Archive of Our Own

What had begun as a basic mission not so long ago was quickly devolving into something riddled with paranoia. The forest, once rich with birdsong and the buzzing hum of insects, was growing silent, and not even the dainty pinks and yellows of sunrise cutting through the trees was enough to distract from the tension slowly rising in the air.

Wilbur began to slow, ears flicking hither and thither while his stomach spun webs of anxiety through his gut.

Even his troupe was unnaturally quiet. To cover more ground and help comb for tracks, they were all stretched out in a vague line, making conversation difficult in the first place, but now not even their chattiest tried to disturb the peace. His only consolation was the sight of their dappled flanks moving in tandem with his own, barely visible against the undergrowth.

Unbidden, a low creak rumbled from Wilbur’s lower chest, and he caught the responding flick of his second-in-command’s tail from the corner of his eye. Niki stepped out of the shadow of a tree and approached him cautiously, just as alert. Good.

“What do you make of these?” he asked quietly, biting back a wince at the hoarseness of his voice as the silence shattered, motioning toward the tracks just before him. She followed his gaze.

Half-buried by leaf litter, they were large, with a spade-shaped core and oval petals fanning from the thinnest edge. There were a lot of animals with tracks like that. Lynxes and wolves, just to name a few – all of them predators.

After a moment Niki sent him a questioning glance, and Wilbur didn’t hesitate. He nodded, stepping back as she carefully lowered herself to the ground for a closer look.

He could see the others drawing closer, stiff-backed, ears pricked, bows drawn as they settled in a shallow circle, eyes peeled while they waited for her verdict. His own bow remained belted to his side, but his knuckles whitened on the staff of his spear, all too aware of the thick bushes surrounding them.

Finally, after what seemed like an age of mutterings and hair-raising anticipation, she rose, a grim set to her jaw. Wilbur quirked an eyebrow and forced a smug smile even as he felt his hearts plummeting through the earth.

“So? Do you think we found our monster?”

Niki grimaced. “Definitely.”

Once upon a time, some human king of some forgotten human land had gotten it into his head to make a monster. Several monsters, in fact. And although the kingdom had long since fallen and the king’s head amounted to nothing more than another decoration on the emperor’s throne, the effects of his experiments were still felt today, some hundred years later.

It was their job to find these monsters and banish their magic, splitting spirit and beast until all that remained was a hapless shell. After that, they either let it free to starve in a territory it wasn’t made for, or they hauled the corpse back for processing and sale. They didn't have any soulsmiths with them this time – too dangerous – and this region of the empire was largely free of predators, so the wildlife was mostly managed by the villages nearby. Letting the beast live wasn't an option this time.

“And it’s a tiger?” he asked, just to make sure.

“Yeah. Can’t be anything else – they match the poster perfectly.” Her ears twitched nervously. “They’re huge, Wil. I don’t think we…”

Someone whined at the decree. Wilbur wished he could afford to do the same. Instead, he forced his face to fall into something serious.

Wilbur had never seen a live one himself, and neither had anyone else in his troupe, but they’d heard stories. Tigers were enormous creatures with fur of fire and ash-black ribs, bellies as white as bone. Their birthplace was a world without winter; a world shadowed by giant trees filled with things that shrieked and bellowed and sang until your ears bled.

As a general rule, no two monsters were the same. But even so, he dreaded to think of what twisted abomination lay lurking, hidden just under their noses. Images of fiery nightmares, decimated villages and razed forests flashed across his mind, and he shivered.

“And… Wil. They’re fresh.”

His blood went cold.

“Fuck–!”

Someone snorted. Wilbur whipped his head up at the sudden sound, hackles raised, hair standing on end, hearts racing a thousand miles a minute. Niki mirrored him, bow raised high, pointed directly toward– Schlatt. Schlatt, who yelped as Quackity jabbed an elbow into his side, grinning back at them.

Wilbur blinked in disbelief, shoulders slowly beginning to fall. “Thank you, Big Q.”

If possible, Quackity’s grin grew even wider. “I’m more than happy to break his leg too – if you want me to.”

“What do you mean you’re gonna break my leg–?”

If his eyes could roll any harder, Wilbur would be racing through the forest trying to catch them. His ears flicked, fear replaced by nothing but exasperation at the pair’s antics. “No, that won’t be necessary,” he dismissed, ignoring his friend’s disappointed sigh. “But we need to get moving if we want to leave before nightfall. I don’t–”

Wilbur stopped.

His troupe stopped with him, too professional to either dismiss his silence or try to break it, even as Schlatt stewed.

There it was again – a rustle. Almost imperceptible. If he hadn’t been so high-strung, he doubted he would’ve caught it.

Wilbur’s shoulders hiked and he lobbied his spear toward the sound, troupe quickly following suit, spears and bows and antlers, where applicable, raised in defence as they gathered closer together. A hand slipped down to his belt, grasping for one of the twenty-odd vials nestled in his belt pouch, feeling over the marks on the corks for the right one.

His fingers skipped past fire resistance, harming, crushed golden apples, plenty of gunpowder, and one invisibility before he found what he wanted. Wilbur grasped a vial of poison tightly and readied himself for a swing, certain of what he was about to see, because whether it was a living fire or death made manifest, poison had a lovely habit of being applicable to every situation.

Another rustle. This time far louder than before, and Wilbur saw the exact moment his troupe realised what he’d heard. Something dark moved through the leaves. Bows drew back, faces blanked, Wilbur swung back his arm, and finally the beast emerged.

Only, it wasn’t a beast. It wasn’t a tiger, it wasn’t a fox, it wasn’t anything he might have imagined it to be.

Wilbur resisted the urge to paw the ground nervously.

It was a human. Or at least, they looked like one.

With a pale mask over their face that was unwaveringly trained on Wilbur and a cloak so green he couldn’t make out the edges, they were human insofar as they only had two legs. For all he knew, their hood might have hidden fox ears – maybe a rat tail was curled about their waist, or they had tusks sheltered by their mask. It didn’t matter if they did. For all intents and purposes they were human and, politically speaking, cervitaur weren’t on the best of terms with any of them, hybrid or not.

That was all it took for his troupe’s weapons to remain exactly where they were.

Wilbur raised his head, expressionless, carefully tucking the poison into his sleeve. He stepped forward. “And who–” a low growl rumbled in his lower chest, barely there– “might you be?”

The human wasn’t cowed. “Dream,” they said curtly, nodding politely. It wasn’t a bow – it wasn’t even an attempt at a bow – and something bitter began stirring in the back of Wilbur’s mind, a mix of instincts and learned pride. “You?”

Wilbur didn’t bother to disguise his disdain. He sneered, “You may call me dux. Or prince. Or Soot.” He paused. Did he really want a stranger to call him prince? “Choose Soot.”

No, he decided. No he didn’t.

He didn’t want a human calling him much of anything at all, to be honest.

“Soot, then,” they agreed, and Wilbur relaxed. He leaned back, resting his spear against his side and crossing his arms over his chest. Finally, the troupe’s weapons began lowering, though they remained in-hand. Ready, should they need to be.

…Dream, huh? Wilbur mused. A good name – an odd name, for a human. But a good one. Almost too good to be true. He hummed. “I’m not a faerie, green boy.”

They stilled, and if Wilbur wasn’t sure Dream was a fake name before, he definitely was, now.

“Yeah but. To be fair, you are magic.”

Wilbur looked at them incredulously. “And I suppose you think a priestess might steal your name, too?”

“Wait, I wouldn’t say that–”

“Oh you wouldn't, would you?”

For someone without a face or much discernible body language, the human looked rather put-out at that. Wilbur watched as they fussed, two vaguely hand-shaped lumps raising into the air and stretching out their cloak as they tried to explain themself. He couldn’t help the smile if he wanted to.

His troupe seemed similarly amused, slowly beginning to circle the intruder. Not openly, of course – that would be rude, and they didn’t want to start a fight if they could avoid one – but they let themselves stretch out again into a looser group. More angles of attack. Fewer angles of escape. The two essential ingredients to preventing any attempted ambushes.

Dream didn’t seem to notice. They groaned softly, a sound so quiet that Wilbur might have missed it had he not been listening for it.

“Look,” he interrupted, “I’ll lend you an olive branch, Dream. Tell me – us – what you’re doing here, and I’ll forget I ever saw you.” No promise for the others, though. Wilbur was sure about that. One way or another, the emperor was getting word of this encounter – he liked to think he’d learned from last time.

