Chapter Text
The wind howls through the trees. Perched on a branch, an owl hoots, then takes off into the starry night. The moon shines, far above the forest and all its creatures, baring its teeth with a crescent smile at the ground below. Any other night, its pale light would be a comfort to those who are wandering through the foliage, lost and uncertain of the path home. Tonight, though, the moon’s grin is eerie. It knows something that no one else does.
There is a person standing in the center of the forest. Their face is shrouded by the hood of their dark cloak, which flutters around them as the wind blows. They stand on a flat rock, face turned to the sky. Eyes lifted to the moon. They do not move. They do not speak. They just watch the moon, in the same way that it is watching them.
A stick cracks, somewhere deeper into the trees, and their fingers twitch where their hands are loose at their sides. Almost imperceptibly, they cock their head to the side, ears perked. There is no more movement, as if they are the only one left in the forest. They know better, though. The moon would not be watching so intently if it was not entertained, and the cloaked person has long since stopped being entertaining.
They don’t bother trying to find the mysterious stranger who insists on being so…difficult. Anyone who can remain as quiet as the stranger can would be near impossible to find, especially when the moon prefers to let the game play out before it, rather than lending its help. Even if they tore the forest apart, from North to South, they would never find a single other soul.
The stranger must be long gone, by now. Disappointing—they are not a patient person, as much as they try. But no, this is only a temporary setback. They will see the stranger again. After all, the moon claims everyone in time, and it is always willing to watch and wait.
— / — / —
The morning feels more dreary than usual. Instead of golden sunlight streaming through the curtains and falling onto Scar’s face, pulling him gently into wakefulness, the world outside is gray. Where the moon would normally be a ghostly white against the robin’s-egg sky, making its gradual descent towards the horizon, it’s hidden today by layers upon layers of swirling clouds, dark and ominous.
Scar wakes up slowly, and with an uncanny feeling of being watched. The instant his eyes are open, a pit forms in his stomach, and it’s difficult to force himself to untangle his limbs from the blankets and sit up in his bed.
There’s no one in his room. Scar doesn’t know why he had expected to see someone—or something. Any sort of presence, maybe not breathing, but certainly living. His eyes, still heavy with the gravity of sleep, drift almost subconsciously to the window. He suppresses a shiver that seems to come out of nowhere.
The first thing Scar does when he finally coaxes himself to get up and start his day is to draw the curtains shut, concealing the outside from his view. Or, perhaps, concealing himself from the outside.
His morning after that is, for the most part, entirely average. Brush his teeth, wash his face. Pull a heavy cape over his shoulders—it’s been oddly cold, this year, for summer—and begin to load up his tattered satchel that he’s had since he was much smaller. Slip on his shoes, maybe grab a bruised apple for breakfast on the way out. Pick up his cane and let it settle comfortably in his hand, give his cat Jellie a few scratches between her ears, and he’s off.
The feeling of being watched is worse, now that he’s outside and not protected by four walls and some sheer curtains. He hunches his shoulders as he walks, trying not to appear quite so anxious as he feels. Somehow, he thinks that betraying his fear would make it worse.
Normally, he takes the path through the forest to get to his job in the village. It’s the quickest route; going around the dense collection of trees would take far more time than he’s willing to budget. Cleo is a kind boss, but she doesn’t like it when Scar is late.
Today, though, is a different story. Because when Scar stops at the edge of the forest, just before the tall grasses give way to even taller trees, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The same feeling as earlier, in his bedroom and on his trek thus far, but amplified until he couldn’t possibly ignore it or write it off as leftover paranoia from the events of his past. It catches him entirely off guard, and instinctively, he presses a hand against his chest as if that will stop anything from peering through his skin and into his soul.
For a moment, Scar genuinely considers turning on his heel and marching back home. Cleo wouldn’t be happy, but it would be arguably better than forging onwards in these conditions. Even taking the time to circle around the forest may not be worth the danger.
But…Cleo has done so much for him, since he arrived at their doorstep, bloodied and bruised, face damp with tears and sweat and the rain that fell from the heavens, that day. They took him in when no one else would, gave him food to eat and a place to sleep, and a job so he could someday provide those things for himself. She saved his life, all those years ago. The very least he can do for her in return is to not make her run the shop alone. Especially when his only reason to not show up is…what? Some misplaced paranoia? A sense of danger that permeates all of his senses? Something so intangible he could be imagining it?
Scar sets his jaw and hikes his satchel further up on his shoulders. It’s just a forest, after all—the same forest he’s walked through nearly every day for two years, now, to get to the job that he’s had for almost twice that. Nothing about this is new. He’s made this journey a million times. There’s no reason that anything bad will happen, at this point. He just has to…start walking.
