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A murder of crows screeches as black feathers fall, breath catching as he rounds the corner only to collide with a lithe body.
“Norton!” Anne gasps, the two helping each other up while simultaneously beelining toward the exit gate. He keeps a firm hand on Anne’s arm while they run, glancing over the nasty cut on her leg as she staggers through a limp.
“Rough landing?” He teases.
Anne grins, “Risky placement.”
“You’ve got to work on those sweet spots.”
“Do you know how hard it is to set that thing up in the perfect spot every time? And this is only my second time at Darkwoods—I’m under pressure here, I’d like to see you try it.”
Darkwoods is new for all of them, leading to graver injuries as they learn to navigate the new arena. The gloomy surrounding atmosphere does little to help, with the hanging cages and river of neon acid; all of it leaves a bitter taste in Norton’s mouth.
He stifles a laugh, their breaths coming out heavy as they run in tandem. Anne is gradually slowing beside him, and Norton has to position her arm over his shoulder to take some of the weight off her wounded leg.
Injuries that limit mobility are the most dreaded in the manor, as all of them are only granted a certain amount of recovery immunity before they’re thrown back into the fray. He knows how much she loathes being bedridden.
“Then it’s decided. Next match, you get my magnet, and I get your catapult.”
Anne hides a painful wince behind her good-natured smile, “And we both get a bloodbath.”
The two spot Lily decoding the exit gate with clumsy fingers as they approach, and Norton doesn’t have to see her face to know her tongue is poking out in concentration. The manor’s newest resident has been struggling to learn the ropes, but when paired with teams that have a surplus of experience she’s learned faster than any other.
Norton takes some credit for that.
Their heavy footsteps give them away, Lily’s body language drooping in noticeable relief as the pair comes into view. She steps aside with frantic panic, “Take over for me!”
Anne is quick to pick up where Lily left off, the redhead supplying words of encouragement while Norton examines their surroundings. It’s a bit unusual for three of them to be at the same gate, though he’s appreciative of the sudden luck. Of course, it isn’t without consequence.
“Did anyone have eyes on Orpheus?”
Norton doesn’t have to be worried, not when Orpheus is as clever as he is, especially under pressure. Though he’d never say it to his face, Norton’s always admired his ability to take care of himself. At least, that’s what he hopes the novelist is doing.
Lily shakes her head with a wry grin, the one she always sports when running on the fumes of terror alone, and Anne is much too concentrated on the keypad to spend any time answering Norton’s question. If Night Watch were coming, his cold winds would’ve found them by now, but the air remains humid and still.
“Anne, when did you last see him?”
The red light above the keypad flicks green, and the concrete doors screech and groan as they slide open. Anne’s eyes flicker to freedom as she speaks, “He was containing in the southern part of the arena, had a good bit of distance too.”
Her chin rises as she leans her head back to examine the two lights above the control screen, one green, signifying their own, and the other a taunting red. All of a sudden, Norton feels like it won’t be the only crimson he’ll see.
Orpheus is still inside.
The prospector isn’t one to recuse in circumstances like this.
Not when the three of them are together at the gate, safety only a few feet away, without a single sign of Night Watch. Maybe if his teammates were different, if Anne wasn’t injured, if he didn’t feel an innate need to make sure one of their youngest survivors got out unharmed. Victory would be obtainable in a matter of seconds, but Orpheus is still inside.
He feels sickened and excited all at once.
If Orpheus is with Night Watch, then he’s likely been containing him for over half the match. That, or he’s bleeding out somewhere, possibly even strapped to a chair. The novelist hadn’t sent any signals, his unknown whereabouts giving Norton the disadvantage.
They’d fought just last week about prioritizing a win. His scar starts to itch.
Anne knows what he’s thinking before he’s even said it. The pair spends too much time together.
“Norton.” It’s her only plea, she won’t ask anything of him directly. She knows, perhaps more than anyone. There’s nothing that can be done when it comes to Orpheus. And Norton, selfish Norton who wouldn’t usually risk it, would like the chance to argue with him again.
“You two get a head start, okay? I’m right behind you.”
Lily looks at him, confused, surely aware of his reputation though they’ve only played a few matches together. A clock ticks in the back of his head, and Orpheus could be bleeding somewhere—Orpheus, bleeding through his fine clothes, in pain.
“Go!”
Norton’s already running, preparing the magnet strapped to his waist, the only one he has left. Pillars of fire pass him by in a blur and he resists the urge to scratch at his scar, gritting his teeth as an empty rocker chair comes into view.
He finds another, and a third, before tripping over a root extended beyond one of the looming trees. Except, the root moves back with a hiss, and the root is Orpheus’s leg.