The human went quiet, hands lowering and body stilling, calming down instantaneously – or so it seemed. Wilbur’s tail flicked. An arrow notched.

“Well, I just wanted to warn you.”

Wilbur’s smile smoothed. “Did you, now?”

Dream nodded. “There’s a monster here,” they jabbed a thumb over their shoulder, finally revealing some skin. It was pale, Wilbur noted, with glowing green veins and black fingertips. Not entirely human, then – unless they were rotting off, of course, because a complexion like that could not be good for them.

Noticing Wilbur’s growing tension, Niki piped up, “We know. That’s why we’re here.”

There were noises of agreement throughout the troupe, some more vocal than others. The human didn’t so much as twitch.

“No, listen, I mean a real monster. Not a– a mageborn.” The hand disappeared and they stepped forward. Another arrow notched. “Your friends need to leave before he finds you. He doesn’t exactly appreciate strangers.”

Wilbur’s offence was rising by the minute. It was clear Dream wasn’t a threat by now, human or not, but they were starting to look very similar to an obstacle. His troupe dealt with both in much the same manner.

“And yet here you are,” the cervitaur drawled, unfolding his arms and resting on his spear gently, letting the poison vial glint in a spot of sunlight. “Look, while I appreciate the concern, stranger, unless you’re admitting to association with a monster in Emperor Philza’s territory, I’d suggest you shut up.”

Surprisingly enough, that gave them pause – almost enough for Wilbur to think they’d listened. They hadn’t.

“Welp,” they muttered, seemingly to themself, and something green flashed around the edges of their mask, “I tried, just like you asked.”

Wilbur narrowed his eyes. They weren’t talking to him, were they?

His troupe seemed to share this notion, eyeing the human distrustfully.

Another arrow notched. 

The human tilted their head to the side, as if looking for something in the treeline, and Wilbur felt a hungry grin grow on his face.

You’re out.

Without warning, Wilbur threw the vial straight at the human’s feet, and three arrows whistled through the air as they loosed from their bows. They were too late. The second the glass shattered against the ground a green smoke rose from Dream’s cloak – no. Not smoke. Wilbur glared as their cloak burst into a cloud of green thread, completely obscuring the human from sight. The arrows, meant to box them in, fell uselessly to the forest floor.

Already his troupe were notching new arrows, and Wilbur ran his thumbs over more vials, planting the spear firmly into the ground. Only magic could kill magic. Now, if he could just find the right one–

“Fuck, he’s going to be insufferable." The human kept muttering from within the cloud, noise muffled. But Wilbur could make out a few things. A few curses. A few complaints. Just enough to help him pinpoint exactly where he needed to aim next.

And then nothing.

In the time it took to blink, the cloud collapsed, and Dream disappeared.

Wilbur kept his hand steady in the air, eyes alert, ears pricked, legs tense and ready to run. But then a second passed. And another. And another. Save for the wind whistling through the leaves overhead, there wasn't a single sound to be heard. They were–

A bird twittered cheerily somewhere behind him. An arrow whizzed past his ear, cutting its song short with a squeak, and Wilbur's gaze flicked toward the cervitaur responsible. Jack shrugged sheepishly, tucking his bow out of sight.

Wilbur sighed, letting his arms fall to his sides.

They were gone.

"...was that a mage?"

Wilbur nodded, barely registering the question as he scanned over their surroundings. Dream hadn't left a trace. Not a single leaf was out of place where they'd stood – if they'd stood at all. There were stories about mages so powerful their feet never touched the ground. If that was true, they were lucky to be alive.

His hands shook.

"This far in?" someone else chimed, and a few people murmured their confusion.

"A human?"

"How far is the nearest village?”

“We didn't get lost, right? How far out are we?"

“The emperor wouldn’t–”

Wilbur let their questions wash over him, threading a hand through his hair and resting on his spear as he finally let himself feel the confusion brewing in his gut. A mage. A human mage – and so far from home. The capital was, what, three, maybe five days away? The borders were at least double that. How had a human come so close?

"Why can't you do that?"

He choked, snapping to attention and whipping his head up toward the voice, seeing but not quite recognising the one to talk. They repeated themself, miming the cloud's collapse. "I make potions!" he spluttered, head tilting forward defensively, letting the emeralds decorating his horns glimmer with an unsaid threat. "I don't teleport."

"Alright, alright, just saying– would'a been useful…"

Niki snorted, shaking her head so that the bells in her hair began to chime. When she gestured to take Wilbur’s spear, he let her, shaking off the worst of the haze. Then she turned to the dissident. "And free healing isn't?" she bit back.

"Not free. Cheap," Wilbur corrected. The doe shrugged, flicking her tail dismissively.

"Same thing."

A laugh – just a small one – leapt free from his upper chest, and Niki gave him a small grin. "So, what now?"

"Now," Wilbur breathed, feeling just a little lighter than before, "I finally get to finish my sentence!”

He swept his gaze over his troupe, who seemed to have settled themselves and were now awaiting instruction. A small buzz of pride flickered through his heart; he’d never get used to the feeling. Never.

“Our prey is close,” he began, then tilted his head consideringly, “or it was close. Now all we need to do is find it.” A few voices rose and a few hooves pawed at the ground, but Wilbur raised a hand before they could get too loud. “I know, I know. Trust me, I know. I promise we’ll report the human mage when we get back, personally if we have to – I’m sure no-one wants a repeat of last time – but I want everyone focussed on the task at hand. Our monster is a far more pressing concern.”

There were still a few discontent grumbles, but from there it was easy enough to organise everyone back into a line – albeit denser than before. It was true, after all. A monster was not to be taken lightly and, as much as it hurt to admit, they couldn’t do anything about the mage anyway.

In the background, Dream’s warning weighed heavily on everyone’s minds. Despite how much they wanted to dismiss it and despite the laws commanding them to do so anyway, a mage couldn't be ignored.

Not even a weird, green-obsessed, human one.

There were a lot of reasons for that – reasons that allowed Wilbur to be the uncontested leader of their troupe, reasons that he was their go-to in politics, reasons that, despite his immaturity and inexperience and a host of other cons, he was respected. One of the most simple was that magic amplified emotion just as much as it did power, and if nothing else Dream’s concern was genuine. Or at least, it seemed to be.

Wilbur frowned as the thought nipped his heels. He didn’t miss the glances thrown his way as they walked; he didn’t miss how, even after he’d calmed down, Niki held onto his spear for him. He didn’t miss the warm pulse in his palm as the vial’s magic played with his own. He still hadn’t put it back.

Instead of doing so, he examined it idly, bringing it up to the sun as he let his legs work on their own. Muted blue-grey liquid glimmered, sloshing about, and he thumbed the cork. Slowness. Fairly potent.

Wilbur didn’t just make potions. Bottling magic came with side-effects, some far more useful and others, and… a few drops of slowness would be more than enough to help make his memory clearer; his mind sharper.

If they were walking into some kind of trap, he needed to know.

Making his decision, he turned to his troupe, a question on the tip of his tongue. He caught Niki already looping rope from her satchel. Much to his chagrin, he noted a few others doing the same, some of them exchanging coins behind their backs, as if he couldn’t tell exactly what they were doing. He turned back to Niki. “Was I too obvious?”

She shrugged. “Only a little. You had that look on your face again.”

Of course he did.

Wilbur slowed slightly, letting his second-in-command loop the rope about his waist gently. He felt it over with his fingertips as she did. It was softer than it should have been; far more expensive than a regular monster troupe could afford, on top of all their other supplies. But, just like his pouch and his vials and the jewels dazzling his antlers, it was a gift. One designed for a very specific purpose.

When, after a quick tug, the knot didn’t give way, Niki backed off. The other end of the makeshift lead wrapped loosely around her wrist. Wilbur glanced up, noting that the troupe had gathered a little closer while he was distracted, and his heart warmed. He didn’t need a mirror to know it was showing.

He coughed. “Right. Well. Feel free to stab me if you need me awake.”

And with that, Wilbur popped the cork and took a sip.

The effect was immediate.

Before the potion’s true purpose could take hold, Wilbur’s magic swelled and crushed it, crushing him in the process. He could hear it; feel it. Fuzzing his senses. Picking apart the world, little by little, until it lost its flavour.

