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Hunter closed the throne room’s door softly, carefully.
Fearfully.
He kept repeating the same six words to himself, muttering under his breath and trying as hard as he could to get them etched inside his brain.
It was for your own good.
He believed it. At least he desperately tried to.
Uncle would never do something to hurt him purposefully, not unless he truly deserved it.
He knew he could always do better. Walk a little more, stay up a little more, fight a little harder. There was always room for improvement.
There was barely any room left in the cloth he was using to contain his cheek’s bleeding, though.
Uncle would never hurt him unless he deserved it.
More than often, he did.
Failing to complete his training tasks, oversleeping, letting criminals escape.
Maybe, he could ask for his staff to be adapted to his height. Even though he couldn’t be prouder of wielding the Golden Guard’s weapon, it wasn’t always the most comfortable to use. It felt too heavy, too tall even for his trained arms to actually be able to manage it in all its splendor. Not even to show off, he had left attempting to twirl it for when he grew older and stronger a while ago after one too many bonks to the head. Just… managing it could be a bit too hard for his liking.
Maybe if he could stop being so careless with the honor symbol that had belonged to his predecessors, he wouldn’t be tasting the essence of blood around the corner of his lips. Clutching the staff with two hands was too hard already, but as much as his left arm was burning and protesting the heavy weight, he wasn’t really up to having to endure the humiliation walking all the way back to his room with an injured cheek was. Of walking around, displaying the proof of his unworthiness to any bystanders.
He truly didn’t want to.
Deep inside, despite the lies he had prepared already, he knew that the second anyone asked him what had happened, instead of being able to present himself as the brave hero and martyr of yet another campaign against wild magic, the truth would escape him.
For better or worse, Hunter knew for a fact no one would ask him.
No one had ever bothered to.
He had never gotten anything else from the Coven Heads or scouts other than awkward glares whenever he passed them by injured, if not directly mocking ones.
Still struggling with the weight of his staff, he turned around to get the castle’s wing where the Coven Head rooms, and his own, were. It was late enough that he didn’t really expect anyone to be around, especially with the early wake-up calls. Nobody stayed up for longer than they had to anymore.
The few tears that had begun welling up in his eyes clouded his vision as his cheek began stinging, making him crash onto a tall figure, far taller than him.
Hunter backed swiftly, wiping his eyes with a rapid movement so as not to be caught.
“Head Witch Deamonne? What are you doing up so late?” he said in his best, yet halfhearted impression of his usual snarky tone, too tired to put on the whole show.
“I guess I could ask the same about you,” he replied. “Mind that staff of yours, I’m already past my beauty sleep time and I would rather not have to cover up a bruise tomorrow,” Darius finished as he moved the staff to Hunter’s side far more easily than Hunter himself had ever been able to.
With his side now uncovered, Hunter attempted to use his shoulder to cover the cloth the best he could.
Not enough for it to go unnoticed, though.
At the sight of the cloth, Darius’ expression shifted from annoyed to sporting a hint of concern.
“What do you have there?”
“A rag, Head Witch,” Hunter responded.
His fingers shifted uncomfortably, revealing the blood stains already bleeding through the folds.
“Titan," Darius whispered to himself, dropping his attitude. “Would you like… a healing ointment?” Darius asked tentatively. “I would rather not have you staining the carpet,” he added quickly.
For a second, Hunter hesitated accepting the offer, considering it for a few seconds.
Darius would surely not appreciate him taking the ointment to his room. It was almost a rule among Coven Heads to never lend anyone anything, under the risk of never having it returned.
Which, would mean having to accompany him to his room. Most likely, applying the ointment in front of him.
Maybe even worse, in the hallway for anyone to see how inept he was. Nobody would offer him help, but rather stare in amusement at his helplessness.
Darius never offered him help, either. Was he trying to mock him? Did he really consider him so useless, helpless enough to be offered help like a child?
Hunter was thirteen, for the Titan’s sake. He wasn’t a toddler anymore.
“I appreciate the offer, but I have a decent amount of healing ointments myself. Have a good night, Head Witch. I offer my apologies for the inconvenience I’ve caused,” Hunter finished, retrieving his staff.
As he walked the few steps left to his room, a tiny voice in his brain begged him to ask Darius for help. To accept the ointment. The phantom of missing warmth and soft pressure lingered around his shoulders, screaming to be attended.
Hunter tried his best to shut it out, make it stop. Who did he think he was, even daring to consider begging for attention like that? He was next in line to be Head of the Emperor’s Coven, should Lilith fail or retire. He was already the youngest Golden Guard in the Boiling Isles’ history. He had been fortunate enough to be taken under the grace and care of the Emperor.
Uncle already cared for him. Uncle cared enough to help him be provided with housing, food training, all to help him reach his maximum potential. Uncle had even agreed that the Titan had big plans for him. Uncle was strict, but it was for his own good.
Uncle loved him.
So why did he want to run, knock on Darius’ door and ask him for the ointment and a hug?