Chapter Text
Prologue
Three Days Until Deerfest
“Look, it was an accident. A mistake.” Ilmo speaks over the scared muttering of the Cult of the Tree, for the first time regretting his faux nature-cult church. Usually it’s a fun time, a nice backdrop to what they’re doing, but right now he needs to be Ilmo the upstanding community member, not Ilmo the Grandmaster of his own fake-ass cult. He needs these people to trust him more than they ever have. “But we can handle this. We’ve got people in the right positions to handle this. Mulligan and Thornton, you’ll be right there with the FBI guys. I’ll keep an eye on the FBC as per usual. We can guide both of the alphabet soup squads away from anything dangerous.”
“We just pretend we don’t know anything?” Mulligan asks.
“You pretend that you are the dumbest, hickest hick cops that were ever produced. You are gonna play like you don’t know your mouth from your asshole, and if these goons are anything like the usual FBC guys, they’ll eat it right up.” Ilmo speaks with a confidence he doesn’t quite feel.
“What about the FBC? They know there’s something weird with the lake,” Blum asks, the man shifting with nerves but still eager to be included.
“They do, and we don’t know if they’ll be talking to the FBI or what they’ll say.” Ilmo shrugs. “It’ll be all right. Everyone who can, keep away from the government goons. Trust me and Jaakko and Mulligan and Thornton to look out for you.”
Mulligan and Thornton smile at each other, clearly pleased to be included in those who can be trusted. Ilmo almost tells them to knock it off—he’s never been much for authority figures, cops being among them—but decides against it.
Everyone needs all the camaraderie and support they can get right now, and he’s not going to be the one who breaks it.
The Eve of Deerfest
Jaakko’s gone.
Ilmo’s standing over his body, staring at the bloody ruin that had been his brother.
So much blood.
Jaakko isn’t the only one of Ilmo’s people that Scratch killed. From the moment Ilmo made the decision to attack the Lodge—to try to preemptively end this nightmare—things have gone from bad to worse. Aada. Ves. Niklas. Lenni. Peppi.
All dead, torn apart by Scratch while their bullets barely seemed to touch him, their torches and the sunlight both useless.
And Jaakko.
Killed because Ilmo didn’t get him out of here fast enough. Didn’t take care of Wake fast enough.
Ilmo takes his brother’s hand in his, a gesture he’s done thousands of times before, but it’s all wrong. Rigor mortis has already set in, and fingers that should be deft and flexible are rigid as tree branches, cold as a dead motor.
Ilmo’s fault.
He always kills his brother.
Always fails his town.
Fire seems to burn red hot through his chest, and he doubles over, more of Jaakko’s blood getting on his shirt and jacket.
He should probably be crying. That’s what normal people do when they lose everything, right?
But he hasn’t lost everything yet. Watery may be in trouble, but it’s still here, and damned if Ilmo is going to give up before Scratch rips his heart out, too.
The FBI woman comes to talk to him. The Hero. The one that Rose has been waiting for; the one Rose has been leaving messages for, little boxes filled with nonsense that she stuttered out bizarre explanations for when Ilmo pressed her on them.
The woman he’s been holding a cabin for. The friend who lost a daughter. Logan, taken far too soon, and Ilmo loved her as he loves all the children of Watery. Logan’s mother, the woman he shared books with, because despite what people expect he likes to read.
He likes stories.
He’s been trying to get a good ending to this one for ages, to coax Saga back home where she belongs.
Except he didn’t know Saga until the day the FBI rolled into town.
Ilmo leans against the gurney that holds his brother’s body, a hand to his chest, trying to make the burning pain in his heart and the aching agony in his head both subside so that he can make sense of what’s going on.
Saga asks him if the few of his people who survived will help her try to fix everything.
He tells her they will.
What else can he do? The town is his, and he’ll defend it to his dying breath.
Thirty Minutes Before Deerfest
Telling Anderson that he’d bring his people had been a mistake.
They’ve all fought Taken before. They’re good people; sturdy people.
But the number of monsters coming out of Cauldron Lake is like nothing Ilmo has ever seen before. There’s no way anything human can stand against it.
Tor and Odin aren’t exactly human, though, are they? And they’re all right, at least for the moment.
Saga is all right.
Ilmo’s people aren’t.
Consta goes down first. Karl tries to get to her, and then he’s gone, too.
It’s too much.
There aren’t enough of them, and they aren’t powerful enough to matter.
Ilmo calls the retreat, and is surprised and grateful that it’s a more controlled affair than the one that happened after their interrupted ritual.
He gets everyone else out alive.
The wave of darkness catches them before they’ve even had a chance to stash their weapons at the warehouse, though, so maybe it doesn’t really matter, in the end.