Niki pried the vial from his hands easily, re-corking it and slipping it into her pocket and motioning for the troupe to follow her lead. Wilbur barely noticed he was walking, rope tugging him along as his thoughts began to cloud. Just before he let himself drift, he took stock of his surroundings. Everything was okay. He was moving, Niki was guiding, and his troupe was even closer than before, watching his back.

Good.

Wilbur let go.

Like this, with a thin layer of separation from the world, some things became easier to grasp. Memories, for one, but also things that, were he more aware, his eyes would have missed. While he replayed Dream’s conversations, Wilbur’s gaze drifted over the branches and bushes and leaves, peering up into the skies. He saw birds. Beetles. Spiderwebs. Mouseholes. Chipped bark. Tiger fur. A faint imprint of its journey through the forest. Wilbur followed.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see his troupe’s faces – not properly. He couldn’t read them; couldn’t recognise them. He couldn’t hear their voices. But he didn’t need to. He just focussed on the trail and the memories flowing through his mind.

…Dream really was odd. Odder than they should have been. But after looking over it again, some of those oddities began to make sense.

The sudden calm – magic, messing with their emotions, exactly as it did with himself.

The clothing – an extension of their speciality. Wilbur’s work was far less mobile, but whenever he was called to the capital his workshop bent to his will, a crucial part of him no matter how long he went without it.

The presence – again, magic. Mages had an air about them that, because of his surprise, he hadn’t noticed. He needed to correct that for next time.

The only thing he couldn’t quite puzzle out was Dream’s motive.

If he wasn’t mistaken, and he wasn’t, the other mage had called the monster a he. They talked about it like they knew it personally; like its responses mattered to them; like it was there, watching. Listening.

And yet, no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t find a trace of another monster anywhere. The tiger? Yes. But nothing else. Nothing more dangerous than that twisted remnant of a bygone era.

As if on cue, Wilbur’s magic began to calm, the worst of its overreaction over. Piece by piece the world returned to him, face by face, sound by sound, scent by scent, every blink left a mark on his vision and pulled him from his mind.

Details disappeared but, in their place, he saw the flanks of his troupe creeping through the trees. They were more spread out than he remembered, and Niki– she was behind him. Not by much, but just enough to let him lead as he’d unconsciously followed the invisible imprints their monster had left behind.

Wilbur tugged on the rope gently, tilting his head in an unasked question as she stepped up to his side.

“Are you back with us, Wil?”

Wilbur paused. Or, well, he tried to. Now that she was next to him, Niki had no issue tugging him along. His legs forced him to follow; Wilbur gave them a curious look.

“Wil?” she prompted.

He hummed. “Nearly, I think. I haven’t done this in a while.”

Someone scoffed. “No shit. We don’t let you.”

…yeah. Yeah, that was true. Wilbur always poured too much into his potions and his sponsor didn’t have the willpower or want to resist indulging him. Every single one of his concoctions packed a punch, moreso when he was the one drinking them, and his magic retaliated accordingly. Even so, a few droplets couldn’t give him more than a few minutes in return, and it wasn’t long before the rest of his magic retreated from his mind.

After a brief check, Niki twisted the rope in on itself like a second belt, ensuring it wouldn’t snag on anything. Then, after handing him back his spear, she finally left his side.

Now that his magic wasn’t so unsettled, the slowness potion began doing what it was meant to do. Its effects were weakened by… quite a bit, but it was hard not to notice how his fingers lagged; how every step took more effort to make. It was easy enough to work around though, and even with the slight disruption, they were still making good progress.

More and more traces of their prey began appearing as they proceeded through the forest, each more obvious than the last, and it was impossible to miss the excitement buzzing in the air. Just a little closer. Just a little further. Just a little longer, and they had it.

And then they found it.

Wilbur wasn’t the first one to see it, unfortunately. No, that honour went to another.

They’d been walking through the forest, sun high overhead, when someone made a distressed bark. Arrows flew, spears struck, and the troupe converged on the beast quicker than it could have awoken. They’d assumed it was asleep. They’d assumed they’d caught it off guard. They’d assumed so much.

Wilbur grimaced as he felt blood stick to his hooves, still warm. Schlatt smirked and slapped Wilbur’s back heartily, having no such qualms as he left Wilbur’s side to relay what they’d found.

Similar to what they’d done with Dream, the troupe surrounded the beast in a loose circle, each prodding and poking at a different part; each getting the same result, reaching the same conclusions.

It was dead – that part was unmistakable. There was no rise and fall of its chest, no spirit-shadow wavering above its fur, and as Wilbur approached, drenched in the irresistible scent of magic, it didn’t so much as twitch. But what wasn’t so readily apparent, at least not at first, was that they hadn’t been the ones to kill it.

There were long, deep gashes littered all over its body, still sluggishly weeping blood. In some parts, it almost looked like it had been ripped open from the inside, skin torn outward in wounds that didn’t match any creature he knew, abomination or not.

He and Schlatt had already made a quick sweep of the immediate area for the perpetrator, but they hadn’t found anything. No tracks they unearthed were large enough to suit the claw marks, the fur scraps they picked at were unmistakably prey, and the tiger hadn’t fought back – there wasn’t a single drop of blood or shred of skin under its claws or coating its fangs.

Worse still, despite the birds chirping all around them, the blood was still fresh. Ten minutes dead, if that. Whatever killed it was quick – brutal, merciless, efficient – and already gone.

Once more, Dream’s warning came to mind. The hypothetical monster, worse than theirs. Looking at the corpse splayed out before them, maimed but uneaten and entirely undefended, Wilbur found it wasn’t so hard to believe anymore.

Schlatt finished retelling their findings and Wilbur straightened up as his troupe turned their heads toward him, backing up from the body as they awaited his word. His eyes met theirs one by one. Jack, Niki, Quackity, and Schlatt. And himself. The core members of their herd, the rest of whom were still waiting for them at the forest’s edge, resting while they fulfilled their last contract in the area.

Each of them were carefully selected for the day’s prey. Each of them were the best their hunters had to offer. Each of them was a friend, and all of them had lives amongst the working herd; family in the cities they’d left behind, waiting for their next visit. Even him.

Wilbur had an obligation to find and neutralise a monster. As far as he was concerned, both requirements had been met. Whatever did this – his gaze flicked back to the tiger, little more than a collection of parts strung together by its skin – could keep its prize. There was no telling when it would come back. All he knew was that they couldn’t be here when it did.

It was time to leave.

There was an audible sigh of relief as Wilbur declared them finished, and only one grumble when he told them to leave the body.

“Fur’s expensive, Wil,” Quackity muttered, eyeing the scraps greedily.

“Your life costs more,” Wilbur bit back, eyes narrowed. “Besides, the skin’s ruined. You’re getting fuck-all for that.”

Jack grimaced, quickly turning away from the body to watch for movement through the trees, already on guard if someone changed their mind and decided to stay a little longer. It was unnecessary. Wilbur shook his head at him and gestured toward Quackity. “Come on, let’s get going. Who knows when–”

Everything went quiet. Jack was motionless, staring at something over Wilbur’s head. Wilbur could feel a hot breath on the back of his neck.

…it was right behind him, wasn’t it?

Wilbur’s magic began sizzling under his skin, fanning the flames of fear taking hold of his legs, rooting him to the forest floor.

Something wet splattered onto his shoulder and soaked into his shirt.

It was warm.

Wilbur swallowed heavily, mouth impossibly dry. As carefully as he could, he formed a symbol with his fingers, inclining his head.

Then he barked.

Amplified by his magic, the sound screamed from his lower chest and Wilbur heard the beast rear back, crunching leaves and sticks underfoot in an attempt to get away from the sudden noise. His troupe fled, throwing themselves through the trees and undergrowth in one group, exactly as trained. Wilbur didn’t hesitate. He yanked three vials out of his pouch and smashed them into the ground before racing to catch up.

Branches and leaves thwacked his face, thorns pulling at everything they could – his clothes, his fur, his antlers, his bags, his belt. Even the fucking rope, twisted so tightly that even as Wilbur bolted, it remanded firmly in place.

He could hear the monster bellowing behind him. Wrath and hunger and every other monstrous emotion under the sun was in that voice, sending off every single hair-trigger instinct Wilbur had bottled away inside his head.

This wasn’t something he could fight. This wasn’t something he could survive. Not on his own. His troupe’s flanks flickered before him, barely visible against the forest’s shadows. They blended in perfectly. Every time his gaze strayed, they disappeared entirely, sending his hearts shooting up into his throat. But they were there. They were always there.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck–!