Norton finally remembers to breathe, shallow and worn.
The novelist sits tucked between a pile of logs and a dilapidated wall, smaller than Norton’s ever seen him, thick crimson coating one half of his face. He blinks at Norton through the blood, eyebrows furrowed and voice coming out slurred, “What are you doing here?”
Orpheus is unlike any other when it comes to staying levelheaded in moments of high stress, but his voice twinges with worry and something awfully akin to fear. Norton, having never wished to comfort someone so fiercely before, lets his whim possess him.
He reaches out a gloved hand to cradle Orpheus’s unblemished cheek, running his thumb over the warm skin before reigning himself in and retreating. He waits for the novelist to question the gesture, but Orpheus just stares, half alive.
“Can’t you tell? I’m here to save you, Orphy.”
He only uses the nickname because he knows how much it bothers the brunette, probing for a response that lets Norton know he’s not three minutes from death. Said response doesn’t come, and Norton feels fear manifest so deeply within him it’s like he’s swallowed a stone
“Where’s Night Watch? Can you move?”
Orpheus shakes his head weakly, lifting a trembling hand to point in the direction of the exit gate on the opposite side of the arena. “He couldn’t find me, took off that way a little while ago to look for the others. He’ll be back soon, so get out of here.”
Norton has never listened to Orpheus before, like hell he’d start now.
After a scan of their surroundings, he reaches into the crevice the novelist has hidden himself in, pulling him out and only stopping when the younger man grunts behind closed lips.
“What are you doing?” Norton should be happy that the question lacks its usual bite, but the prospector mourns it.
In this position, he can see the blood isn’t just coming from the gash on Orpheus’s forehead. It’s soaked through the fabric covering his left arm and stomach, staining it with a crimson that appears black in the night.
Fatal wounds, if not treated immediately.
“Bear with me.”
They hobble along side by side at first, Orpheus’s hand applying pressure on his stomach wound while his other hangs over Norton’s shoulder. His hair is in disarray for the first time since they’ve met, undoubtedly ruffled by Night Watch’s summoned wind. If Norton wasn’t scared shitless, he’d tease him about it.
Orpheus’s walk is sluggish and his steps drag, slowing them down to a speed that gives their peruser all the time in the world to catch up.
“Norton, he won’t kill me.”
The novelist always sounds like he knows what’s best just because he talks with the certainty of a man who’s never been wrong. Admittedly there is truth behind his words, no hunter has ever killed before, but Orpheus is growing paler by the minute and Norton knows how fast blood can leave the body.
The brunette struggles, “Norton.” His grip tightens, sweating palms holding Orpheus upright with a strength that might bruise.
“Norton!”
The outburst should’ve caused him to give in, should’ve awoken him to reason, should’ve given Orpheus what he thinks he wants. But the night around them is obsidian and the Darkwoods is such a haunting place to be abandoned in and Norton can’t bear even the slightest thought of leaving Orpheus in the dirt while he sprints to victory.
So he sprints to victory, with a pale and shaking figure now secured in both arms.
Night Watch, probably only seconds away from reaching the exit gate they’d previously deciphered, is nowhere in sight as the gate comes into view. It doesn’t give him the slightest impression of safety, hairs raising as his heart hiccups from how hard it pounds.
Norton won’t allow his guard to drop, heaving as his steps pound against the dirt. Cold wind crawls along beside him, the cruel sllliiinnkk! of sharp metal blades singing through the night like a death knell.
It’s all the warning he gets, footing unsteady as Orpheus’s dead weight bumps against his chest. Norton knows the novelist has lost consciousness, or else he’d be demanding to be let down, angry and sharp and prepared to bleed out just to save face.
Norton misses the sound of his anger, as at least it would be his sound.
The exit gate is there, only a few harrowing feet away, and it’s in moments like this that he wants to ask their pursuer, how much is a win to you? What happens to you if you lose?
Norton struggles to hold Orpheus with one arm, maneuvering his other to their last hope. Another pair of footsteps echoes his own, gaining on them too quickly. Norton holds his breath despite how his lungs cry, waiting for the exact moment.
They’ll breach the gate in only a few steps as the shadow of Night Watch’s axe grows tall over his head, preparing to strike. It’s at that moment that Norton deploys his last magnet, grunting behind clenched teeth as they tumble over the safety line.
Norton holds Orpheus closer than he’s ever held any gold.
✶
Patience is a virtue the prospector will never perfect.
“I can’t believe you got away with that.” Ganji leans on the table across from Norton’s chair, eyebrows furrowed and mouth twisted into a grin.
