Archive of Our Own

Hunter wished he’d taken Steve up on his offer of earplugs before setting off toward the woods clustered on the Wrist. 

Why it was only referred to as that was beyond him. There were two wrists, didn’t people know that? It was one thing to say one was going to the Sternum, as broad as that was, or the Pancreas. It annoyed him to no end when Scouts would flit by, calling over their shoulders that they were on a mission to the Thumb, the Shoulder, the Ribs. Which one did they mean? Because if they weren’t clear, then Hunter would be the one left correcting their subpar release forms before Head Witch Clawthorne found out. One archival mistake and she’d have their heads without hesitation. 

Still, he supposed that he wasn’t entirely exempt from being the problem, given that he hadn’t bothered to fill out the appropriate paperwork at all before leaving. It was okay, though. He was the Golden Guard, even if the title didn’t currently carry as much weight as it had his predecessor. When Uncle bestowed upon him special, whispered missions in between meetings with various Coven Heads, then Hunter was to fulfill them with no one the wiser. There was a reason to secrecy. That’s what Uncle always said, anyway. 

He had so many odd little sayings he’d drop from time to time. Once they’d rolled around Hunter’s head enough, the mere beginning of them always got him shaking in his boots. They meant that he was in need of correction, and correction was just one unsteady step away from punishment. He didn’t like to be punished, and he was careful to never voice that, for he knew that if Uncle heard him, he’d be punished until he learned not to dread it. 

He was thirteen. Old enough to be a man, Uncle said, and surely he knew how that made Hunter’s wrapped chest fill with something greater than pride. He could handle sneaking out of his barracks at twilight, as he could handle the ensuing backlash Head Witch Clawthorne was sure to inflict on him. 

He’d asked Uncle, once, why he had to endure Lilith’s ire when he’d only been following superseding orders. Uncle had just ruffled his hair and questioned why Hunter was so eager at proving himself too weak to accept the consequences of his actions. 

Hunter wasn’t weak anymore. 

His mission, given to him by Uncle on one of his better days, was to find the bandshee nest hidden in the Western Wrist Forests and gather intel on the creatures’ volume so that the Emperor’s Coven could plan how best to combat it. Most likely, they’d implement some sort of sound-dampening material into their helmets, though the Bard Witches would have to be clever so that Scouts were still able to communicate with one another. 

Bandshees, Hunter had read before venturing off, were a subspecies of banshees that were currently experiencing the most rapid population growth documented since the Pre-Deadwardian giraffe outbreak. Rather than relying on their voices like their acappella cousins, they’d learned how to craft rudimentary instruments capable of amplifying their sound to an almost exponential degree. They were fascinating, to tell the truth. 

And loud. 

As Hunter stepped over yet another fallen tree, palms cupped over his ears, he winced as the particularly shill cry of a B-flat rang through the air. A quick glance told him that the forest had all the resources needed to be lush with life. However, the flora had to be under unimaginable stress. He could practically see sound wave after sound wave crashing through the air, no doubt interfering with the natural photosilliness otherwise occurring. There was enough foliage for the ecosystem to make a complete recovery with time, but the scene had the makings of an absolute environmental disaster if nothing was done. 

He filed all of this away in his mind. Once he reported on the primary issue present here, he’d inform his uncle of the other problems at play. Uncle would certainly send the message to Head Witch Snapdragon, and before long, everything would be as it was, as if nothing had ever happened. 

Uncle didn’t much care for the side missions Hunter tended to charge himself with, but they’d never triggered one of his cursed flare-ups, so they couldn’t be too intolerable. They were just a helpful perk, courtesy of a Golden Guard going above and beyond. Surely Uncle had to see and appreciate that, even if he’d very plainly told Hunter that he did not. 

Hunter tracked down the epicenter of the noise to a small clearing, trees lining the space in an unnaturally elliptic shape. He stayed close to the edges, careful to ensure that his presence was not known. In the center of the clearing was a trio of bandshees screaming out their lungs for all the Isles to hear. The tattered remains of dresses and coats hung off of their boney frames, though he couldn’t tell if that was a stylistic or culturally typical choice. Their long, dark hair was riddled with enough tangles to give Head Witch Clawthorne a run for her money. 

It was fascinating how musical they managed to warp their mangled shrieks into being. It wasn’t much compared to the works of the Bard Coven at their best, though. As technically melodic as the noise was, Hunter had to admit that he did not care for it. It was too erratic, suddenly dipping and rising in pitch without any warning. He didn’t much care for a lack of consistency. Neither did Uncle, but Hunter was sure that had nothing to do with it. 

One bandshee threw their head back and screeched, the pitch perfectly in tandem with another’s guitar solo. Then the trio stilled as the sound petered off, looking out into the trees with cracked smiles on their faces. That must have been the end of their song. Interesting, how they paused. It was almost as if – 

Hunter froze. He backed away slowly, glimpsing at his blind spots quickly enough that he just about gave himself whiplash. He needed to get out of here, because the way the bandshees waved their palms up at the treetops, blew kisses to the shrubbery, posed with their arms around each other – clearly, they were reacting to fans. 

In the corner of his eye, he saw a particularly tall bandshee bring their fingers to their lips and whistle. The ground began to shake. Hunter had just enough time to look out into the rest of the forest and brace himself for the hordes of die-hard punk-rock fanatics to flood the clearing. 

He was immediately shoved out of the way by a juvenile bandshee, plastic bracelets lining up their entire forearm. He stumbled into a duo of musical enthusiasts who bared their teeth at him for bumping into them. Within seconds, the area he was rapidly realizing was a concert venue filled to the brim. It was all he could do not to be trampled underfoot as rabid bandshees climbed on each others’ shoulders to howl along to the lyrics. 

Very quickly, Hunter learned that concerts were not his cup of tea. Everyone was loud and touching each other, sometimes intentionally and sometimes not. He had to constantly right himself to keep from overbalancing. As the music picked up, the crowd began spinning, images flashing before his eyes too fast for him to process them. At one point, a pink-haired bandshee with enough piercings to pass for a disco ball grabbed him by the shoulders and brought him close, squealing directly into his ears. 

He flinched away from the creature. His own jerky reaction was enough to unsteady him into tripping on his own feet in his haste to back away. The moment he hit the ground, a high-heeled foot planted itself on his jaw. The instincts that’d been formed during that mountain retreat kicked in, and he flipped into an army crawl. He hauled himself through the crowd, throwing himself out of the way best he could, until he reached the edge of the clearing. 

The ground surrounding the arena was lower than the arena itself, so when Hunter threw himself over the edge, he found himself tumbling down a sloped hill. His momentum carried him all the way to the bottom without giving him a chance to slow down. He just managed to catch sight of a sandy swamp seconds before diving into it headfirst. 

While the sticky consistency did manage to halt his descent, it did leave him gagging once he heaved himself out of the pool. Gross, it was like that awful goop Kikimora slathered all over her face during her days off. 

He spent a few precious minutes wiping off the mud best he could. Thankfully, his armor had prevented most of it from seeping through, but the bandages wrapped around his collarbone hadn’t been so lucky. Hunter sighed, then cut himself off. Uncle always said he had to take responsibility for his actions. Complaining about the blunders he himself had caused was not taking responsibility. 

The Golden Guard uniform had a single undershirt covered by a heavy plate of armor, but Uncle had always insisted on Hunter doubling up so that he didn’t look so skinny. Hunter was grateful for Uncle’s wisdom, as always, because the extra shirt made for fine makeshift bandages when in a pickle. 

As he stripped in the middle of the forest, Hunter couldn’t help but notice how quiet everything had got. He couldn’t hear the bandshees at all from here. Normally, he would’ve chalked that up to meaning that they had a relatively short-range scope of influence, but he’d been hearing their shrieks for miles before finding the source. The only other possibility was that the arrival of their fans must have led one of them to place a sound-containing spell on the grounds. Maybe it helped with the acoustics, or something equally as pointless. 

