Chapter Text
Zack lies in an inn, staring up at a battered ceiling. Milo and Melissa’s soft snores fill the dark air, synchronised even in sleep.
He can’t sleep, once again held in the grip of fear. Not just fear- guilt. Fear of himself, he supposes. Fear of magic, of wickedness, of who he is.
He regularly has nights like this, where self hatred keeps him up long into the night. He had hoped that being with Milo and Melissa would ease it.
His current state would suggest that hasn’t worked.
He groans, rubbing his eyes. There’s no point even trying to sleep tonight, he knows that. But he doesn’t want to pace around the room and wake his friends, so he just lies there, blankets tangled around his legs like chains.
You deserve to be in chains.
Penelope’s voice echoes viciously in his head, making him flinch roughly. He wraps his arms around himself, squeezing his eyes shut as if that could shut it out. He knows that nothing could shut it out.
I don’t. He forces the thought up, tries to drown out the vitriol that echoes in his head, that bounces around the cave and painfully bumps against every nerve. I’m… I’m not bad. I’m not.
Yes, kiddo, you are. You’re a wicked, wicked little mage. Wicked! Wicked! Wicked!
He claps his hands over his ears, but blocking the entrance to the cave does nothing to shoo away what is already trapped in there. Wicked! Wicked! Wicked!
I’m not! He digs his nails into the sides of his face. I’m not wicked!
Oh really, kiddo? When you behave so wickedly, how do you expect anyone to see you as anything other than wicked?
He rolls over. I haven’t… I haven’t done anything.
But he has, hasn’t he?
He digs his hands into his face, feeling a sob trying to wrack his body. Milo and Melissa insist that he is good, that he has never done anything wrong. But when he imagines trying to explain everything to his parents, he seizes up. Everything he has done… he must be wicked, right?
He has used his magic so much, healed so many people.
That’s not bad. That’s not wicked.
Right. Right. He’s supposed to be proud of his magic. Proud of his ability to save people. At the very least, he shouldn’t hate himself. If it wasn’t for him, people would be dead. Milo and Melissa might be dead, and he loves them. Healing isn’t wicked. He’s not wicked.
All magic is wicked, kiddo. Besides, is healing all you’ve done?
Zack sits up, his body tense and shaking. He slides out of bed, careful when his feet touch the wooden floor. He doesn’t want to wake Milo or Melissa. They’d comfort him, reassure him, remind him over and over that he isn’t bad.
But right now, he isn’t sure that he wants that.
He creeps to the window, cracking it open. A cool breeze ruffles his hair, prickles his skin. He sighs.
Healing isn’t the worst thing he has done. He has been trying to accept healing, accept his magic. And that’s hard, but he can see Milo and Melissa’s logic.
There are other things that he has done that are harder to accept as good.
He grips the windowsill, his knuckles going white. He squeezes his eyes shut, but that can’t block out the images in his brain.
———
A woman in Hunter uniform grabs his arm. “Caught you, you wicked mage.”
Her iron gauntlet digs into his arm, burning him. He whimpers, trying to pull his arm away. “Don’t you dare!” She roars.
She tosses him to the ground, pointing a sword right at his forehead. “Kneel, hands on your head.”
He hesitates. Her glare deepens. “Now!”
He scrambles to his knees, putting his hands on his head, looking up at her with wide eyes. “Oh, stop with the puppy dog eyes. Do you really expect me to feel bad for you? You’re a mage. You deserve this!”
He can’t argue. There is a stopper in his throat, a stopper of acceptance, because he agrees. No matter what Milo and Melissa say, he has to agree. Evil! Wicked! Unholy! He deserves this. He was supposed to die.
She circles around him, planting her foot on his back. He whimpers loudly, as her foot scrapes against dozens of painful lines, scars burnt into his back. “Oh, poor little mage. Does that hurt?”
She digs her foot in. He closes his eyes, holding his breath. He has been hurt before, over and over again. He knows how to cope with this. How to handle this.
She kicks his back once, twice, three times. He is in agony, but he is very good at holding back agony. Even as tears roll down his eyes, he is quiet. His parents won’t hear- no, his parents aren’t here. He isn’t at home, he is in some strange city, a criminal and a fugitive. His parents will never see him again.
He can’t hold back his sobbing. He hears cackling, accompanied by another furious kick. Despite the huge force behind it, he stays on his knees, he has to stay on his knees. He has to be good, he has to be good for his punishment, because he deserves it.
“Oh, stop whining.” The woman rolls her eyes. “Do you deny that you deserve this?”
“N-no.” He stutters, blinking rapidly. “I know that I deserve this.”
“Good.” She says viciously.
He feels something sharp pressing against the back of his neck. He squeaks. “That was fun, but your continued existence is irritating me. It’s time for you to go to the hells, mage. I hope that you burn there.”
Zack gulps. He glances down, at the dagger strapped to his belt. He could draw it, jump up, stab her. Save himself.
Should he?
That would be wrong. Evil.
But he feels the sword move, hears her raise it, ready to strike. And his body acts.
He doesn’t realise what happened until he is staring down at a bloody dagger.
He gasps, stumbling backwards. His dagger is stained with blood, his hands, his clothes. And in front of him… in front of him…
He retches.
———
That was the first. But then there was another. Then another.
He has killed mage hunters. To save himself, to save his friends, to save other mages.
Blinking down at his hands, he is sure that they are splattered with blood.
See, little mage? Only someone wicked would kill so many good people. People who were just trying to do good. People who were just trying to help. And they’re dead now. Because of you.
Because of me.
His bloodstained hands shake, tears drip from his eyes like droplets of blood. He is trembling, holding back sobs. He is a murdered. An evil, murderous mage. He can’t pretend that he isn’t. Those people are dead. Mage hunters are heroes! He was always terrified of them, but he always looked up to them.
He sinks to his knees, pressing his hands into his face. A sob sneaks from his throat, then another, then another.
Evil. Evil. Evil.
Evil. Evil. Evil.
He digs his fingernails, jagged from biting, into his face. How could he? How could he throw away all of his morals, everything he was taught, to kill people?
He is a murderer.
He hopes that his parents never have to see his disgusting face again.
He hates himself, for giving his good, kind parents a murderous son.
He hates himself.
He hates himself.
He hates-
“Zack?”