Deerfest
It’s wrong.
Everything is wrong.
Ilmo’s chest burns, and Charlie’s eyes as he arranges the camera are dead. Empty.
Charline holds the cue cards for Ilmo, though he knows what he’s supposed to say. He’s never the one who has trouble memorizing his lines—never the one who doesn’t read the script until the day of filming.
Someone else is supposed to be here.
Ilmo’s fingers tighten on the book in his hand. This is what he’s supposed to talk about today. What a wonderful tome it is. How clever and sublime the writing is. How this book will change your life, opening you up to new possibilities.
Wake changed Ilmo’s life, yes.
But not in any way that Ilmo can accept.
“Come on, setä,” Charline coaxes, but it’s wrong, there’s no inflection, no boredom or frustration.
This is not his family.
There’s something missing.
Someone missing.
(So many people missing, he’s lost so much so quickly—)
His chest hurts, and his head hurts, but he needs to shoot this commercial.
For a book that he hasn’t read. He may know things about it, but he’s dead certain he hasn’t read it, and that he doesn’t want anyone else to read it. Instead of following the cue cards, he talks about inane properties. The cover. The back copy.
He talks to a man who is-and-isn’t there.
To Jaakko.
The kids don’t comment.
The world stutters, and Ilmo wants to fight it. Has to fight it. This darkness, it’s anathema to him, the antithesis of what he is, what he works for.
And then he hears him.
Sees him.
Alan Wake.
The man who killed his brother.
And for a few glorious moments, Ilmo and the darkness pressing around him are in glorious concert, dead set on destroying this man who keeps pushing for things he shouldn’t have.
Three Days Until Deerfest
It went wrong.
The ritual went wrong, despite Ilmo being careful. Setting guards. Telling everyone to be cautious.
He knew something was going to go wrong, and still it did.
He should have expected hikers in the woods.
He should have expected that someone else would disobey the signs surrounding the lake that tell everyone to keep out.
He should have—
Jaakko’s hand falls on his arm, and Ilmo looks into his brother’s eyes, which are creased with worry.
Patting Jaakko’s hand, Ilmo says, “It’s all right. We’ll get through this.”
The Cult is busy muttering among themselves, nervous titters of laughter and bitter accusations of fault all mingling together.
Ilmo can’t have his people turning on each other, not now. Now is when they most need a united front. “Look, it was an accident…” he calls, and tries to ignore the sense of deja vu that accompanies the words.
He’s dead certain they’ve never been caught in the middle of a ritual before, and it’s foolish to think they have been.
The Eve of Deerfest
Jaakko’s dead.
Jaakko’s dead, and Ilmo knew it was going to happen.
Not quickly enough. Not with enough certainty. Just a moment’s awareness that Jaakko needed to shut up, be quiet, that his usual calm brother couldn’t afford this display of emotion, but Scratch killed so many of their people—
And then it was too late.
Then there’s just fire in Ilmo’s chest, and pain in his head, and Saga Anderson in all her impossible glory.
The Hero.
The victim.
The Savior.
The friend.
The FBI Woman.
The Watery family member.
I remember playing with your little girl, he wants to shout at her, but he also remembers telling everyone to be wary of these new FBI alphabet soup guys, to never trust a government agent, and it’s too much work to try to straighten it all out.
She asks him for help.
He offers it.
Whether he’s protecting his town or getting vengeance, what else is there to do?
Thirty Minutes Before Deerfest
He shouldn’t have brought his people.
He’s getting them all killed.
He knew it was a bad idea. He dragged his feet. He hesitated. He asked every one, individually, if they were sure they wanted to come.
He organizes their retreat, and only has to leave two bodies behind, but that’s two too many.
When the wave of darkness catches him, it’s almost a relief.
Deerfest
It’s wrong.
Everything is wrong.
He can’t survive like this.
But he doesn’t have to. All he has to do is kill Wake.
If he can just kill Wake, maybe everything will be all right.
Maybe the story won’t take everything from him.
Maybe—
Three Days Until Deerfest
Ilmo hugs his brother.
Jaakko hugs him back, not asking why Ilmo needs the support, simply giving it quietly.
Probably he thinks Ilmo’s upset because the ritual failed. Because they didn’t do what they needed to do.
That’s got to be what’s going on, right?
Anything else is silly.
Certainly fire burning in his chest and the feel of blood warm on his face doesn’t make any sense.
Drawing a deep breath, Ilmo pulls away from his brother. “Showtime,” he says with a smile, and Jaakko gives him one of those you’re ridiculous looks that Ilmo loves so much.
He is ridiculous, but so is their situation, and they’re handling it as best they can.
No one can ask for anything more from them.