, frowning faintly. “That is to say, the term I’ve decided on from the deal we made is that I receive control of and access to a major library, where I might stay as long as I please, in return for saving Fundy, his family, and his friends. So if I’ve completed my end…?”
Phil tensed up. “How the fuck did you get conned into that deal? I’ve never met a demon who wanted anything less than everything they could take.”
Eret glanced around at the soldiers in the courtyard, the lingering bones on the battlements and the half-smothered fires. “Let’s just say his situation was convincing,” they offered. “Do you need an extra hand cleaning up? If you show me an archive, I can have fires put out and books sorted properly before the day is out.”
“Sure, mate,” Phil said darkly, scooping Fundy up with one arm to hold him like a football. Fundy hung indignantly, too glad of finding him alive to squirm too much. “And that’s really all you bargained for.”
It was hard to tell where Eret was looking while they wore glasses, but Fundy thought they might have been looking towards him.
“You have my word that it’s all I’ll ask for,” she said, an oath Fundy could feel in his bones, and Phil relaxed a tiny bit. Fundy squirmed again and was rewarded with being pushed toward Phil’s neck, allowed to twist around and flop across his shoulders. Eret laughed a little at the sight of it.
It was a nice laugh. Fundy perked his ears at it, wondering if Eret would stick around to be a tutor or something the way other, non-demonic scholars sometimes did, and tried to figure out why Phil’s shoulders were still so stiff under his paws.