No matter, Hunter had what he’d come for; bandshees were detrimental to their natural environment, but tolerable for witches. Well, tolerable for Hunter, at least. While he wasn’t a real witch the way Steve or Severine was, he was close enough when it came to tests like this. 

He set off eastward. Despite the close call, he’d be back at the castle by supper, at the latest. He’d skip the meal in favor of stopping by Uncle’s study to deliver the good news. He still had a handful of ration bars stuffed underneath his mattress for situations like this, so he’d be more than fine until breakfast tomorrow. Altogether, he’d call this mission a success. 

Or, he would, if he could find the path back to the castle. 

Hunter wasn’t lost. That was the important part. Hunter was a soon-to-be high-ranking official of the Emperor's Coven, and he didn’t get troubled by things as rudimentary as basic cardinal directions. He knew where he was, and where he was going. It was just – 

In the time between entering the clearing and exiting it, the forest had turned unfamiliar. 

What had been struggling to survive before was now overgrown. Flowers stemmed on top of saplings stemmed on top of bushes. The treetops were a good six feet taller than they’d been before, with his surroundings now so dense that he felt almost trapped. Even the ground was covered in a thick layer of foliage. 

Something had changed. Was it possible that the bandshee fans had been dryad hybrids? It would explain the sudden supplement to the rest of the forest, once they returned back to their natural states. But even then, the environment had an unhealthy tinge to it, completely different to before. It almost seemed to be choking on its own flora. There was just too much of everything for life to feasibly sustain itself. 

Hunter took an unsteady step forward. Then another, and another, until he was walking without much of a destination in mind. If he walked in a straight line forever, he’d eventually find his way out. Even if he had to stumble into the Boiling Sea to get there. 

He’d never minded nature. Something in his bones felt a certain kinship with the trees that he’d never been able to quite explain. He’d mentioned it to Uncle, once, only for his face to turn red as the emperor laughed. It was almost unbelievable how he never felt as stupid as he did when he was with Uncle, or as special. Those two concepts should have been incompatible with one another, yet one always followed the other. 

After enough time wandering to leave his feet sore, Hunter found a sign of fellow witchy life. 

A soft humming filled the air. It was such a stark opposite from the bandshees’ screeches that he found himself drawn to it. It didn’t feel inherently magical anymore than any other syllable that dropped from any witch’s lips. He didn’t think it was part of a spell or even a summoning. As far as he could tell, it had no purpose, other than to be pleasant. 

He followed it until he caught sight of the back of a blue-green head. It was a witch a few years older than him, her skin fair despite the beating sun. Her knee pads were deep in the mud as she knelt in what could generously be described as a flowerbed. Hunter found himself liking her outfit, as strange as it was from anything he was used to. It was all oranges, yellows, and greens. Very natural, and very on-theme with the rest of the environment. 

She didn’t turn around, but her humming tapered off nonetheless. “Hunter? Is that you?” 

He froze so intently that he might’ve stopped breathing entirely. 

“I was wondering when you were going to come back.” Her voice was light, teasing maybe. She wasn’t mad, even though her words could easily have double meanings enough to suggest as much. “What did you grab for lunch?” She turned, smiling, but her face paled at the sight of him. “Hunter?” 

Hunter hadn’t brought his staff with him. Uncle had been particularly upset with him after his last performance review, as evidenced by the way Hunter’s collarbone still ached at any sudden movement. He’d wanted to make sure that Hunter wasn’t becoming overly reliant on the crutch. Still, he brought his fists up and sunk into a loose defense position. His lack of a mask made him feel exceptionally vulnerable, but he did his best to school his expression into something firm. “How do you know my name?” 

“You’re so young,” she mumbled. She paused, then moved to stand so quickly that Hunter couldn’t help but flinch back. “Oh! Don’t be scared.” With a sharp grin, she added, “I only smite those who dare to oppose my loved ones!” 

Hunter stepped back. He didn’t like this. She spoke as if she knew him, but he was certain that they’d never met in his life. Usually, he was good at remembering faces. Witches often had one thing about them that annoyed Hunter to no end, but helped them stick out to him. Maybe she’d been one of Head Witch Snapdragon’s quieter scholars? He doubted it. Something about her made it obvious even now that she was not one for the background. 

“You’re in the presence of an official of the Emperor’s Coven,” he called out. His voice wavered despite himself. It wasn’t a complete lie, him being an official. He would be one day, once Head Witch Crane retired, or Kikimora finally pushed Head Witch Clawthorne down the stairs. “This area is off-limits to untrained personnel. State your name and purpose, or you’ll be forcibly removed.” 

It was a lie, and it was a bad one. He knew that he’d left the implication that he had ready backup at his disposal, even when that was the exact opposite. In fact, there wasn’t another soul who knew where he was right now, except for Uncle, and Uncle would never bail him out of a situation like this. Hunter had to learn from his mistakes, and if experience would not be his teacher, Emperor Belos would be. 

The other witch blinked at him. Olive eyes studied him intently, flying up and down his frame. “How old are you?” 

“Old enough,” he said, clipped. “But I’m the one asking questions here. Failure to comply will result in a forty-eight hour detention at the Conformatorium, at minimum.” 

“You can’t be older than fifteen,” she said, blatantly ignoring his words. “Flapjack isn’t with you.” 

What in Titan’s name was a flapjack? Hunter decided it was probably a slur. 

“Last chance! Or the Emperor’s Coven will have no choice but to assume you to be a Wild Witch.” 

She rose an eyebrow. Hunter, at least four inches and four years shorter than her, shrank. “Wild Witch? Yeah, okay. Put me down as that.” 

Griffinshit. Hunter was in the presence of a wild witch, and if her sudden turn in tone from bubbly to dry was any indication, he’d angered her. For all Hunter knew, she was the cause of the forest’s sudden overgrowth. Fleeing was his best bet to maintain his safety, but Uncle had no use for a coward. 

Hunter – He hadn’t trained for this. He knew how to disarm, discombobulate, disappoint – but he’d never gone toe-to-toe with a wild witch. With their blasphemously unpredictable magic against his distinct lack thereof, it was laughable to even pretend that he’d have a chance. It wasn’t a fair fight. 

But nothing had ever been fair for Hunter. From the moment his stupid, traitorous body had deigned not to produce a functioning bile sac, he’d been experiencing setback after setback. Uncle said that it built character. The Titan wouldn’t have big plans for anyone that didn’t deserve them, after all. Hunter didn’t care. It didn’t matter what the reason was. What did matter was that Hunter was inherently worse off than everyone else, and he’d spent his entire life combatting this intrinsic inadequacy. 

Something spasmed in his chest, and he had to fight hard to blink back tears. It wasn’t fair, he thought again, then shoved the feeling away. He wasn’t a child. He was thirteen. He was a man. There was no good in whining. 

The other witch’s eyes softened. She relaxed out of a fighting stance Hunter hadn’t even noticed her take. With a sigh, she said, “I’m sorry. Not everything needs to be settled with a brawl, and I’m old enough to know better.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, mumbling softly under her breath. Then she straightened and said, louder, “My name is Willow. It’s nice to meet you, Hunter.” 

Pretty name. Tough, resilient, but no less beautiful. He didn’t let his guard down, regardless. “I said it before and I’ll say it again – How do you know my name?” 

“You’re – not exactly where you’re supposed to be,” she said instead of answering his relatively straightforward question. “Are you?” 

“If you’re going to be unhelpful,” he bit out, “then this conversation is over.” He turned on his heel to march back toward the clearing, because any landmark would be helpful when he was so far out of his depth. 

“Wait!” He paused. “I know you because you know me too.” 

He gave her a good, long look. “I’ve never met you in my life.” 

“Not yours. Not yet.” 

“Speaking in riddles is for bridge trolls, Wild Witch Willow.” 

She quirked a lip. “Wild Witch Willow? I’ll admit, I like that a lot more than Half-A-Witch.” He glared, and at his unamused expression, she rolled her eyes and continued. “How familiar are you with time travel?” 

“A lot less than I am with people actually answering my questions.” 