With gritted teeth and hunched shoulders, Scar forges onward.
The outside world seems to disappear as soon as he enters the trees. It’s morning, so the air should be full of twittering birds and rustling bushes, but there’s nothing. Nothing at all. Just the sound of Scar’s footsteps mingling with the tapping of his cane on the crooked dirt path.
He grips the leather strap of his satchel, knuckles turning white, as he glances wildly around him like he’ll find the source of the eyes that linger on the back of his neck. The trees are close enough together that the leaves block out the sky above, casting a shadow that makes the gloomy day even darker. The branches above him reach out like gnarled fingers, as if they’re trying to catch him and trap him here, deep in the forest.
Scar swallows harshly and speeds up, hyperaware of the silence that seems to descend like a shroud. His heartbeat echoes in his ears, almost painfully loud compared to the quiet of the forest, and he has to actively focus to stop himself from breaking into a dead sprint as fast as his cane will allow him. The only thing that keeps him at a steady face, for the most part, is the knowledge that running would betray his fear. And somehow, deep in his bones, Scar has a feeling that he wouldn’t make it out of this forest if he tried to run.
Still, though, he can’t keep his feet from moving faster, cane working overtime to keep up. His eyes dart around him, squinting at the spaces between the greenery. A root from a nearby tree snatches his ankle, and he stumbles, cursing the forest under his breath. He can’t shake the feeling that, between the reaching branches and the twisted roots, the forest is trying to keep him here.
Breaking out of the forest and finally coming across the beginning of the village feels like taking his first real breath in months. He gasps for air, stars speckled in his vision. He’s not entirely sure that his lungs were functioning correctly, back in the forest, as if the trees had slowly been smothering him to death.
Scar presses his palm flat against his chest. His heart thumps beneath his touch, still too quick. The more he breathes, though, the more it slows, and Scar eventually feels calm enough to continue his journey.
The village doesn’t start gradually, with a smattering of small cottages and shops. Rather, it springs up all at once. Scar rounds a small lake—the lake where Cleo taught him to fish, years ago—and crests a sloping hill, and the village is just there, in all its glory. A paved street lined with stones stretches down the center. It’s decorated with clumps of people flitting from one shop to the next, chatting amongst each other, moving around in a nearly rehearsed dance. It’s become familiar to Scar, after working here for so long, and having lived here before that.
He joins the choreography with ease, sidestepping the passerby in his way, giving a friendly nod to the travelers that never seem to stay anywhere for long, greeting people with a wide grin and a wave. And, for a moment, he forgets about the way the world is watching him.
“Scar!” a voice shouts, and Scar grins when someone pats his shoulder as they pass. “Glad to see you!”
“Ah, look who decided to show their face! How are ya, Scar?”
“Never should’ve moved away, Scar, we’ve missed visiting your place!”
“Scar,” a familiar voice calls his name, and Scar’s smile widens as he turns to the sound.
“Lizzie,” he welcomes easily, and Lizzie’s bright eyes crinkle. “Fancy seeing you here. How is Joel?”
Joel, Lizzie’s husband. Scar was there when they got married a few months ago, back in the spring; the entire village was. It had been a magical day, with flowers just beginning to bloom. It was the first time all spring that the sky was clear of rain.
“He’s doing well, thank you,” Lizzie informs him, brushing her hair back out of her eyes with one hand. With the other, she carries a large roll of fabric, balanced easily on her hip. “We’ve been quite busy with the shop, lately. Everyone is coming in for the winter rush far earlier than usual.”
Lizzie and Joel run a tailor shop, together, one that started in Joel’s family and that Lizzie joined when they began to live together. Scar doesn’t know a better tailor than Joel, and Lizzie is well on her way to surpassing him.
Scar hums in response to Lizzie’s words. “It’s been colder than usual, this year,” he remarks. “The winter is going to be long.”
“It will be long,” Lizzie agrees, then grins at Scar. “As much as I’d love to stay and chat, I believe you’re quite late?”
“Am I?” Scar digs through his satchel, fingers closing around the chain of his pocket watch. He hisses upon glancing at it, wincing at the time. “Ah. So I am.”
“You’d better hurry,” Lizzie teases lightly, nudging Scar’s arm. “Last I saw, Cleo was already getting impatient, and you know just as well as I do how they can be.”
“Yes.” Scar sighs, frazzled, as he tucks his watch back into his satchel. “I…should get going, shouldn’t I.”