They found their monster, they found its corpse, and instead of realising that oh, maybe sticking around a fresh kill isn’t such a great plan, they’d overstayed their welcome. Why did they stay? Why did they linger? Why did they wait? Did they want to get killed – eaten? He didn’t. He really, really fucking didn’t. But they’d stayed. They’d stayed and now they were paying the price.

The trees were growing thicker – they were going the wrong way. Fuck.

He couldn’t– he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t shout. His breaths rasped his throat and squeezed his lungs. There was nothing he could do.

The monster roared again and Wilbur’s hooves pounded against the earth, a third heartbeat. It was all he could hear as leaves and stones scattered beneath him – as roots began rising above the soil, ready to trip him up and feed him to the beast.

Wilbur wasn’t a good runner. He wasn’t particularly agile and he was too large to slip between the thinner gaps between the trees; it wasn’t long before he was forced to drop his spear entirely just to keep running. He was meant for open plains. For days of walking. For grassland and heat. His every step faltered, unused to the uneven terrain, and his horns kept catching in branches overhead. His legs ached, gouged by brambles and thistle thorns and itching with burrs caught in his fur.

It burned to remember – it hadn’t burned, precious hours before – but Wilbur wasn’t just the leader of their troupe because he had magic. Their troupe, which had only the best of the best – the hunters most suited for a forest tiger hunt. Niki was more dextrous, Jack was faster, Quackity didn’t have horns, Schlatt was raised in borderline jungle–

And Wilbur, the “merely adequate” mage sponsored by the emperor himself.

He didn’t fit in, not really; not where it counted. And he didn’t stand out enough to be useful. Dream could teleport, for fuck’s sake, and they barely sounded older than him and now– now, second by second, Wilbur was being left behind. His troupe’s flanks were fading. The sounds of their hooves disappeared. The monster thundered behind him; he heard the distinctive crack of a tree being split in two.

Wilbur stumbled as he crested a small hill. His gaze dipped down for a second – just one, measly second – as he regained his footing. That was all it took.

One second, and they were gone.

He launched himself into running again, as fast as he could possibly go, eyes rolling in their sockets as he searched frantically for any hint – any tiny, miniscule, astoundingly fleeting clue – of his troupe. There was nothing. No flanks, no bags, no heads, no shirts. Nothing.

Where was his fucking herd?

No. No, no– not his herd. His troupe. His herd was settled outside the forest, safe, waiting for him. Them. Waiting for them. Him and his troupe. His troupe. He didn’t know where the fuck they were–

A shrill whine burst free from both of his chests, two voices warbling in tandem, so loud that he nearly faltered. He’d never made a noise like that before, not since he was a fawn. He didn’t know such a noise was even possible for an– for him. Why–?

The monster roared back.

Any further thoughts fled his mind. He kept running. He had to keep running. Whatever traces his troupe had left behind were long lost to him – he couldn’t think about them right now. He’d probably just taken one too many wrong turns and lost them, it was fine. It had to be fine. It needed to be fine. Just find the thinner trees and he’d be home free. Easy.

Wilbur’s shoulder caught on a towering boulder and sent him tumbling to the ground. The monster roared again – it sounded closer. Far, far, far closer. To him. It sounded like a fucking avalanche.

Another wail left his chests and he clambered back to his hooves, knees aching something fierce, having taken the brunt of his fall.

He ran and he ran and he ran. Icy wind cut into his skin and he could hardly feel it, not the tears trailing down his face, the blood beading up from thorn-scratches, nothing. All he could feel was his magic, buzzing and burning and churning and whirring, making everything so much worse, and he barely registered himself breaking through a line of trees. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t fucking think–!

Wilbur stopped, eyes wide as he came face-to-face with a river. He hadn’t heard it before – how the fuck hadn’t he heard it? It was all he could hear now. That and the thunder, the death, the doom, crashing behind him.

It wasn’t a big one. The river. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t dangerous. Everything about it screamed that it was safe to cross. It wasn’t.

Wilbur couldn’t swim. The water would slow him down, waterlogging his clothes and ruining his bags and leaving him as easy pickings for the abomination racing behind him.

He turned away from the waters and sprinted along the bank, all too aware of the crushing stones and enormous creature rapidly gaining on him.

He looked back and– he could see it. Wilbur stopped dead in his tracks, numbly feeling for his bow. He could hear it. Breaking through the trees barely forty metres away. It was fucking huge. Its fur was as white as snow, its head as thick as Wilbur’s lower torso, mouth stained red, and its eyes were soulless burning black coals, glinting in the cheery light of midday.

A bear.

He was being chased by a bear.

He was– he was running from a motherfucking monster. A bear. A bear monster. A bear monster bigger than anything he’d ever seen, tracking him with the magic drenching his entire being. A monster which was getting closer and closer and closer every second he wasted standing here because he couldn't find his fucking bow–

He ran.

He couldn’t outrun a bear. No-one could outrun a bear. You couldn’t outrun them, you couldn’t outclimb them, you couldn’t outswim them – you just fucking died. No arrow could pierce their fur, no spear could escape their hide, and fire only ever made the things worse. Add in a spirit and– and– Wilbur was going to die here.

Fucking shit.

He needed to hide. Wilbur could try and cry and whine as much as he liked but if he wanted to stand even a single fucking chance, he needed to disappear.

With that, Wilbur threw himself back into the trees, once more scanning the forest for hints. Any thought of his herd or his troupe had gone quiet, relegated to a constant, agonising thrum of instincts and agony in the back of his brain. He’d been betrayed. He hadn’t. He’d been sacrificed. He hadn’t. He’d been murdered–

Not yet, he hadn’t.

Wilbur could barely find it in himself to feel relieved as the heated sounds of pursuit died for a moment. The thickening tree growth was on his side. Evidently whatever supernatural strength his pursuer used to escape the forest didn’t work as well on the way in. It bought him a handful of moments – barely enough for anything. Anything except running. And searching. And hoping and praying and wishing for a goddamn miracle as the terrain grew more treacherous with every turn he took.

And then he fell.

Because of course he did.

This time it wasn’t a stumble – it wasn’t bruised knees – when Wilbur fell, he fell, and he fell hard. The rope around his waist must have come undone sometime during the chase, catching on a branch or a rock or something, because one second Wilbur was flying through the trees and the next he was being yanked back by the loop around his waist. He gasped, winded, too shocked to scream as his legs collapsed out from under him.

He crashed to the ground, lungs screaming for breath, and something cracked. It was a sound like splintering wood; like felled trees; like a triggered trap, resounding from the branches and roots and leaves and earth beneath him.

Wilbur’s eyes widened, lurching forward with outstretched palms in a desperate bid to escape his fate. But he was too late.

The mesh of roots and forest debris gave way, sending him plummeting into the abyss below.

Agony after agony shot through the cervitaur’s body, stretching on into forever. His head slammed into something hard, his elbow twisted behind his back, glass shattered, potions seeped into his skin and welled up in his satchel. He could hear them; feel them – even through the buzzing and the pounding in his head and the sheer, unrelenting agony – everything. Breaking.

Then, he couldn’t.

Wilbur finally rolled to a stop, body a mess of bruises and open wounds. His vision spun, his skin stung, his hands felt scraped raw and his mind was white with the force of his broiling magic and the useless remains of his vial pouch seeping into his blood. Or at least, he hoped it was useless. He really, really hoped it was useless. Alchemical ingredients were volatile at worst, toxic at best, and when randomly combined–

Well, there was a reason he bottled them separately. You add full-blown potions into the mix and it was a miracle he hadn’t exploded yet. Judging by the faint violet fumes beginning to rise from the pouch, he still might.

Wilbur tensed at the thought, daring to try and push himself up, to fling the pouch away, to live– he immediately regretted it. All at once, the true extent of his injuries hit him and it hurt. No, it didn’t just hurt, it burned.

He gasped in pain, arms folding and ribs heaving jaggedly. It felt like he'd been shattered and fitted together again. A shredded jigsaw. A puzzle someone got wrong. And– and he couldn't move. Not again. Just the thought of trying made his magic surge, blinding him entirely and liquifying his resistance as it sparked through powdered bones, slamming him flat against the freezing stone beneath him. Freezing stone which, as the milliseconds ticked by, was slowly warming with his blood.