“Because he didn’t. Look at the state of his back!”
Norton’s silent while Anne fusses over his wound, the staggering line Night Watch carved into his back burning so terribly he can’t bear to unclench his jaw long enough to speak. He was hoping no one would notice it for a little while, at least until Emily had finished directing her full attention to Orpheus’s wounds, but the gash runs from shoulder to hip and the blood gave it all away.
Emily kicked him out of the med bay without noticing, and now he sits in a chair outside the door as the blood dries into the fabric of his clothes, wondering how long it’s going to take before he hears news of Orpheus’s condition. It would take a mountain to move him in the meantime. Or possibly a William.
“It’s not as deep as it looks,” He grits out, testing out a smile and promptly giving up when all he can manage is a grimace.
Luckily for him, Anne—who’s always considerate and seldom brash—cares little for Emily’s strict instruction when one of her friends is wounded. She’d marched right back into the med bay after being kicked out alongside Norton, only returning with the right supplies to tend to his back to the best of her ability.
Her tone is soothing and sorry, “This is going to sting.”
The alcohol is cold for only a few merciful seconds, then his back catches fire and he fears his teeth have cracked in his mouth from how hard his jaw snaps shut. Norton’s body temperature climbs, sweat droplets accumulating on his skin, eyes lulling closed as pain overtakes him.
“I thought Orpheus was the injured one?”
Norton’s eyes snap open, dragging around the hallway until he spots Vera a good ten feet away. He’s surprised she managed to get even this close to the med bay, her sensitive nose a strong deterrent from any sort of medical supplies.
Norton wants to laugh. Despite her lack of visible interest and uncaring demeanor, she’s worried about them.
“It’s just a scratch,” He reassures.
Norton thinks Vera an amusing little creature, wondering if she knows how transparent her confident persona is. The perfumer becomes a better actress by the hour, but there are moments like these where there’s nowhere for her to hide, and Norton finds nothing but paranoia and a guilty conscience.
He doesn’t think she’s learned yet that no one at the manor is out to get her.
“It doesn’t look like one.”
Norton tries to smile at her, “How could you tell, standing all the way over there?”
Vera rolls her eyes, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Norton doesn’t feel like annoying her, not when he can hardly see her face from how often his vision blurs in and out.
He continues, “Don’t torture yourself. Nobody needs a nose-blind bloodhound.”
Her voice sharpens, “How many times have I told you to stop calling me a dog?”
Anne begins wrapping the wound, and Norton winces around a muffled laugh. Vera can only bear to take two steps in his direction at the sound before retreating.
“…I’ll tell the others you’re still alive enough to be a nuisance.”
“Thanks.” He means it, though it reeks with sarcasm.
“And Orpheus?”
Norton looks down at the polished wooden floors beneath him. It’s a question he’d beg to know the answer to, but the clinic door remains shut and he wouldn’t dare disturb Emily while she’s stitching. He mulls over the idea of lying, of promising all will be well even though he’s witnessed the severity of Orpheus’s wounds.
Or he could tell the truth. Norton doesn’t think he could stomach it.
Anne, always present in his time of need, takes the weight off his shoulders, “He’ll make it through, he just needs time.”
Norton feels like the toy merchant was saying it to him more than Vera, and he’s grateful. Vera nods, and then she’s off to play messenger.
✶
The air in the clinic is consistently stale, dust sitting so still that Norton disobeys Emily’s strict rules and pries the window open. The wind blows in as Orpheus blinks his eyes open for the first time, his breath deep and staggered. Norton waits, the stitches on his back pulling from how quickly he returns to the novelist’s bedside.
Orpheus doesn’t seem near fully conscious, his severe head wound likely the reason, but he still manages to look angry.
“Norton.” He knows it’s meant to have bite, but lacks the necessary energy.
Norton, despite clearly being scolded, can’t help but smile.
Instead of responding, he peeks his head out the clinic door, finding Luca passing through and telling him to get Emily. The brunette understands Norton’s expression immediately, shoving him aside to greet Orpheus before doing as requested.
“How’re you feeling?”
Orpheus doesn’t answer for a while, seemingly getting a feel for the condition of his body. Norton never should’ve expected the novelist to respond.
“Anne and Lily?”
“They’re fine, nothing major.”
The injury on Anne’s leg was treated before Norton had even returned to the manor, and should be healed easily after a few days of bed rest. Orpheus seems pleased to hear this, eyes softening before closing again.
“Emily will be here soon, so don’t go to sleep.”