“Hold on! Titan, didn’t anyone ever teach you that patience is virtual?” She paused, tapping her chin with her index finger. “I think that’s what Camila says, at least.” 

“Patience is a virtue,” Hunter corrected. He’d heard as much practically a thousand times by now. “According to my uncle, and he’s always right.” 

The remains of her smile vanished like the sun against a boiling storm. Her gaze flickered to the trees behind Hunter, fists tightening at her sides. “Your uncle. Is he here?” 

In the past, when Hunter was young and foolish, he’d let slip that he’d had an uncle to some of the other Scouts. They’d never connected the dots, so it didn’t make sense that Willow would within a few short minutes of knowing her. But then again, she knew all sorts of things that she shouldn’t. Even Oracle witches shouldn’t be that knowledgeable in what didn’t concern them. 

Emperor Belos’s safety was a witch’s highest priority. From the Emperor’s Coven to the lowest Scout on the totem pole, accepting their sigils had meant agreeing to protect the emperor’s life by giving their own, if it was needed. Even before Hunter had slipped on a mask for the first time, he’d made that vow over and over again. When he woke up, when he trained, when Uncle batted him across the room with a single oily tendril, when he stumbled to the infirmary, when the Healing witch asked him how he’d gotten that scar – it was all okay, because it was for the emperor’s sake. 

There was no logical reason to look as worried as Willow did at that moment, clearly searching the area for an identifiable target, unless she knew who his uncle was. But that couldn’t be. He and Uncle had sworn to keep that secret at all costs. It didn’t make sense. 

It didn’t make sense, and it had to make sense, so Hunter shifted his weight with practiced speed. He threw himself backwards, spinning so that he was sprinting rather than backpedaling. The unpredictability of a Wild Witch plus her well-defined muscles Hunter could see even from his perspective meant that she was not one to be trifled with. He wasn’t fleeing, he wasn’t a coward, he just needed to make it back to the castle so he could tell Uncle of the anomaly he’d encountered. 

The ground under his feet quaked as he darted toward the treeline. No, not the ground, the roots buried deep in the dirt. They shot up from beneath the surface to hook themselves around his ankles, yanking him back toward the Wild Witch. He thrashed, and the pull-back was enough to send him crashing to the dirt. There was a snarl he barely recognized as his own as he clawed the grass with his nails, trying to make it one more foot, one more inch. 

When he practically twisted his ankle in an attempt to get it out of the viney hold, Willow stepped near him to shout, “Don’t do that! You’re going to hurt yourself.” 

“You’re already hurting me!” 

“That’s – not a bad argument, actually.” She sighed again. “Alright, alright. You’ve made your point. Stop thrashing so I can let you go.” 

“No!” 

Tone so steady that deliberate control had to have been carefully exerted over it, she said, “Why not?” 

“Because he’s a brainwashed child soldier who’d sooner cut off his own leg than patch it up with halfway decent medical supplies,” said a new voice. 

All but smashed against the grass, Hunter raised his head to catch sight of a lanky figure striding forward. Sandy hair left long to reach his chin, well-loved overalls hugging his frame. The red sneakers that hit the ground with each step were extremely ill-suited for the environment, as were the short sleeves that did wonders to showcase each and every scar lining his arms. The scars that didn’t stop at his limbs, reaching all the way up to stretch across his face. 

His face. 

Huge scars, biting scars, Hunter’s scars, but not all of them. Hooked nose that he saw in the mirror, whenever he forced himself to look. Brown eyes. Why were his eyes brown? If this was – if he was – they should be a dark magenta. But they weren’t. There were so many scars and a familiar forelock hanging in front of his forehead and that same nose but those eyes, how had Hunter lost his eyes? 

Hunter opened his mouth and screamed. 

The Hunter that looked back kept quiet. 

He hardly even noticed when the knotted roots slipped away, back into the Isle. All he could do was count the scars of the other witch’s forearm, ears, temple. He didn’t think there was a number high enough to fit them all in. Hysterically, he thought that if anyone knew such a digit, it was Uncle. 

“You’re okay!” Willow forward to scoop the other him in her arms. She spun them both in a circle twice before letting him down, face red underneath all the gashes. “I’m so glad you’re alright! I was worried that you’d, well, shrunk.” 

The older him cleared his throat, regaining color. “Uh, nope! I’m right as boiling rain, don’t you worry, Captain.” He nodded Hunter’s way. His expression closed off tightly, the same way Hunter’s did whenever he needed to gather what little remained of his prideful exterior. “Him, though, he’s not okay.” 

Hunter was not okay. 

This shouldn’t be possible. Seeing himself, stretched and scratched, like a vision in a funhouse mirror. It was a nightmare he’d never even considered conjuring. 

He – didn’t look like Uncle. There was a brief familial resemblance that surpassed blood curses and a lack of magic; a sharp jawline, the notch in both their ears. It wouldn’t be a far jump to assume that this older him and Uncle were related, but, well – it was stupid, but Hunter had always hoped that he’d grow to be Uncle’s spitting image, despite the divergence in their genetic makeup. 

“H – How?” he stumbled out. 

“Magic,” was the dry, unamused response. 

Hunter couldn’t do this. There was shoving his own anxieties to the back of his mind during training, and then there was the full-force breakdown he was rapidly approaching. He needed to get out of here before – before – before what, he didn’t know. He just needed to leave. 

He scrambled backwards, limbs crashing together as he folded into an unsteady crabwalk. It didn’t matter if he was straying even farther away from the bandshee venue, he just needed to be anywhere from here. 

But then the other him barked out, “Golden Guard, pull yourself together!” At the familiar orders, Hunter felt his muscles lock. He was reminded of hours spent heaving against the cold cobblestone of the courtyard, his superiors snapping at him for being lazy, ungrateful, unfit for his title. “Report!” 

“Hunter,” Willow said, frowning, but she was interrupted by Hunter’s own rattled response. 

“Fourteen hours into mission. Research obtained, currently returning to base. Unforeseen navigational issues encountered interfering with said return. Backup unavailable.” He blushed, then added, “And unneeded.” 

The older him nodded at this. He turned to whisper something to Willow as Hunter held himself so rigidly that he nearly shook apart. There was nothing worse than this cloying, clawing feeling that crept up his throat whenever another officer pulled rank on him. Nothing else made him feel as much of a child as this did. Not like the Golden Guard, not like a man at all. That was what he looked forward to the most when he finally became head of the Emperor’s Coven, as Uncle promised; no one would ever be able to make him feel so small again. 

After a minute, the older him turned away from Willow. He very clearly did not make eye contact with him as he said, “At ease, soldier.” Hunter did not relax. Not one bit. But he did untense his muscles, giving off the appearance as such, and that would have to be good enough. 

“You’ve probably picked up on this,” Willow said, “but you’re not exactly when you’re supposed to be.” 

Yeah. Hunter was beginning to understand that. “I’m aware.” 

“Do you know how you got here?” 

He shook his head. A quick glance at his older self’s way confused him; his body posture, his obvious stepping back in the questioning. He was clearly deferring control to Willow. That, combined with his earlier mentioning of captain that Hunter hadn’t missed could only mean that she was his superior. 

Even after all this time, he was still stuck in someone else’s shadow. 

“My mission was to gather intel on the bandshee population about seven minute’s walk that way,” he said, and gestured toward where he’d come from. His mind turned with theories he hadn’t even realized were swirling in his head until he spat them out. “I did not predict the subjects to interact with hostility, so when their concert turned violent, I wasn’t able to keep a very good track of my surroundings. By my estimation, I must have experienced temporal disorientation sometime after coming in contact with them.” 

“That makes sense.” Willow’s eyes practically sparkled. She nodded toward his admittedly crusty sleeve, sand still clinging to the fibers. “You fell into some mud after that, then?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

She paused a moment at his response, then continued, voice not directed entirely toward him. It was more speaking her own thoughts aloud, and he just happened to be lucky enough to be in the audience. “The bandshee population in this area went extinct years ago. It’s got to be a time pool. Luz hasn’t mentioned seeing any since she and Lilith last documented them.” 