“Oh, certainly,” Lizzie assures him cheerfully. “Or you’ll be on cleaning duty today!”
“She would never,” Scar dismisses with a wave of his hand. “She knows what happened the last time.” Lizzie cringes, and he knows she remembers, as well. “I’ll be off, then. Give Joel my regards?”
“Always,” Lizzie promises, and they part ways with a warm embrace and a wave.
Coming up on the bookstore where Scar spends most of his time while in the village, Scar can see Cleo flitting from shelf to shelf through the window. He can already see the evidence of his tardiness; there’s a pile of books strewn haphazardly on the desk, and the door isn’t propped open like it usually is. While this could be a result of the chilly weather, Scar can tell from the note of urgency in Cleo’s movements that she hasn’t yet opened the store for the day.
He grimaces, hot guilt settling deep in his stomach. He pushes open the door, and Cleo straightens from where they’re shelving books when they hear the bell on the door ring brightly.
“We’re not open yet,” they call over their shoulder without bothering to turn around. “Slow start this morning.” Their words are clipped, short.
Scar exhales. “Yes, that may be my fault,” he admits, and Cleo turns around Her eyes darken when they land on him, and she sets down the stack of books in her arms. Scar gives her a nervous grin as she stalks closer to him, hands propped on her hips. “Hi, Cleo,” he says sheepishly.
“Scar.” Cleo’s voice is dangerous. “What time is it?”
Scar winces. “Ah—late. I know. I’m late. I’m sorry.” His words are genuine, but Cleo isn’t yet appeased. They cross their arms, eyes piercing through his skin.
“Mhm,” they agree. “Late. Care to explain?”
He drags a hand down his face, repressing a long, tired sigh. “It’s not a particularly good excuse,” he warns her, but Cleo just lifts an eyebrow. She gestures for him to continue. “This morning, I felt a bit…odd, I suppose, for lack of a better word. And it stuck with me. It got worse when I entered the forest.”
Cleo’s eyebrows draw together. “Odd, you say,” they parrot slowly. “Odd how?”
“Like—like someone was watching me. I nearly didn’t come in today, at all,” Scar confesses. Cleo’s eyes widen, and in an instant, they’re bustling over to Scar.
“You? Taking a day off? Unheard of, I believe.” Their words are light, but there’s an undeniable hint of truth. They’ve tried to convince Scar to take days off, before. Scar has always refused. He owes them for far too much.
“Very funny,” he responds dryly. “But—yes, I almost turned around.” He huffs out a small laugh, and he knows that Cleo can tell it’s not entirely genuine. “Woke up feeling off, I suppose.”
Cleo’s irritation has dissolved into blatant concern, now, and she moves closer to him. “Come to think of it, you are looking pale, today. Are you feeling all right?” She cups his face in her hands. Going up on her toes, she presses her lips against Scar’s forehead, checking his temperature in an almost motherly way. Scar just lets her, not speaking until she pulls away, lips pursed.
“I…don’t feel very well.” He hadn’t realized, not until they brought it up, but he feels strangely shaky. His legs feel weaker beneath him, and there’s a pit in his stomach that’s been slowly deepening since he woke up. He feels lightheaded, as well, as if his body doesn’t entirely belong to him.
“Scar?”
Scar blinks back to reality. Cleo’s hands are squeezing his, now, and they look genuinely worried in a way that he doesn’t often see them. He swallows and mumbles a distant apology, and Cleo scrutinizes him for a moment before setting their jaw. “Right. You take the desk today, then. Don’t strain yourself, understood? The last thing I need is for you to get ill, today.”
A small smile spreads across Scar’s face. “Yes, Mom,” he recites obediently. “Anything you say, Mom.”
“Brat,” Cleo accuses. “This is what I get for taking you in, apparently.”
“You love me!” Scar calls, already moving towards the desk.
He hears Cleo sigh, long and drawn out, and admit, “I do.” Her tone sharpens. “Don’t think you’re off the hook for being late, though! I’m waiting until you’re less sickly to scold you!”
“I’d never assume differently.” He lowers himself into the chair with a groan, leaning his cane up against the desk.
Cleo hums, pleased. “Good. While we’re waiting for customers, would you mind going through that stack of books beside you? I need you to rebind any that need it.”
Scar’s gaze moves to the books on the ground next to the desk, and his eyes widen. He wouldn’t call that a stack, per se. More of a monstrous pile, shoved into a heap so it wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. “Cleo,” he groans, “that’ll take forever.”