It wasn't trying to kill him– his magic. It wasn't! He knew it wasn't. It boiled through his broken body, a tide of heat and power washing over every fracture, every ache, every bruise and scrape and splinter, with only one purpose: to heal him. But it was killing him. The longer he let his magic work, the more of it discharged, a delicious lure for every monster for miles around.

The bear was still out there, hunting, and the longer he lay here the closer it would get; the hungrier it would be.

And that was discounting the fumes, still steadily rising into the air.

Wilbur couldn't afford to heal.

Wilbur blinked rapidly, forcing himself free from the haze clouding his mind and– there! Far, far above him, a slip of light filtered through the torn remains of the roots he fell through and down into the pit, illuminating a steep stone bank. It was too sheer to climb, even if he could move – he was a cervitaur, not a satyr – and he knew he wasn’t imagining the blood-curdling crack of at least one of his legs snapping on the way down. He couldn’t stand. Or walk. Or jump. Or– fuck. He couldn’t even back away, further into whatever ditch he’d fallen into.

This was it.

Wilbur tried to curl up on himself, breath hitching as his brain fuzzed with magic. He felt the familiar tug of it trying to pull him away from the world; trying to make it all disappear while it did its job. He resisted, because if he was under, if he was– what if the bear found him? What if it saw him, lying here, and what if he saw it? What if he just stared at it blankly, watching it come closer? What if he was powerless to do anything as it– as he–

Fuck.

He didn’t notice the tears until the first sob forced itself out of his throat, a low, pitiful whine whistling through his teeth and bubbling in his chests, and by then it was too late.

Eyes screwed shut, Wilbur shook with terror, every convulsion riling up his magic more and more until he could hardly think. He was unable to keep himself quiet as his instincts gradually took hold of him – he whined louder, another two-toned cry for help that would never come.

A crack. A rumble. A groan – the bear. It had to be. It had to be. It sounded loud. Far too loud. So, so, so impossibly loud. Loud enough to shake some loose roots and earth from where he’d fallen, tickling his skin.

Wilbur flinched at the feeling, screwing his eyes up tighter and trembling fiercely. Some kind of insect was crawling over his hooves. He could feel the tiny legs roaming over his skin. Oh gods, what if it tried to eat him? What if it thought he was already dead? And– and something else. There was something else. Something smooth. Cold. A snake. A snake?

He found himself clinging onto the sensation, onto the scales and the near-silent sound of its body winding over the ground, onto the strange smoothness gliding over one of his hind legs. Anything to forget about the magic and the pain and the terror and the fucking bugs. Anything to forget.

Wilbur hadn’t always been a mage. He wasn’t born with fire at his fingertips, a pestle and mortar in his crib– he was just… a fawn. A baby. Then, as he grew older, more capable, his herd – his first herd – put him to work. And he tried to find his purpose. He was soft, gentle, with music in his head and words on his tongue, and when they didn’t get him into trouble, they got him placed with the sick and the frail. The young and the old. The nurseries and the medical tents. Places that needed a gentle hand.

He was used to dealing with snakes.

First, he tried to get them away – he’d toss them into their rivers or their trees or their grasses, where he knew they needed to be. Then, after he found a fawn, bitten in her cradle, he’d stomp and crush them; drown them. He found his calling the day he trapped one, extracting its venom in a desperate bid to save another fawn’s life.

They were dangerous things: creatures that made his brain buzz and his hair stand on end. Some might bite you and ruin your limbs or lay you to rest for good; others might find you and wrap you up tight, crushing your lungs.

A snake would be quick. Quicker than the bear. He’d be killed before his magic could sew him back together, consumed before the monster could find his corpse, silenced before he–

Wilbur cried out as the snake moved over a particularly bad break and another wave of magic flooded his mind, cutting him short.

It was a brutal reminder.

Wilbur didn’t want to die.

With a sudden burst of strength, Wilbur began to thrash. His magic flared again and again but he didn't care, forcing himself to fight for his life.

The snake grew larger and larger, climbing further up Wilbur's body, and for every moment it did, his hope withered just a little bit more. He could deal with venom. His magic could deal with venom. But venomous snakes didn't get this big. He didn't– he wasn't strong enough.

Wilbur kept trying. He kept thrashing, kept struggling, kept kicking and lashing out despite the agony it wrought. He only made it worse. The snake held tighter, climbed faster, binding his body up tight.

He tried to look at it, tried to see the scales in a desperate hope that he'd be able to recognise the patterning and formulate some kind of plan, some kind of stop-gap measure until his herd could find– could rescue him, but there was something unmoving stuck behind his head that hadn't been there a moment before. When did it get there? Why? He– fuck.

Wilbur cried desperately for help, the sound nothing like the whine he'd used before and yet every bit as terrified. He stopped struggling – he couldn't move. He couldn't move and he couldn't look and he just– he just needed to wait. For his herd to find him. He needed to be patient and keep crying so they could find him.

No, that– that wasn’t right. Was it? He wasn’t a fawn anymore. He couldn’t just whine and cry and wait. But…

Wilbur closed his eyes again. Maybe– maybe it would go away if he stopped looking at it? Maybe that’s what his instincts were trying to tell him? Maybe this was all a dream. Maybe he'd just tripped over a root in the forest and hit his head too hard, and at any moment he was going to wake up, laugh it off, and journey back to the capital with his troupe. And when they arrived he'd go straight to Phil and complain about– about everything. And he'd tell thousands of half-true stories and Phil would listen to him for far too long and everything would be okay.

The snake squeezed.

Wilbur whimpered.

He jolted with a small shriek as two icy hands cupped his face. He threw himself back, eyes flying open, head spinning, to no avail. The hands remained fixed in place, nails digging into his skin. The snake pulsed another warning squeeze. His magic flared.

The cervitaur was frozen with fear as the hands shifted and his torso was slowly raised off of the ground, up, up, up, until his hindlegs folded under him and his forelegs dangled limply against his lower chest. The snake moved, slithering over him like a heavy blanket. A bad one. A bad blanket. Wilbur was so, so cold.

There was a heartbeat thudding behind him, growing louder and louder as he was raised higher into the air. It was slow, heavy, completely unlike his own. A predator. It had to be a predator and– oh. It was going to eat him, wasn’t it? Wilbur’s lungs squeezed tight. His stomach spun. His vision clouded with tears. He rocked his head back in some poor mimicry of a headbutt, a final attempt to free himself even as he cried louder for someone, anyone, to save him.

No-one came.

Wilbur slumped, unable to help how he leaned back, away from the cold air, further into the– the… was that fur?

Wilbur paused.

That felt like fur. Or really soft fabric. It wasn’t warm, not in the slightest, but it was– it was familiar. And the snake had stopped moving. Was it even there anymore? Was he safe?

It didn’t make sense. Some tiny, inconsequential part of Wilbur knew it didn’t make sense, but it was so nice. He’d rather believe his herd had found him than– than the alternative.

Wilbur quieted his calls for help and leaned into the chest behind him, trying to tilt his head up to look. Just to check. But it was hard – it hurt. He was so dizzy and his magic really, really didn't like it when he moved and… and if his herd was here, there was no real reason to move, was there? They could take care of everything while he recovered.

“What’re you doin’?” an unfamiliar voice asked, sounding bemused. It rumbled from behind him, tickling his skin and sounding so similar to a greeting call that Wilbur couldn't help but relax. Just a little. “And where are your emeralds? Did you lose them? Seriously?”

Wilbur didn’t answer, mind still fogged with magic. He could– he could move, but only a little. He squirmed a bit, trying to power through. He was safe, he knew that – or he thought he knew that – but he still wanted to move. To get up; to be useful. What if the predator was still nearby?

"C’mon, stop fussin’. I won’t take long,” Wilbur's strange herd member sighed, but now that he'd started, Wilbur found he didn't really want to stop. He bleated happily, fussing even more. There was a pause, then an oddly pronounced noise of understanding. The hands shifted again, moving to pin Wilbur's arms to his chest with one as the other quickly began rummaging through his belt pouches.

They were scaled.

Something, something distant and hazy and confused, registered that this was a little too familiar. He’d seen hands like those before: large, scaled, cold. But those hands weren’t meant to be here. Something a little louder, a little less distant, was tempting him to kick, to crush, to kill the–

The snake?