Hunter’s older self crossed his arms. “This can’t be a good sign. Last time someone interfered with time pools, well…” He trailed off, studying Hunter in drawn-out, up-down movements. Hunter felt like a bug under a microscope. “We both know how that ended.” 

Hunter didn’t know. But from Willow’s pursed lips, he picked up on the fact that he wasn’t supposed to know. 

Willow took a rolled-up scroll out of her back pocket. She typed something into it as she spoke. “I’m letting the others know that there’s a stray time pool somewhere in this area. We’re going to have to postpone our picnic until we figure out where it is. Things can get real messy real fast if we leave it unmonitored.” 

Hunter straightened. He understood what she meant. He’d been reading between the lines since before he could read at all. Captain Willow was making it her squadron’s priority to locate and quarantine the clearly wild magic as soon as possible. However, they were currently unavailable, and the situation was one that needed to be resolved immediately. As the lowest-ranking cadet on the premises, he was to begin the search until the proper officials arrived. 

It was grunt work, and Hunter hated grunt work, but he knew how important it was to pay his dues to his elders, even if he was better than them in every way possible. The Titan had big plans for him. Hunter was destined for greatness. 

He saluted Captain Willow. It was a quick, practiced motion he was more familiar with than tying his shoes. It made his other self jump, which he took a smidge of amusement in. “Understood, ma’am. I’ll report back in regular intervals.” 

Then he turned on his heel and bolted.

Hunter was smart. Before his tenth birthday, he’d finished all the mandated coursework that schools like Hexside and St. Epiderm typically taught students throughout their entire scholastic careers. He’d checked out every book in the library three times. When Uncle groused about how difficult those new-fangled crystal balls were to navigate, Hunter was the one that navigated the instruction manuals until all was well. He was smart, and he knew it. 

Hunter also had no idea what time pools were. Or how they looked. Or where they tended to dwell. 

Uncle was right; he never thought things through. 

Still, Hunter was nothing if not stubborn. He could use context clues, despite Head Witch Clawthorne’s mumblings about how he wouldn’t know a slitherbeast if it knocked him upside the head. Captain Willow had deduced the existence of time pools from the dried sand crusted on his shirt sleeve. That meant that time pools were part of the environment, to some degree. The term pool also implied that they contained something and were most likely circular. It was a start, and it was all Hunter needed. 

As he wandered in search of something he’d stupidly stumbled into earlier, he couldn’t help but mourn how the forest used to be. It was foolish, he knew, but it almost made him sad to know that the bandshees had died out. For all the unpleasantness that they’d brought with their concert, they’d truly been a fascinating species. He’d actually been considering checking with the Conformatorium once he got back to the castle in case they had any books on the topic. 

But they were gone, the same way Hunter’s entire family was gone. Except for Uncle. Uncle, he knew deep in his bones, would never leave him. And Hunter would never leave Uncle, and the two would have each other forever and ever. That was just how it worked. 

He stopped in his tracks, sighing. He was such a child. 

His momentary pause gave him the opportunity to notice a ring of stones lined around a mud pit tucked in the brush of the path. The overhanging foliage was damp with shaded dew, water keeping the area moist as it dripped into the center of the ring. The shape was crude, clearly created by a magicless being pounding rocks into dirt with their bare hands, but it could easily pass as a pool. 

Hunter knelt by it to pull out the journal he’d brought with him for the mission. It was encrypted, obviously, and held a complete log of everything that Uncle ever secretly asked him to do. Part of him reasoned that it was for organization’s sake, but the rest of Hunter knew that he’d been trying to find a pattern to Uncle’s madness for years. 

The ring didn’t seem to be mystic in nature. For all Hunter knew, a couple of Palismen could have dumbly constructed it solely because their owners were craving apple blood doughnuts at the time. Tilting his head, he reached out to hold his hand over the center of the circle – 

Only for a tense voice to call out, “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to mess with shady spell circles in the middle of the woods?” 

Hunter turned away from the ring to see a wide-eyed witch walking along the same path he’d just been traveling. He couldn’t tell if the witch was older than him or the same age with how short he was, but the scraggle of chin hairs tipped the scales a certain way. His outfit was spiffy, like something one of the Coven Heads would wear. Definitely not something to be traipsing around the forest in. 

Three things stuck out to Hunter about the witch; he had a single mirrored bauble hanging from one of his ears, there was a blue-green circular patch slapped onto his jacket sleeve, and a red smudge peeked out from his ankle. All little details that gave him a more casual atmosphere than the rest of his clothes did. Especially the earring. It reminded him of Head Witch Graye, oddly enough. 

“No,” Hunter said, “but they did teach me not to talk to strangers in the woods.” 

He laughed, though even Hunter could tell that it was more than a little forced. “That’s a fair point.” 

Hunter blinked at him, waiting for more. When the other guy didn’t add anything, he turned back to the spell circle. Hunter didn’t particularly like having his back to the weirdo, but he was on a mission. This could be a clue to the time pool, if not the time pool itself! As his commanders had drilled into him, all possible successes were worth looking into, at all costs. 

As he kneeled down into the dirt, he couldn’t help but wince at the tug on his clavicle. It was still sore from Uncle’s flare-up yesterday, though he was fairly confident that it’d since stopped bleeding. That was good. Uncle hated seeing the side effects of his curse present on another body. He said it made him feel immoral for such proof of his own body’s betrayal to be so public. That was why Hunter could never, ever, ever go to the Healing Coven for help after Uncle mistakenly hurt him. They wouldn’t understand the way Hunter did. 

He heard the rustle of movement behind him. The other witch crouched down to the left of him, idly picking at a reflective trinket clinging to his wrist. Hunter ignored him, instead picking up each rock one-by-one and flipping it over in his hands. Leave no stone unturned, they always said. Hunter was nothing if not efficient. 

“You're hurt,” said the other witch. It wasn’t a question. 

“I’m fine.” 

He gave him a onceover look. “You’re bleeding through your bandages.” 

Hunter looked down at his own chest. Oh. There, seeping through his injury-bandages and don’t-think-about-why-he-needs-them bandages, was a spotting of red. “That means they’re working,” he said quickly. 

“Uh, no! It doesn’t!” 

Without even needing a mirror, Hunter knew for a fact that his face was turning bright red. He felt his fingers curl into fists. “Shut up! You’re just some bum in the woods! You don’t know griffinshit.”  

He frowned. “That’s rude,” he said calmly, like he was commenting about the weather. But Hunter had always been rude, even when he tried his absolute best to be palatable, so by now, he didn’t much care for politeness. It was a commodity he’d never figured out how to budget for. “You know, pushing me away won’t make those bruises disappear.” He nodded toward Hunter’s arms. 

Hunter didn’t need to glance down to know that the other witch’s perception rang true. He tugged his sleeves further down. “You’re wrong.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You didn’t need to. I see the way you’re looking at me.” Worse than jealousy and contempt, by far, was pity. Like Hunter was some wretched little thing that’d been unlucky enough to be squashed underfoot. “Just leave me alone.” 

“Can’t,” he said, short and clipped. 

“Why not?” 

“Because we’re supposed to make sure you don’t trip off a cliff trying to, like, kill a baby!” hollered another witch, leaping over the spell circle from the other side of the bushes. She tackled Hunter in a hug that he immediately clawed his way out of. 

Once he flung himself out of her hold, he scrambled away to hide himself behind a particularly wide oak tree. He knew that she could find him, but at least it gave him distance between him and her. Lungs heaving, he peaked out from his side of the trunk to assess the target. 

She was much taller than him. Older, too. Not like Head Witch Clawthorne old, but maybe Steve old. It didn’t matter, though, all of the elderly looked pretty much the same to Hunter. 