As if the novelist would ever listen to him. His grey eyes remain closed, breaths softening. Norton goes to wake him again, but his job is taken by a little brown bird that perches suddenly on the open windowsill. It chirps and sings in the direction of Orpheus’s bed, effectively rousing him.
Neither of them speak for a little while.
Orpheus, fixated on the little bird, seems adamant in being awake to listen to its song. When he speaks he does so quietly enough that it’s almost unintelligible, but Norton has every sense keenly tuned in to the brunette on the bed.
“A nightingale.”
There’s a bit of wonder in his tone, something shining in the man’s eyes that reveals a rare sort of happiness.
Without looking away, Orpheus speaks again, “I’m tired, Norton.” It’s a confession he’d thought he’d never hear, a moment of weakness so scarcely shown that Norton nearly grabs a pen and paper and writes the words down even though he’d never forget them.
He doesn’t dare speak, rightfully assuming there’s more to be said.
“And I think I could find it if I leave this place."
Orpheus won’t look away from the nightingale, and Norton won’t look away from Orpheus.
“Find what?” He whispers.
The novelist is clearly not in the right state of mind, and Norton feels a little guilty for prying this bit of information out of him. Of course, he’s never been hesitant with his selfishness before.
“A slow life.”
Everyone comes to the manor for something. Something that’s never granted, something that’s kept only a match away every time. Some residents are luckier than others, some have pieces of what they desire revealed in scraps, getting addicted to it, the grand puzzle. Some choose to believe they aren’t trapped here.
Everyone comes for something, but after all these years, most of them hardly believe in it anymore. A family, forged through bloodshed and forced trust, relying on each other because their lives depend on it. Everything starts to blur.
Norton never would’ve thought Orpheus wants to leave. Orpheus wants to leave, and he hasn’t found what he’s looking for yet, hasn’t solved it. He doesn’t want to play anymore. The gears begin to turn.
Emily’s heels click down the hall, pushing the clinic door open. The nightingale on the windowsill scatters at the sound, releasing a startled cry as it flies out of sight. Orpheus’s expression reveals the slightest hint of disappointment, and Norton thinks for a brash moment that he could abandon his dream to be a bird catcher if only it’d bring that soft expression back.
“What did I tell you about the window?” She scolds, coming to Orpheus’s side as she begins checking over him. Norton goes to close it, not wanting to upset her.
“Is he alright?”
Emily seems tired, “I don’t know, I’ve hardly been here for one minute. Why don’t you go get something for him to eat?”
Norton knows she only wants him out of her hair, but Orpheus has been out for nearly two days, so he must be starving. Sparing one last look at the dozing novelist, Norton leaves the clinic with a promise, “I’ll be right back.”
✶
Orpheus doesn’t mention it again. For Norton, it haunts.
The novelist is hardly healed from his wounds when he’s reaped again. Norton finds himself in Emily’s office the day before, leaning against the window frame that overlooks the garden. Orpheus sits alone on a stone bench, scratching something illegible into his journal and only ever lifting his head when a bird wanders in.
“You want me to drug him, Norton. Is this what you’ve come to?”
The space between Norton’s eyebrows crinkles, looking away from the novelist as he bites, “Don’t make it sound like I’m trying to hurt him. He can’t go in there like that, not when it takes him five minutes just to catch his breath after walking up a flight of stairs. He’s not ready.”
Emily is quiet. Norton has hope that the tides have shifted in his favor.
“No one has ever tried this before. You can’t be sure that it’ll work.”
It’s not a refusal. Norton breathes a sigh of relief, looking back down at Orpheus who has his head raised toward the towering stone gate. The prospector follows his line of sight and finds a little red bird hopping along, its song so crisp and clear that it can be heard from inside.
The cause is worthy.
“Norton.”
He looks back at the doctor, her expression calm like still water, seeing through him.
“He may never forgive you.”
She’s not trying to dissuade him, but rather gauging his reaction to the possibility. There is no doubt in Norton’s mind that the novelist will be angry, but for how long is unknown. When he blinks he’s back in Darkwoods, when Orpheus was quiet, half-dead, of how he wished he would be angry instead.
“I appreciate your help, Emily.”
✶
When Vera sees him instead of Orpheus, she scoffs.
“And you call me a dog.”
Norton pinches her side, causing her to release a startled sound that morphs into an angry complaint which the prospector responds to with a snicker.
Right now, he’s preparing for the match, and Orpheus is sound asleep in Emily’s clinic. There was a chance that the plan wouldn’t have worked, that the novelist would’ve been suspicious of what the doctor was injecting for his pain, but the trust the manor residents have built for one another is unyielding.