But that… didn't make sense. His– Wilbur was safe – that's why he wasn't allowed to move. He was safe, being held by his herd, and his magic was trying to fix him up because he'd fallen into a snake pit and–

Oh.

The hands continued to rummage in his belt pouch while the pieces slowly came together in Wilbur’s head. The hands were familiar, but the voice wasn’t. It was low. Dangerous. Slowly, ever so painfully slowly, Wilbur looked up once more, but before he could see who was holding him, his eyes caught a flash of familiar white fur. He paused, gazing blankly at the pit opening where a large, hungry, pink-stained face was peering down at him.

All memories of scales and safety evaporated, and Wilbur panicked.

"No, no– fuck, kid, stop," his herd member hissed, only making Wilbur struggle harder because they weren’t a herd member. They weren’t, no matter what his instincts said. They smelled nothing like home or safety or anything familiar at all and how the fuck hadn’t he noticed that before? Wilbur barked an alarm call, words completely lost to him, more than before, and even if this wasn’t his herd he needed– he needed to warn them. The bear was back. It was looking. It was hunting. They needed to run. Why weren’t they running? They needed to go!

If Wilbur had been a little less afraid, a little more aware, and just a touch less addled by the fumes of the potions mixing in his pouch, he might have caught on to how the magic flowing through his mind was starting to relent. But no.

No, he was far more concerned with the goddamn bear.

Wilbur flinched as a loud hiss blew through his hair, breath hitching as the– the snake. Right, the snake. It was still here, somehow heavier than before, winding over his hindquarters but not wrapping him up, the sheer weight of it keeping him pinned in place. To make matters worse, the arm over his chest was holding him closer and the hand buried in his pouch was beginning to rise.

His gaze zeroed in on the glass shard embedded in the stranger's forefinger as they – he? – began to speak, another too-soothing rumble messing with the remnants of Wilbur's harried instincts. "Who just carries around a bag of broken glass?”

Wilbur's mouth dried. Glass? Like, broken glass from the bag he'd filled with vials, glass? Toxic fumes were rising out of what was left of them, glass?

Somehow, he managed to speak. If it could be called speaking.

“You– what?” Wilbur stuttered, eyes wide and wholly focussed on the bear, which was staring straight at him.

“You’re what,” the stranger grumbled, flicking the glass shard away and moving his hand back into the pouch, a little slower than before. “You're a walkin’ safety hazard. How did you even last this long?”

Wilbur keened. Why were they talking about glass? The bear was still right there! “I don’t–” he tried, but the stranger cut him off.

“Right. Don’t know why I bothered. Who knows what Phil’s been feedin’ you,” he muttered. Wilbur startled at the familiar name, but before he could think any more on it he zeroed in on the vial clasped in the stranger’s reemerging hand, a little shocked that any of them were still intact. He watched as it was turned this way and that, glimmering a pretty purple, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what it was for. Harming, maybe? If they were lucky.

Wait.

Wilbur latched onto the stray thought with reckless abandon, because maybe– maybe the stranger wasn't as stupid as he thought? Maybe he saw the bear. Was he going to attack it? Was that what was going on right now? Surely. Please. Wilbur already decided he didn’t want to die, to a snake or otherwise, and it would really, really suck if all that running was all for nothing.

The cervitaur's hopes seemed to be well-founded as, with a dissatisfied huff, the vial was tossed towards the bear, straight at its head. Wilbur braced for the shattering, for the furious roars, and stared as–

As the bear caught it in its mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

Wilbur paled.

"There, satisfied?" the stranger drawled, and if Wilbur didn’t know any better he’d say they sounded amused. The bear licked its lips, head growing larger for a moment as earth and roots fell down the bank.

It was trying to climb in. Oh, gods.

Another huff, and Wilbur enjoyed the thoroughly unenjoyable sensation of being squeezed up as the stranger spoke again, a borderline exasperated tone to his voice as he waved an empty hand in the air and readjusted Wilbur with the other. "C’mon, Steve. You did good but you didn’t do that good.”

The bear grumbled, snorting in displeasure, and then– left. Just like that. More forest debris tumbled down as it hauled itself back up, shadow disappearing from the pit entrance entirely to let in light that Wilbur hadn't even realised had disappeared.

As if he hadn't just scared off a monster with what could be likened to a mild-mannered telling off, the stranger dove their hand straight back into Wilbur's belt pouch. At this point, he wasn't sure what was making him dizzier: the toxic fumes or the sheer absurdity of what he was witnessing.

Before he knew it, another vial had been plucked from the remains of his collection and was now being twirled in front of his face. The liquid swirled around slowly, the thick, oily substance within glistening like blood – if blood glowed and sparkled like gold.

Unlike the others, it wasn’t corked, but sealed by a square of black-stained hide fastened over the top, shimmering green like a corvid’s wings in the right light.

Whatever was going on with Wilbur's head, it was only getting worse, and it took him far too long to recognise the vial – it was the regeneration potion. A gift. A measure of insurance he couldn’t refuse, pressed into his hands just before he set out of the palace for his latest contracts.

He’d been saving it for… for if his magic failed – for if he really, really needed it, just as the emperor said he should.

…it was failing him pretty badly right now, to be honest. Now that he wasn't literally bleeding to death, it seemed content to sleep in his veins, doing absolutely nothing to combat his growing confusion.

Wilbur leaned towards the vial–

“Bro, you good?”

Wilbur blinked. His head whirled around – tried to whirl around. The movement sent his brain spinning so badly he thought he was going to be sick, forcing him to stop mid-motion. He slumped forwards a little, whining in misery.

The stranger hummed and Wilbur noticed, belatedly, that the vial was gone. The arm wrapped around his torso was looser too, explaining why he could move so much, busy untethering his pouch from his belt. It dropped to the ground with a painfully expensive sound, shooting across to the other side of the ditch as the stranger kicked it away, taking the fumes with it. “That better?”

No, not really – it would take a while for everything to flush out of his system, especially with how unhelpful his magic was being – but breathing almost seemed a little easier than before. Thinner. Less sweet. So instead of being honest, he nodded, immediately regretting it as his stomachs twisted.

The stranger seemed a little sceptical, but thankfully didn't call him out. Wilbur didn't know what he'd do if the fucking monster-feeder decided to take offence and summon back their pet.

And thus, there was silence.

Quiet, unnerving, creepy silence.

...fuck it.

“Why did you do that?” Wilbur croaked, throat painfully dry.

“Gonna have to be more specific,” was the stranger’s equally, if metaphorically, dry response. If Wilbur felt a little less like shit and way less relieved at the shattered tension, he might have been annoyed. As it was, he was far more focussed on keeping the conversation alive to care much for the tone.

“The–” fuck, talking was so hard– “the bear? Why?”

The arm around Wilbur squeezed tighter for a moment, and… right. He was still being held. Wilbur felt his cheeks begin to warm at the realisation, but he didn't try to move around – as demeaning as it was, he'd rather be held off of the snake-ridden stone than crumpled in a heap on it. Because there was still a snake here. Somewhere.

"Oh. Never seen a polar bear before?”

A what bear? Did that mean there was more than– no, of course there was. He'd seen bears before. Brown. Black. Never… never white. But that didn't matter right now. What mattered, Wilbur reminded himself, perhaps a little harshly, was the fact that it not only ate a potion of harming with little to no issue – proving that it was a monster – but that it listened to someone. To the stranger.

It was unfortunate Wilbur still wasn't quite ready to put that all to words. “No," he said, though it sounded far more like a question than it should have.

“Lame.”

Ouch.

…actually, speaking of questions, why was Wilbur so relaxed about having a complete stranger holding him? Even if it was the smarter option – potentially deadly stranger versus an absolutely deadly snake – he should put up at least a bit of a fuss, shouldn't he?

He should. But instead of a complaint, Wilbur kept forging on about the bear. Because of course he did. “My– my potion," he stuttered, "you threw it.”

This, at least, seemed to get through to them. “At Steve?” the stranger finished for him. Wilbur nodded, not quite comprehending that the polar bear was apparently named Steve. “Yeah. He’ll want more later, probably.”

Irrelevant. Wilbur kept trying.

“Why did you throw it?”

There was a pregnant, almost disbelieving pause. “You’re actin’ like I did you a disservice, here. Did you want me to get closer to him?”

Wilbur’s eyes widened at the mere thought. “No! No, I just– why?”