Her clothes were far too dark for the day’s sunny weather, though her sneakers did actually look like they might be acceptable for the terrain. At least her purple-black seemed to be a thinner material, as thick as her patchwork trousers seemed to be. Her ears were round, oddly enough. Hunter had never met a witch with round ears, but then again, he’d never seen many witches unmasked. They never seemed to want to take the first step towards a friendship if he didn’t as well, and Uncle had made it very clear to him that he was to sparingly reveal his identity. 

He’d never seen hair like hers before; curly and cropped short enough that she could be mistaken for a boy. She could pass for a boy better than he could, actually. Did she want to? Hunter had never known anyone else who wanted to. 

She grinned at him, teeth remarkably blunt. Then she stuck out an un-forked tongue at him and charged forward, battle cry on her lips. “¡Ay, que lindo!” 

Hunter was up in the top of the tree within seconds. He curled his fingers into the triangular symbol of the Emperor’s Coven as he clung to a branch like Head Witch Deamonne to his contraband avocado face masks everyone knew the Owl Lady smuggled to him. “Back off, crazy lady!” 

“That voice crack,” she squealed, and hooked a leg onto one of the lower hanging stems, “pobrecito, oh! You’re so small, I’m gonna eat you up!” 

“Jokes on you!” Hunter screamed as he hoisted himself higher. “I’ve been ingesting poison since I was a child, and my muscles are damaged from years of stress. I won’t taste good at all.” 

“Luz!” said the other witch from his still-kneeling spot next to the spell circle. “At this rate, you’re gonna give him a heart attack.” 

“But he’s so cute, I can’t with him.” 

The other witch laughed, despite the fact that this was very much not a laughing scenario. Hunter was fighting for his life here. “You’re gonna have to, unless you want to tell Willow he broke his neck falling out of a tree.” 

Willow. Captain Willow. Captain Better-Than-Hunter. 

Luz, presumably, stuck out her bottom lip in quite the childish pout. “Boo! When did you become so mature?” 

“It came with wisdom, experience, and several hundred hours of Bluey.” 

She cackled, like the older witches who’d first inspired the human realm stereotype involving pointy hats and broomsticks. “Ay, fine. You win.” Public enemy number one stepped away from the tree trunk until she was a considerable distance away. She set one hand on her hips, the other cupped beside her mouth and she yelled, “Alright, you can come down now, Blondie! I’ll be totally normal. Trust.” 

He inched back, closer to the trunk. He did not trust. Not one bit. 

She sighed, overly dramatic and loud enough for him to catch every bit of it from his aerial viewpoint. “Alright, then. I guess we’ll have to report back to base that the mission was a failure.” 

Hunter didn’t climb down the tree so much as he plummeted. Headfirst. Without second thought, because with those words came a heart pounding and palms sweating and his shoulders flinching for another strike. He did not fail his missions. Not now, not ever. He’d sooner die. 

The wide-eyed looks Luz and the other witch exchanged with one another made his skin crawl. It was that pitiful tinge from earlier, coupled with concern and fear and all sorts of things he couldn’t be bothered with. Hunter wasn’t a child. He wasn’t, even as his knees knocked together as they struggled to carry his own weight. He hadn’t eaten in days, and it’d been even longer since he last slept, and he didn’t need anyone to baby him. 

He saluted the two of them, at attention. “Golden Guard reporting for duty. What are my orders?” 

They shared a glance again. Hunter frowned. What with his future self’s referral of control to Captain Willow and their obvious connection with her as well, he’d assumed them to be part of his Emperor’s Coven squadron in this timeline. He was confident that he hadn’t miscalculated, but – well, their unsure, shrugging reactions weren’t a good sign. 

“We – uh, Gus and I, that is,” stammered Luz, “were told to meet up with C – Commander? Commander Amity. Commamity. Yes. Her. We’re supposed to go to her. Now. With you.” 

Wow. That was amateur hour if Hunter’d ever seen it. Hunter crossed his arms. “How long have you been working for the Emperor’s Coven?” 

“Like, so long.” She paused, then brightened. “My aunt is Lilith, actually! She hooked me up with my job.” 

He looked her over in a new light. Head Witch Clawthorne didn’t seem the type to exploit connections, but then again, she had confiscated his newt plush last month, so she could rot for all he cared. “That makes sense. And you?” He nodded toward the newly designated Gus. 

“Friends with Luz.” 

“We love nepotism!” Luz cheered, smiling just a tad too wide. 

Hunter did not know what nepotism was. But he’d never admit that, because Hunter was smart and he’d surely deserved everything he’d ever earned, so he took the term and placed it on a far away shelf in his mind in a practice motion. Out of sight, out of fright. 

“Anyway,” Luz continued, and sidled up next to Hunter close enough that he reflexively stepped away, “let’s get to know each other! It’s a long walk, anyway. Let’s, I don’t know, share our backstories explicitly and without glossing over any details?” 

He backed away farther, somewhat disturbed. Hunter did not want to share his backstory explicitly and without glossing over any details. Not one bit, thank you very much.

Hunter ended up sharing his backstory explicitly and without glossing over any details. 

He didn’t mean to, was the thing. He’d been very dead set on keeping his silence. He’d been ruder to kinder witches. But Luz was so damn chatty, commenting on the sunny weather, the pixies burrows, the plantlife – Hunter had been willing to hear practically anything other than her overly chipper voice. Maybe that’d been her plan the whole time and Hunter had been oh so eager to bumble into it. Or maybe she was a stupid girl who had no business being in the Emperor’s Coven, stumbling into success through dumb luck alone. 

He liked talking about himself, if he was being honest. Not as much as he liked explaining Coven rules or Isles legislature, but talking about himself usually led to discussing his own interests. As fast as they were, his words were never stilted when describing something he was genuinely fascinated by. 

So when Luz asked about his mission, he found himself answering without thought. It was dangerous, it was reckless, and it was fun. It made him feel light in ways he couldn’t otherwise describe. 

He told her all about the data he’d uncovered about the bandshee population, which lead to his conclusions about past research targets like snagglebacks and stonesleepers, which lead to the tasks his uncle secretly assigned to him, which lead to his uncle himself – 

Until Luz stopped dead in her tracks. 

Her eyes were far away. Like Head Witch Clawthorne when a Scout explained just what they’d like to do to the Owl Lady if given half the chance. Her bottom lip quivered, one foot positioned as if she’d been just about to take another step. When her gaze flickered over Hunter’s way, he felt almost pinned down. A bug under a microscope. 

She took in a breath. “You – really care about your uncle. Don’t you?” 

He answered without hesitating, like the question had been drilled into him more times than he could count. “Of course. He’s my family. Family is important.” 

Luz blinked. Hunter sensed something shift, even if he couldn’t quite name what it was. Luz started walking again, leading Hunter to a place that he wouldn’t know even when they got there. “What’s he like? Your uncle, I mean.” 

Gus shot her a look. “Luz – ”

“There’s no harm in it,” she gritted out through clenched teeth. Hunter didn’t understand why. He never understood why. It always seemed like everyone else in the world communicated through a code they were determined he not break. It would be beyond frustrating if he wasn’t so apathetically acclimated to it by now. “I’m just asking a silly little question.” 

Gus backed off, staying quiet. Hunter filed away his submission. Maybe there was a hierarchy of power here after all. It felt like there always was, anyway. 

Hunter kept his strides even with another. One-two, one-two. A soldier’s march, even if he was the only one. “My uncle is very wise. Very powerful, too. He cares deeply for the Isles.” 

There. True, bland, and not entirely indicative that his uncle was Emperor Belos, strongest witch the Boiling Isles had ever known. 

Luz just hummed. It wasn’t much of a reaction, to tell the truth. “Oh yeah? He must teach you a lot, then.” 

“He does. When he has time, of course.” Hunter felt his cheeks heat up as he remembered the last time he’d let his whiny tendencies trigger a curse flare-up. His ankle still clicked when he rotated it. “I know better than to bother him when inappropriate, though.” 

“When’s inappropriate?” 

He shrugged. “When he’s working. When he’s stressed. When he’s in pain. I don’t want to set him off, you know?” 

Luz frowned. “I don’t. What do you mean, set him off?” 