Today, it was betrayed. Norton thinks everyone would agree that it’s for the greater good.
The high from the successful switch propels him in the match, containing The Ripper with ease while his teammates decode. Vera catches his blade in her thigh toward the end, managing to limp toward the gate to reunite with her teammates for the final stretch. Norton carries her the rest of the way, back to the manor and up the stairs to the clinic despite her strong protests.
He’d expected Orpheus would be waiting, ready to berate him, but even when he’s pushed out of the clinic for hovering, the novelist doesn’t appear. Knowing that he should’ve been awake by now, Norton starts searching.
The garden is empty, as is the kitchen and living room. When Norton asks around, no one has seen him. This leaves one more possibility.
The prospector stares at the wood of Orpheus’s door for what feels like hours, following the winding wood grain with his eyes. Here, in the quiet of the hallway, Norton can almost decipher the distinct sound of a pen rapidly scratching paper. His heart beats faster than it did when The Ripper was at his heels.
He knocks twice, and the scratching comes to an abrupt stop. Chair legs screech against hardwood, footsteps approaching faster than Norton can prepare himself for, until the door is ripped open and Orpheus grabs a fistful of his shirt.
He shoves the prospector, until his back meets the hallway wall, forearm coming down on Norton’s throat.
“Don’t speak,” The novelist warns. Norton thinks the lining around his eyes is a little too pink, that his voice is gritty in a way that isn’t entirely anger. His heart drops into his stomach at the same time it flutters, and the gravity of his decision finally sets in.
“I’m going to tell you, although you probably already know, that you’re an idiot, Norton Campbell. And I despise you. Do you get that?”
They’ve fought like this before, on countless occasions. Never has Norton feared that Orpheus actually meant anything he said. This time, it’s possible. He stares down at the novelist’s face, unblinking, hardly breathing.
“And I’m not going to forgive you for what you did today.”
This, he’d already known. Orpheus’s face wavers, his biting expression overwhelmed with a rare moment of vulnerability before it hardens again.
“If you had…” The novelist can’t seem to go on, his clenched teeth opening as he sucks in a shaky breath, looking away from Norton’s for the first time. The prospector watches his throat bob as he swallows, watches a foreign wetness glaze Orpheus’s eyes.
He can’t help himself, “Orpheus—“
“If you had gotten hurt out there, when it was supposed to be me, if you had…” The novelist has yet to look up to him. Norton wants nothing more than to tilt his chin up to remind him that he’s here, but he feels it’s important to let Orpheus speak.
“Then what would I do? How would I…” Whatever weight these thoughts had on the novelist’s mind becomes too heavy to hold, and Orpheus’s head drops, forehead finding home on Norton’s chest. The prospector wraps his arms around him without hesitance, wishing to distribute some pain, this burden. Never had he dreamed he’d witness such a sight.
For a while, Norton simply holds him. Orpheus doesn’t make a sound, but his tense shoulders hitch every now and then, and the wetness seeping through his shirt alarms him to the fact that the novelist is crying.
“I’m sorry for worrying you, Orpheus, but I’m not sorry for what I did.”
He never would be. This was a promise.
Orpheus lifts his head, angry through tears, “You have to be. You have to be sorry and swear you’ll never do it again.”
Norton wastes no time, looking straight into those watery eyes, “I’m not. I’m not sorry, I won’t swear. If it had been you out there today, with your injuries… Don’t you understand? And what would I have done?”
It’s the closest to a confession they’re ever going to get. The hands Orpheus has clenched onto the fabric covering Norton’s chest twist, a desperate sight, and the two have come to an impasse.
Norton will do what it takes to keep Orpheus safe, because he loves him. Orpheus hates him for this because he loves him too. Isn’t their fate in stone already?
Norton raises both hands, cradling Orpheus’s cheek, thumbs swiping away rogue tears. He guides the novelist closer, until he can press his lips just above the spot between his brow where they linger for a long while.
He speaks against the skin after pulling away, “I want to give it to you, that slow life.”
Orpheus stiffens, like he’s surprised, as if he confessed that day with no intention of Norton ever caring enough to remember it. His wide eyes look up at the prospector, still drenched in pain, growing warmer. He dares the smallest hint of a smile.
Orpheus returns to the prospector’s embrace, laying his cheek against his collarbone, arms wrapping around his sturdy torso.
In the dim light of the hallway, listening to the steady rhythm of Norton’s heart, Orpheus finds that time feels impossibly infinite. For the first time, he doesn’t concern himself with finding something to say, although if he did manage to speak, it would be so short and so quiet in fear of disrupting this sacred, separate peace.
You already have.