The stranger sighed heavily. Wilbur was at a loss for words. They were speaking the same language, but it was like trying to talk to a toddler– no, worse, it was like being the toddler. The feeling made him want to clamp up and hide and never speak again.

He wriggled a bit and– right. Bad idea. Wilbur closed his eyes, breathing through the twist in his stomach and trying to ignore how the stranger’s grasp tightened around his chest. No hiding, then.

“I’m gonna be honest, I don’t think this conversation is goin’ anywhere,” the stranger admitted with a huff that could have been amused or deeply annoyed, and Wilbur shrunk back, suddenly realising just how vulnerable he was. “I’m Technoblade. You?”

What.

“What?”

“You mean to tell me your mother looked at you and said, ‘Yeah, he looks like a What to me’? Because that’s just unfortunate.”

“No,” Wilbur backpedalled, confused and annoyed and growing too tired to be scared, “My mother didn’t– I just– I don’t understand what you mean–”

Another huff. Wilbur shut up with a click of his teeth, swallowing thickly, only slightly relieved to find that he even could. His mouth wasn’t so dry and his head was beginning to clear up properly. Bit by bit.

“Listen. We’re startin’ from the beginning, alright? My name is Technoblade.”

This was so fucking weird. But Wilbur, mind clearing or not, had no other solution but to play along – who knew, maybe he’d finally get some answers.

“...Wilbur,” he answered.

“Good.”

There was a sound like sliding scales and their weight settled over Wilbur’s hindlegs shifted. His ears swivelled as he jerked up, instinctively trying to find the source, only to startle as his head was tugged backwards before he could. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

“If you thought Steve was bad,” Technoblade said, voice low and sounding far too close to Wilbur’s ears for comfort, something brushing against the base of his horns, “I’d suggest not tryin’ that again. Am I understood?”

“Why?” Wilbur laughed shortly, “Planning to kill me?”

Because he could be. He very well could be and there was nothing Wilbur could do to stop him – Technoblade had him by the horns, literally, and Wilbur was far too worn out to muster up another flood of terror on his own. Thankfully, a sudden high-pitched noise right next to his head was ready to assist, and his heart stuttered.

It took a second for Wilbur to realise it was coming from his captor.

“Heh?” Technoblade exclaimed incredulously, steering Wilbur’s head back further, and Wilbur swore he saw a slip of long pink hair as he did, “Wilbur, if I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already. I just don’t need you freakin’ out on me.”

“And how well is that going for you?” Wilbur snapped, only freezing a little at the low growl rumbling next to his spine. He was too tired; too confused to care anymore. Technoblade seemed to realise this too, as the growl stopped soon after.

“You know what? You’re right.”

Wilbur paused. “I am?”

“Yeah, you are. Try not to fall.”

And with that, Wilbur was sent tumbling to the ground. He squawked, arms suddenly released from their pin to pinwheel uselessly in the air as he fought to regain his balance, but his lower body was still stuck in that awkward position from before and– oh gods. Oh fuck. The snake. He’d completely forgotten about it, but there it was – half of it. Laying on top of him.

Wilbur barely caught himself in time from smacking his face into the stone beneath, striking out with his elbow and yelping as his entire arm went numb. He didn’t stop, though. Finally, his magic roused and helped his forge on, boosting his strength as he kicked off the snake and scrambled to his hooves.

He’d gotten up too quickly. Wilbur wobbled, teetering unsteadily and stumbling forwards in a lightheaded daze until his outstretched hands met a wall, and he slumped against it, blinking as quickly as he dared to clear up his vision, desperately scanning the ground. His chest squeezed. He’d moved too fast. What if he startled it? What if it was posing to strike? What if–?

But it wasn’t – he found the tip of its tail: a hooked, deadly thing with barbs that glimmered like obsidian. It was moving away, slowly untangling itself and slinking further back into the darkness of the pit.

Oh, thank fuck.

Wilbur wasn’t quite confident enough to close his eyes yet, but he let his head rest against the wall and let out a groan, staring blankly at the snake’s patterning and trying to remember what he knew about it. “You couldn’t give me some kind of warning?” he muttered, not daring to raise his head to meet Technoblade’s gaze.

The snake’s tail flicked. Wilbur hissed a gasp through his teeth, standing back to attention and feeling for a weapon he already knew he wouldn’t find. There was an answering hiss closeby, too close, and Wilbur’s focus snapped up and–

Pink. Pink hair. Technoblade’s hair. That was Technoblade.

Technoblade was… tall. Taller than Wilbur had expected him to be, which was pretty dumb in retrospect considering how easily he’d managed to lift Wilbur up earlier. But in truth it was neither the height nor the pink hair that had managed to capture his attention: it was the eyes. The glowing yellow-red eyes, like the warning light of a new dawn, staring back at him.

Slowly, Wilbur’s gaze drifted across what little of Technoblade he could see given the limited light. There were red spots scattered over his chin like stubble, trailing down his neck and diverging at his collarbone to cluster at his shoulders, where they likely trickled down the backs of his arms and spine. Wilbur couldn’t tell, because from there most of Technoblade’s torso was covered in a draping blanket– no, cloak. Cape. And the harder he looked at it, the more what Wilbur thought was just more hair resembled a fluffy fur trim.

He was wearing a loose white blouse, too, embroidered with pink flowers and a long black quill – a quill which looked surprisingly familiar to him, though he couldn’t for the life of his remember why.

And then– then, most damningly of all, was the legs. Or rather, their absence. A leather belt cinched the blouse at his waist, forming a perfect black line from where the person ended and the monster began.

The tip of the snake’s tail flicked. Technoblade smiled. Wilbur paled.

He watched in horror as the gifted vial came back into view; as Technoblade arranged it as though he were about to flip off the cap. Wilbur jerked forward, legs stumbling at the sudden movement, but he was too late. Technoblade plunged a fang into the hide, and dark drops of what could only be naga venom dripped into the vial, fizzing and hissing as they came into contact with the potion within.

How fucking dare he.

Wilbur saw red – that was his.

Heedless of his shaking legs, Wilbur launched himself at Technoblade. The naga’s eyes widened in surprise, but then they were gone, powerful tail lashing out to let him swerve out of the way of Wilbur’s charge. Wilbur slammed his palms against the walls and ricocheted after him, head down, horns at the ready, magic beating like a war drum.

It felt like he was chasing forever. Over and over and over again, until the only thing keeping Wilbur from falling was his sheer momentum.

There was a distinct pop, and Wilbur snarled as he jerked to a stop. He pushed against the stone at his hooves and ground his horns into his target, barely noticing the scales beginning to loop around his ankles. Barely noticing, of course, until Technoblade yanked Wilbur up by the horns where he’d caught him and squeezed, taking the cervitaur back into his arms in one smooth movement.

This time there was no kicking, no twitching, no hind legs curled up on the floor. He was entirely suspended from the ground. His magic whirled uselessly, trying to force him to move, but he was trapped. Completely and utterly trapped.

His magic wasn’t meant for fancy spells. The most it could do was flavour his potions and keep him alive. It couldn’t make fires or teleport him or make him some impenetrable armour. It couldn’t beat the raw strength of a real monster.

Wilbur tried anyway. He kept trying, clawing for any hint of purchase he possibly could, all the while he was forced to listen to his captor’s rumbling voice. He didn’t know what Technoblade was saying. He didn’t care what Technoblade was saying. He needed– he–!

“You’re a bit scrawnier than I thought you’d be, to be honest,” Technoblade mused. Wilbur sobbed, high-pitched screams bellowing from both his chests. The naga winced, holding onto him tighter in an effort to stifle his cries. To little effect. “But you’re strong, I’ll give you that. You’ll… probably be fine.”

Another pop, and an acrid scent filled the air. Wilbur gagged, redoubling his efforts as the smell hit him. It burned his nose, burned his skin, it– fuck, he could feel it worming its way into his magic, making it boil in his veins and stir up his mind. He was finding it harder to move, especially as the scent grew stronger, as the vial – Phil’s vial – returned to view and hovered just before his nose, just as it had barely fifteen minutes ago.

Wilbur locked onto it. The hide was gone. The regen was gone, too, replaced by a thick black sludge that made something in the back of his mind scream, deja vu hitting him like a smack to the head. It was the same familiarity he’d felt at the sight of Technoblade’s hands; the same familiarity he’d felt at the sound of Technoblade’s hiss. But why? Where? How?