“Luz,” said Gus again. Something gold woven into his hair glittered just enough to let Hunter know that he was shaking. “You know what answer you’re going to get. Stop.” 

“Why should I? You don’t let a suffering dog bleed out if it’s been hit by a car. You get help. We don’t need to let what happened happen.” 

Hunter looked between the two of them. He felt like he was missing something very, very important. “I’m not a suffering dog,” he mumbled. 

“We do. Things are good now, and they could be a lot worse.” Something sharp flashed in Gus’s eyes. He took on a determined frown. “You’re right. People shouldn’t have to suffer for things to improve, but he did and that’s that. We deal with that by offering support now. It’s not our place to – ” 

“To fix problems before they even start?” Luz shot. 

“To meddle,” Gus finished. “You’re a meddler, Luz. Don’t get me wrong, we all love that about you, but this isn’t the place to mess around and see what sticks. There’s consequences to our actions here, and I’m not willing to risk all that we have and all that we lost in meddling.” 

“We’d be risking it for our friend, Gus.” 

“And he doesn’t want us to.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because he told me.” Gus took out a scroll from his pocket and pushed it into Luz’s hand. Hunter watched as she skimmed it, frowning deeper at whatever was written on it. “I asked, while you were chasing him up that tree, and like it or not, a martyr’s gonna martyr. He wants to keep things this way.” 

Luz shoved the scroll away. Hunter felt himself flinching back, even though the motion wasn’t directed toward him. “Maybe it shouldn’t be just his choice. Maybe everyone involved should be making an informed decision.” 

Hunter backed up, shoulders against a tree trunk, as Gus’s eyes flashed with something that could be described as anger. It looked unnatural on Gus’s face. “Why are you, of all people, so intent on messing with time?” 

“Because it’s my fault.” 

Gus faltered. Hunter could tell in the way he backed up a half-step, rage giving way to confusion and a kindness that was much more welcome. It would make him weak in the Emperor’s Coven. Hunter knew instantly that he’d never go for the kill. Maybe that made him better than Head Witches Clawthorne and Snapdragon and Graye, ruthless until the bitter end. Or maybe there was nothing more to it than a pathetic excuse for a witch. Hunter knew which Uncle would think. 

Gus hugged Luz close, like Steve with his little brother when their squadron passed through Bonesborough. “Not everything’s your fault, Luz. Don’t you, like, go to therapy to learn that?” 

“I do, but…” she pulled away, wiping at her eyes, “this is. I introduced Philip to the Collector. The Collector taught him to make Grimwalkers. You – You know the rest from there.” 

“Then by that logic, we have you to thank for our resident Grimwalker’s existence.” 

“Gus, it doesn’t work like that.” 

“If we have to fault you for everything, then we get to credit you for everything too.” He shrugged. “I don’t make the rules.” 

Hunter – didn’t understand. They were speaking so quickly yet slowly at the same time, dropping terms that he’d never heard before. If they knew these incomprehensible facts, then Hunter would by the future, probably but – but it didn’t make sense. Collectors and Grimwalkers and Philip. What kind of name was Philip, anyway? 

Quietly, he ducked behind the tree he’d been pressed up against, and ran. 

He felt so stupid. Like a child, ignorant and helpless to the world. Because he was. As scrappy as he’d always pushed himself to be, at the end of the day, he was a dumb little kid who insisted he could catch up to the adults. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t good enough, and from the looks of it, he’d never be. 

Surely by now he’d be head of the Emperor’s Coven, right? His future self looked to be almost twenty. A man if Hunter had ever seen one. But he still reported to a higher authority, he still had a Captain to his lowly Scout. How much could have really changed, then? 

A horrible image came to mind; him, old and still so horribly useless, being hurled across Uncle’s study as if these years in between hadn’t done a thing. It wouldn’t matter if he was twenty, thirty, forty. He’d always be some ungrateful anchor weighing the Emperor of the Isles down. 

Sometimes, Hunter would look in the mirror while wearing his Golden Guard uniform. He’d pose with his staff, maybe even pretend that he was standing vigilante by his uncle’s side. Then he’d imagine his armor rusting, turning the metal’s sheen dull and dim. He’d stay there, frozen, and wonder if anyone would ever pry him out of his rusted tomb. 

He often felt dead. Not in a suicidal way that’d end up with him visiting Head Witch Snapdragon for coven-mandated medicinal treatment. But he’d have movements where his chest would feel too tight for his lungs, regardless of the bandages looped around them. Or he’d swear that his bones weren’t strong enough to keep him upright. He’d remember, certain as he’d ever been, what it was like for a blade to skewer his heart in one confident lunge. 

Then he’d blink and go on. He had such an active imagination, Uncle always said. 

Hunter slowed down as he came closer to a pair – no, a trio of voices. The first two were familiar; his future self’s and the captain’s. He was fairly positive that he’d never heard the first one before. So he huddled behind a poysenberry bush and listened. The Emperor’s Coven always took full advantage of opportunities they encountered, after all. 

He could make out Captain Willow kneeling in a patch of blossom-studded weeds, nodding along to the conversation he could barely hear. She flicked her wrist, and a bright red bud sprouted beside his future self’s feet. Hunter almost gagged at the blush that instantly bloomed on their collective faces. 

At least the third individual wasn’t nearly as nauseating as the two of them. Lavender hair scooped into a ponytail with just a hint of brown peeking out, she stood confident as Kikimora on one of her particularly power-hungry days. Her gold eyes just passed over Hunter as she skimmed her surroundings, clearly in search of something. She – looked familiar. If he squinted and imagined a tinted filter placed over her. 

“They’re late,” she muttered, fingers drumming along a plum vial hanging from her belt. 

Captain Willow didn’t even look up from the vines circling her forearms. “Luz is always late. She got that from Eda, I think.” 

“Besides,” Hunter’s future self added, “it’s not like we can be late getting to the past.” 

“Don’t be so sure about that. In The Good Witch Azura 2: Chrono-Crimes, the entire movie’s plot starts when Hecate nearly erases Azura from reality because she didn’t meet the deadlines set by the Time Wielder.” 

He frowned. “Didn’t you say that the second Azura movie was The Field of Deadly Fates?” 

“I thought it was called The Betrayanning ,” Captain Willow said. 

The other witch rose an eyebrow, and the gesture was so stuck-up that Hunter instantly wanted to send her Kikimora’s way and sell popscorn as the two tore each other to shreds. “It’s all three of them. That’s the point.” 

Oh, she was as insufferable as Hunter, wasn’t she? 

The captain just smiled and said, “You know, it’s times like these that I’m so glad we’re friends. I almost wish it’d been you and me unlucky enough to fall into that time pool.” 

Hunter perked up. His gaze narrowed in as the other witch, presumably Amity, covered her red face with her palms and groaned. “Ugh, don’t remind me. As bad as this whole situation is, at least it’s not mini-me running around in the middle of the woods.” She lowered her hands, staring off in the distance. “I think my preteen self would’ve hate-crimed my girlfriend.” 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if mine did to Luz too,” offered Hunter’s stupid, traitorous future self who really needed to keep his big mouth shut. “Forty snails says one of them bites each other before they get here.” 

Ha, jokes on him. Luz had missed him, because she was dumb and Hunter was amazing at dodging. 

Amity murmured, “I can’t imagine what it’d be like to sit my younger self down and tell her that we never accomplished most of our dreams. And not because we failed, but because we realized how dumb most of them were.” 

“It’s funny, Amity,” said Captain Willow, a little smirk on her face as she fished a worm out of a little mound of dirt. “After all this time, you finally get to be in the Emperor’s Coven.” 

Hunter turned that little comment over in his mind. After all this time. Was her admittance into the Isles’s superior coven only a recent development? Hunter truly hoped that the Emperor’s Coven hadn’t slipped into a state of disrepair over the years, to the point that they were letting just about any half-a-witch into their gilded ranks. 

She chuckled a little at that. “That’s true. For one day only, I get to be – hmm, let’s say Corporal Blight.” 

The captain saluted, all giggly limbs and limp form. In a deeper voice, she bellowed, “Admiral Park, reporting for duty!” 

They laughed, oblivious to Hunter’s hands shaking with fear, even as his older self sighed, “You two wouldn’t last a day in the Emperor’s Coven.” But he was snickering despite himself, despite the instincts ringing in Hunter’s ears to rat on all three of them for slander against the emperor. “It’s weird. At his age, I would’ve been sure that I’d be running the coven by now. Yet here it is,” he shrugged, “burned to the ground.” 

Hunter’s heart stuttered to a stop. 

“Good riddance,” Captain Willow tacked on, and the gooey smile they exchanged made Hunter sick. 

He was a traitor. Hunter, loyal ‘til the day he died, follower of every order to the letter, believer in his uncle against all rational opposition, who the Titan had big plans for – he’d betrayed everything he’d ever held dear. From the way the others were speaking, it sounded like he should be petrified for his crimes. 

Rising to his full height and stumbling out of his hiding spot wasn’t a conscious choice. Neither was the full-body shudder that hit him, pushing him to pause dumbly, just staring at his future self. The others all froze, staring at him in thinly veiled horror. 

“You – ” Hunter couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, and maybe that was a good thing. Maybe if he croaked, right here and right now, then he’d never grow up into this treacherous, ungrateful thing that didn’t deserve to resemble the man that’d given them everything. Hunter had never hated himself before, but he downright detested anything within himself that could turn poisonous against all he held dear. “You traitor!” 

“Hunter,” Captain Willow started, but he didn’t let himself listen. 

“How could you? After all he’s done for us, after all the work we put in.” He was shouting, screaming louder than he’d ever dared scream before. Somewhat hysterically, he thought of the bandshees. “The Emperor’s Coven is our home!” 

The traitor’s face twisted into something angry and ugly. “Shut up! We don’t owe him anything, and that pit is not our home.” He grabbed Hunter, the motion quick despite his training, and dragged him until he was facing the pale-faced captain and Amity. Hunter screeched like an animal. “They’re a better family than he ever was.” 

“Let me go! Get off of me, stop touching me!” 

“No! Not until you stop – stop acting like a child!” 

Hunter was thirteen. Hunter was thirteen, and the bandages wrapped thrice around his chest made it hard to breathe. Hunter was thirteen, and his skin didn’t settle right over his foreign bones. Hunter was thirteen, and he’d never hated himself before today. Hunter was thirteen, and soon he’d be twenty, and between then and now he’d raze everything they’d ever loved. Hunter wanted to be thirteen forever, but thirteen was rotten and horrid, like overripe griffin eggs. 

Hunter was a child, and it was the worst thing he’d ever been. 

“Hunter. Let him go.” 

The captain’s voice was calm against their joint heartbeats. Rational in the face of pure, unadulterated terror. Through lidded eyes, Hunter noticed that her expression didn’t give way to the slightest bit of hesitation. She deserved her title, even if she deserved petrification just as much. 

His older self’s grip loosened, and Hunter immediately wriggled out of the hold. He smashed his fist into his scarred jaw, and he bolted in the opposite direction he’d come from. 

Hunter was thirteen. And, as he’d proven time and time again today, thirteen-year-olds ran from their problems.

When Hunter was eight, he asked Uncle why he couldn’t play with other kids his age. He knew he was skinny and scrawny and small, but surely there were other children out there who’d treat him with kindness if he promised to do the same in return. Quid pro quo, as his textbooks had explained. 

Uncle had sat him down. In no uncertain terms, he’d explained that other children were foolish. They were messy. Reckless. Selfish. Ungrateful. Annoying, above all. If Hunter were to spend time with such parasites, surely he’d turn out just like them. 

Hunter was better than the rest of them. 

So Hunter stayed in his room, nose buried in a book, as schools like Hexside filled to the brim with whiny little urchins. He never complained, never became a bother, never wished that he had someone else to chat to when all of his squadron remained a good five years older than him. Because he was special. The Titan had big plans for him, so he had to stay palatable. 

Except for one time.

He found quite the comfortable log to sit down and cry on, if he said so himself. Situated in front of a slitherbeast-sized boulder, he could keep watch despite his blind spots even as his eyes welled with tears. He pulled his legs up so that they were folded against his chest, resting his chin on his kneecaps. The position made him look like an infant, he knew. He didn’t care. Right now, he felt like an infant, to tell the truth. 

He’d never asked what plans the Titan had for him. He knew that Uncle would never tell him, even though he could ask the Titan whenever he pleased. Destiny was destiny because it was meant to be, not because it was yet another set of orders for Hunter to follow. It was special, just like Hunter. 

Privately, Hunter was terrified of what he was meant to do. He knew that it would be the single most important moment of his life, and the fear of failing it was almost more powerful than the excitement of succeeding. 

It was here that she found him, curled up and questioning his very bones. She entered his line of sight slowly, not a stroll but not a sprint either. Without a word, she stepped over the wildflowers Hunter had trampled in his haste and sat down on the log, a few feet separating them. It was a birch tree, he was pretty sure. An off-white speckled with brown gashes. 

“I really shouldn’t be the one looking after you during a time like this,” Amity said, as if she hadn’t played her own part in tearing down the gilded little diorama he’d thought the future to be, “but I don’t want you doing something you’d regret. So you get me. Sorry about that.” 

Hunter didn’t ask what rash thing she feared he’d commit. He’d certainly considered it during his mad dash away from his problems. As much as he dreaded transforming into the blasphemous turncoat he knew he’d one day be, he had a solution out of it. He could take himself out of the equation. Bite the bullet, lay down his life for the emperor as he’d always sworn to do. 

But he didn’t do that. Because he was thirteen and he was a child, so he found a tree trunk to sit on and cried his eyes out. A foolish solution fit the situation, anyway. 

Instead of feeding into whatever trap she was laying, he instead said, “Why are you acting like you don’t recognize me?” 

She tilted her head. The motion made her fringe fall into her face. He liked her hair, actually. The tinted contrast with the glittering jewels set around her crown was quite nice. “Excuse me?” 

“I didn’t put it together at first. You look so different now.” Last he’d seen, she’d started dying her hair a mint green that was far too similar to her mother’s. “My uncle takes me to your parents’ workshop from time to time. He says he likes to see the abomination industry revolutionize firsthand.” 

She blinked. “I didn’t know that.” 

He frowned. “We’ve spoken before. A lot.” To be fair, he hadn’t been wearing his standard Golden Guard armor. Uncle hadn’t wanted to draw a target on the two of them. Odalia Blight always always favored shiny things, he said. He’d had on a standard Scout mask and uniform, as if he was any other trainee shadowing the emperor for the day. “You pretend to be caught up in your books, but you always get caught staring when we make the rounds.” 

He never said much with Amity. There wasn’t a lot to know about her. For the most part, he asked what he was learning in school, silently reveling in the knowledge that he’d learned that ages ago. She’d question him about life in the Emperor’s Coven. She wanted to be there, he could tell. That was good. It was a solid, secure future. At least, he’d thought it was. 

He wondered what would happen if he were to pull her aside next time they stopped by Blight Industries and tell her everything that he’d seen. How in the future, she laughed at the thought of being a Coven Head and kept her hair bleached like the very goop leaking out of her pockets. Amity would probably hiss something sharp and biting before walking off, steps too quick as she blinked back angry tears. She was prickly. Hunter liked that about her. 

This future Amity, with a red splotch on her skin peeking out in the space where her sleeves and gloves met, sat back a bit. “That was you. That chatty, precocious Scout was you.” Quieter, she murmured, “Why didn’t he ever tell me?” 

Privately, Hunter didn’t think it’d been a conscious choice on his future version’s part. He found it – difficult, sometimes, to recall past events. Long-term changes, really, rather than what had just occurred. When he’d turned nine, everything to do with being seven years old became a blur. When he turned ten, the same happened to age eight. The same happened when he turned eleven, and so on. He didn’t have much doubt that the pattern would continue. 