It was too late for questions. Far, far too late. Wilbur, voice still tearing itself to shreds, reacted too slowly to catch the sludge being tipped into his mouth; too slowly to force himself free from the giant hand that clamped over his face; too slowly to think twice about swallowing the disgusting filth sizzling his tongue–

His magic stopped.

It– stopped.

Wilbur stopped screaming the second it did – stopped breathing, until something poked his stomach to remind him again – and he could have sworn his heart itself had gone silent for a moment. But then it began beating again, still fast but slowing down into an even, unaltered pace. Wilbur didn’t realise he’d stopped moving until he was moved by something else, a gentle finger coming down to stroke his throat and ensure the last dregs made their way down into his stomachs.

He swallowed, because at this point he’d already drunk most of it anyway. What did it matter if he finished it off?

“Good. Good,” Technoblade murmured, voice rumbling with pleasure, sounding so alike to someone else Wilbur knew. He made a small sound as his legs were carefully folded up to his lower belly, then another as a sudden warmth draped over his entire body, a blanket of soft red fabric bundling him up like a gift.

He felt… still. Silent. Comfortable.

Wilbur didn’t know it was possible to feel this quiet– but, no, he did. He’d felt like this before, many, many times. With Phil. He liked it. It was nice; peaceful. Like all his energy was being swirled into a soup for later.

And just like all those other times, it wasn’t long before an unfamiliar magic began poking at his, slowly threading through Wilbur’s vanished defences to crawl through his veins and curl around his heart. Wilbur sighed. Technoblade wasn’t Phil, but they were just so similar that he couldn’t help but pretend he was. At least a little bit. Even if their magic did taste very different.

He smacked his lips. Technoblade’s magic tasted red. Sticky. Heavy. Phil’s was so much lighter, even if Wilbur never remembered the exact flavour.

“Phil?” Wilbur asked, even though he knew Phil wasn’t here.

“Techno, kid,” Technoblade hummed, scales shifting as he took them further into the dark side of the pit. Wilbur felt another tendril of the foreign magic wriggle around, extending back outside of his body to poke at the world around them. Pale blue lanterns flickered to life, tainted a reddish purple as the flames settled in the glass, illuminating the hallway before them.

Gravelly stone smoothed into pale slabs and tiny black tiles, arranged in enormous mosaic tapestries. They looked like something Phil would keep. Were they related or something? That would be weird. He’d always imagined Phil as one-of-a-kind. The emperor. His emperor. His.

Wilbur didn’t know if he liked the idea of Technoblade being the same – being his – but it was difficult to feel much of anything right now, so he dismissed it. It was a problem for later, even if he wouldn’t remember later, when the sludge was out of his system. Just like last time.

…he’d probably forget the taste of Technoblade’s magic, too.

He didn’t mind.

Strangely enough – or perhaps not so strangely, as his magic-addled mind was quick to bring up memories of something similar – as they kept going, deeper and deeper into what Wilbur was assuming was Technoblade’s den, he started feeling emotions that weren’t his. He knew they weren’t his because they were… sort of adjacent. It was like sitting next to someone who was laughing. He could hear the joy, see the joy, and the closer they sat, he could feel the joy, too.

It was kind of like that, joy and all.

Or… not joy, but something close to it. Contentedness. Pleasant surprise. Pride.

Wilbur melted into the feelings – he didn’t have any of his own right now. He needed them. His magic needed them – and he latched on, nuzzling closer to the feeling. Physically and not.

Technoblade made a small sound and the pleasant surprise ticked up a notch, quickly drowned out by a hunger that wasn’t so much hunger as a craving. A want. A satisfied need. Wilbur was very familiar with the emotion. It was Phil’s favourite. Probably Technoblade’s, too.

Gradually, the sound of scales on stone disappeared into a softer sound of susurrating fabrics and puffy pillows as they left the halls and entered a private nook, and they began circling in on themselves as Technoblade wound himself into a loose circle.

“Comfy there?” Technoblade asked, finally settling and letting Wilbur arrange himself as he liked within the confines of the naga’s tail. Wilbur blinked back at him and nodded, because he was comfortable. Or he would be, soon. He’d grown so used to sleeping in a cage of scales that sleeping anywhere else was– well. It was his least favourite part about leaving the capital.

The coils curled a little tighter at Wilbur’s response, as though Technoblade wanted nothing more than to crush him. Wilbur paid it no heed. If he was going to get crushed, then he was going to get crushed, and there wasn’t really much he could do about it.

Thankfully, though, Technoblade seemed to get a hold of himself before it got to that point, forcing himself to relax. Sit back. Watch.

Wilbur was quick to find a spot anyway – just in case – and sure enough the moment Technoblade realised he wasn’t going to move again, he enveloped the cervitaur in a hug, pressing close. Wilbur could feel the naga’s magic pressing closer, too. Winding tighter. He let it, just as he’d let Phil. It was too late, anyway.

A hum. From himself or the naga, Wilbur wasn’t too sure. It buzzed through his upper chest all the same, unreasonably pleasant. A faint pressure circled the base of his horns and he leaned into the touch as best he could, ears squishing weirdly as they pressed into something hard. An arm. A tail. Who knew?

Technoblade huffed and the pressure increased. Wilbur practically melted.

“I still don’t know how you lost your emeralds,” Technoblade admitted, and Wilbur raised an eyebrow imploringly, vaguely recalling the naga mentioning them before. He was also pretty sure they’d established he’d lost them while Steve was scaring his heart out of his chest. Or maybe Technoblade forgot?

Wilbur hummed. That sounded likely. Phil forgot things, too. And so did Wilbur. It was so easy to forget when your mind wasn’t being blinded by pure magic. Or its absence.

Honestly, he still wasn’t quite sure how that sludge worked.

Slowly, as if afraid he might try and shrug it off, Technoblade’s hand began wrapping itself around Wilbur’s throat. Featherlight touches brushed over his veins, and he could feel Technoblade’s emotions amplifying twice – no, thrice – fold as he allowed the naga to proceed.

Snakes liked holding things; they liked wrapping them up tight; they liked having and never letting go, and if Wilbur could give them that without turning into past tense, he would. It wasn’t like he was giving anything up. Later, Phil– Technoblade would play to Wilbur’s instincts in return; already had, if his initial capture was anything to go by. It was a good trade.

“How’s the whole thinkin’ things goin’?” Technoblade asked, gently tapping the side of Wilbur’s head.

Good, Wilbur allowed his magic to pulse in lieu of an answer. He didn’t want to speak – didn’t know if he could – and Phil always preferred it when he was quiet in moments like this. Peaceful. Safe.

Technoblade chuckled, cradling the back of Wilbur’s head so he nuzzled into the crook of the naga’s neck. “Good,” he echoed. Wilbur nodded. Good. This was good. And right. And nice. Even if he wouldn’t remember the key points later – he’d remember next time. That would have to be enough.

“Phil had the right idea, choosin’ you.”

He did – Wilbur knew because Phil often said the exact same thing. 

“And now you’re all mine,” Technoblade continued, which was– incorrect. Wilbur shook his head in disagreement, not quite minding the dangerous hiss whistling past his ears in response. 

“Mine.”

No. Wilbur tried to twist his magic but– well, there was only so much he could say without his emotions there to guide him. He’d have to speak. Annoying.

“Share,” Wilbur rebuked softly, voice barely perceptible over Technoblade’s rattling displeasure.

“No.”

“Mine–” and wow, Technoblade really wasn’t getting it, was he– “and Phil’s.”

Technoblade was still tense as he awaited Wilbur’s response, fangs pressing dangerously close to the cervitaur’s skin. Wilbur mulled it over for a bit, but didn’t really find any issue with it. He was right. Wilbur was Phil’s and Technoblade’s, otherwise Phil wouldn’t have given him the vial.

Oh. Yeah, that made a strange amount of sense, actually. How hadn’t he realised before?

Wilbur nodded. Technoblade relaxed, then tightened his grip once more. “Mine and Phil’s. The old man has had his turn. You’re mine now, understand?”

That was probably as close as Wilbur was going to get to an agreement, so he nodded again, settling in for the rest of his stay now that the worst of negotiations seemed to be over. Technoblade curled up, capturing Wilbur in his embrace like a fawn, emotions radiating sleepy safety that felt far too sudden to be natural.

The last thing Wilbur heard as he drifted off to sleep was Technoblade’s voice, strangely hesitant, reverent and intrigued all at once.

“My… son.”