It wasn’t evidence of a concussion, he was sure. He wasn’t brain damaged. His brain just didn’t like cataloging memories the way that it should. It wasn’t concerning, and it definitely didn’t freak Hunter out, no sirree! It was fine. He was fine. Everything was fine. 

“He’s an asshole,” Hunter said flatly. He had no need nor want to defend his future actions. That traitor could face the music himself. 

“You’re not wrong,” she said, and grinned a little. Hunter didn’t return the expression. She must have noticed, because her own little smile faded. “I get it, you know? I meant what I said earlier. I understand how strange it is to be faced with a future you never thought you’d want.” 

“You don’t.” 

“I – Sorry?"

“You don’t,” he repeated. He turned to glare at her. She glared at him right back. Prickly. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but unless you’re a fellow time traveler, you haven’t had to see the absolute failure you turn out to be. Don’t pretend to empathize with me when you have no idea what it’s like.” 

Uncle was right. Kids his age were ungrateful, and annoying, and foolish. Hunter would do good to never, ever be like them. 

Amity didn’t look like her mom or her dad, Hunter realized. If he had to pick between the two, he’d say she moreso resembled her father, but when he looked at her, he didn’t think of Odalia or Alador. He just saw Amity. 

When people saw him in the future, did they think of Uncle? It was a stupid question. No one knew what Emperor Belos looked like besides Hunter. But still. When he was perceived, who did people think of first? He didn’t know what answer he would prefer. 

“What do you want me to say?” Amity sighed. “That this is a shit situation and no one knows what’ll set you off? That we’re all terrified that we forever messed up the timeline by even letting you see our faces? We’re scared, Hunter, but we’re trying to make it so you don’t have to be.” 

“I’m not a child.” 

“You are from where I’m standing.” 

He scoffed. Head Witch Clawthorne, Kikimora, Amity – they all saw him as some helpless brat that didn’t deserve the title he’d fought tooth and nail to earn. It didn’t matter how many countless hours he poured into bettering himself, how hard he worked to earn the respect that came with that armor. All they cared about was how short he was from measuring up to his predecessors. 

She fiddled with one of the black triangles dangling from her earlobes. “When I was your age,” she started, and Hunter rolled his eyes at the incoming lecture, “I would’ve done anything to win my parents’ approval.” He paused. This didn’t seem like one of Head Witch Deamonne’s near theatrical monologues about how spoiled Hunter’s generation was. “I did everything they asked; ignored who they thought weren’t good fits for me, befriended the children of their own allies, studied past midnight every day to become top student. But that wasn’t enough. Worse, it was expected. I was only fulfilling their expectation of me by going above and beyond. Actually impressing them was impossible.” 

It was a familiar song and dance, one that Hunter had performed to more times than he could remember. If he did everything to be perfect, then maybe to Uncle, he’d seem good enough. It was exhausting. Hunter knew that if he ever dared to stop, he’d probably double over and croak on the spot. He only knew how to be extraordinary enough to burn himself out. Being just enough – he had no idea how to do that. 

“When I was your age,” she said again, “I would’ve done anything to win my parents’ approval. But now? Take it or leave it.” She looked up, and Hunter found himself following her gaze to rest on a treeline up above. There was a bird nest tucked into one of the branches. A cardinal, maybe. “People change. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t. My parents weren’t going to change, so I did. I needed to change, not for them but for myself.” She shrugged. It wasn’t helpless or annoying or foolish. It was just tired. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be this way for you. I don’t know. I’m just saying what I wish someone would’ve said to me.” 

Hunter bit his lip, hard. “I love my uncle,” he told her, because she needed to know. Her and her parents, they weren’t the same as Hunter and his uncle. It was different. It just was. Hunter was special. The Titan had big plans for him. That had to mean something. 

She didn’t look away from the birds. “I’m sure you do.”

The silence enveloping them as they walked back wasn’t uncomfortable. It reminded Hunter of nights sitting around a fire, keeping watch as the other Scouts napped for the first time in days. Training would persist tomorrow, but for now, he could blink long and slow, and rest easy knowing that his suffering meant that he was improving. It was all for something. Every drop of blood wrung from his twitching body watered the ground so that something new could sprout. It was worth it. 

When they reached the others, their expressions were all he needed to conclude that they’d found a time pool. Their pinched looks, the hesitancy to their eyes. They stared at him like he was a dead man walking. Well, he wasn’t. Hunter was alive. He promised. 

Luz instantly sprang forward, wrapping her hands around Amity’s and pulling her close. Hunter, who’d been privy to far too many heated conversations between Amity’s father and Head Witch Deamonne, resolutely did not turn his gaze in their directions. He did not need to see what followed in the inevitable conclusions to whatever passion they indulged in. The Blight genes were horrid, he knew well. 

Captain Willow and Gus stood sentinel in front of what could only be the time pool. It – Oh, come on. It was a patch of dirt. Nothing more, nothing less. Sandy mud caked together as it would in virtually any other area of the forest. Other than a slight glimmer to its sediment, Hunter could have passed it by a thousand times without realizing that there was anything special about it. It wasn’t fair. Nothing was ever fair. 

His older self stepped into his vision, shoulders set back the way Hunter did whenever he yearned to appear more confident than he actually was. Because he was Hunter. Because despite it all, they both preferred the gray ration bars to the brown ones, and they both could never find a pair of matching socks to wear, and they both cut their hair as short as they could manage without looking like a scraggly egg. 

Hunter didn’t hate himself. He hated who he’d become one day. It was the experience that would one day warp him that he detested. That was different. He could quite explain how, but it was. 

“You don’t look like a good soldier anymore,” Hunter said, cutting off whatever sermon he was about to be given before it started at all. He meant for it to come out sharp and biting. Prickly. 

But his older self just smiled. The majority of the tension clinging to him melted away, and Hunter was left glaring at what could easily pass as a funhouse mirror. “Thanks,” he said. 

It wasn’t meant to be a compliment. They both knew that, and they both knew that the other knew. 

Hunter didn’t look back. He didn’t catch one last glimpse of Luz’s toothy grin, or Gus’s glittering accessories, or Amity’s windswept hair, or Willow’s steadfast gaze. Time travel was messy, to say the least, and a large part of him hoped that this would all be rewritten in the grand scheme of things. It was near unbearable to have the full weight of his own choices draped over his shoulders. How Uncle got through a day without buckling, he didn’t know. 

Hunter jumped into the time pool with both feet. He sank instantly, like a stone in the Boiling Sea. Breaching the surface took a moment, long enough that he pivoted to paddle upwards, against the current, until he was spat out back where – when he belonged. Titan damn it, he thought he’d make it through this horrid experience without making one of those stumbles. 

His head hit free air. Even though he’d only been without it for a few short seconds, he gasped like a selkidomus. He heaved himself out of the pit, considerably dirtier than he’d been when he first entered. The sensation of knowingly passing from one time period to another made his stomach turn. He took a second to just bow his forehead against the dry grass and breathe. 

When he turned so that his back was to the ground, he was met with the sight of a red-eyed bandshee hovering mere inches from his face. Logic abandoned him, and against all reasonable thought, he screamed. 

Obviously, the bandshee fucking screamed back. 

Pure, unfiltered sound. It pierced his eardrums as if it’d been specifically designed to inflict as much pain as possible. He didn’t even have time to slap his palms over his ears before he was instinctually heaving his head back. His skull hit the ground hard, and it truly wasn’t clear whether it was the sheer stimuli or impact that made stars burst beside his eyelids as he lost consciousness.

Later, Philip Wittebane would look over the thing in the med bay wearing his brother’s skin, and he would peek into its mind. He would sense rebellion brewing, earlier than it ever had before, and he would inform Head Witch Snapdragon that his nephew ought to get more sleep, being a growing boy and such. She would nod, understanding, and prescribe him a healthy dose of her Isles-famous tea. By a month, Hunter would remember none of this and before long, everything would be as it was, as if nothing had ever happened.