“Consider it your punishment for being late,” Cleo tells him, thoroughly unrepentant. “Best get to work, Scar, or you’ll be here after dark.”
The thought of being forced to walk back home through the forest in the middle of the night makes Scar’s chest tighten, and he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. “Right,” he agrees, trying not to betray his dry throat. “Wouldn’t want that.” Any humor he tries to inject into his tone is lost, and Cleo watches him closely.
“You’d stay here overnight, of course,” they tell him, and Scar’s shoulders drop from where they’ve slowly raised to his ears.
“Of course,” Scar repeats after them, sighing. “Thanks, Cleo. I’ll get started on all of this.”
“Good. I’ll be in the back if you need me.”
Cleo disappears into the back, where all of the books that they can’t keep up front are stored. Rare books, that would be at risk of being stolen up front. Ancient books, that are too delicate to be touched by a million customers, coming and going. Plus, the other books, for only the people who can sense that they’re there. The ones that only Cleo is allowed to touch, for Scar’s safety.
Scar flexes his fingers and picks up the first book from the pile on the floor.
Customers start to come and go, one by one, or in groups of twos and threes. Some he knows and greets with the appropriate familiarity, and some he doesn’t. Most of them don’t need his assistance, but when one does, he sets down the book and helps them with a smile.
At some point, Scar has worked through nearly a quarter of the books he needs to rebind. It’s slow going, but not all of the books need to be rebound, and he’s gotten good at it over the years he’s worked here. It was one of the first things Cleo taught him to do.
He finishes binding another book and sets it off to the side. He can’t honestly say that he feels better; his head spins each time he bends down to get a book from the floor, and his chest still feels unnaturally tight. But sitting at the desk, working on something that’s become mindless and repetitive after so long, gives him some semblance of relief.
Gritting his teeth against the spike of dizziness, Scar reaches for another book. Just as he’s moving, the bell over the door rings, and someone approaches the counter.
“I was told this was the bookstore?” Their voice is smooth, unhurried, but in a way that makes it sound like their composure is forced. There’s a hint of tension in their tone, and an almost perfectly concealed tremor.
Scar’s fingers close around the next book. “Yes, that’s correct,” he confirms, still hidden behind the desk. “How can I help you today?” He straightens up, and freezes. His grip on the book slackens.
Magic is rare. Most people never come across someone who can wield it more than once in their life. Maybe twice, if they’re lucky—or not lucky, depending on who you meet. Truthfully, it could be more than that, since the average person couldn’t identify a wielder to save their life. For good reason; wielders are trained to remain secretive, for more than just one reason, but the main one is that people are wary of them. They’re dangerous, and even the ones who aren’t can be if they so desire. But no one expects to come across a wielder, and no one can tell when they do, anyways, so people tend to not worry.
Scar traces a thin white line on his face, circling from the corner of one eye down to the edge of his mouth in a crescent, skimming his jaw. Yes, magic is rare, and easy to conceal, but Scar has long since been forced to learn how to recognize it.
The stranger in front of him is a wielder, and the instant Scar meets his eyes, the feeling he’s had all day—dizzy, shaky, Watched—triples.
People say that there’s no way to identify a wielder, but Scar knows better. When Cleo finally convinced him to tell her why he was bleeding from a long gash on his face the day they met, she instantly began to teach him the most obvious signs.
Scar runs through them in his mind. Slightly pointed teeth. Constant fidgeting in the hands and fingers, from an excess of magic. Hardly blinking, shallower breathing. And, perhaps the most incriminating, a subtle glow in the irises, invisible unless you know what to look for.
The stranger isn’t speaking, so Scar can’t see his teeth. His hands are concealed beneath a winter cloak. Blinking and breathing patterns are inconsistent from person to person. But the eyes—the eyes.
Scar swallows harshly. The stranger’s eyes glimmer with an almost imperceptible but still haunting sheen of violet.
“I’m searching for a book,” the stranger informs him, and Scar would think that he’s unaware of Scar’s turbulent thoughts if not for the way his eyes narrow slightly before his expression smooths. “Nowhere I’ve searched has had it. I’m hoping that this store may be the one.” The stranger gives him a wry smile. “Though, truthfully, my hopes are not high. Can you help me?”
Scar has to pinch his arm to force himself to focus. “Right,” he manages, head still reeling. “Of course, yes—ah, do you have the book’s title? Or a description?”
The stranger hums. “I’ve been told that it’s titled The Art of Watching.” Scar’s breath catches. He resists the urge to let his gaze slide to the window, where the clouds are concealing the sky, as if he’ll be able to see the moon’s eyes on him. “But I recently learned that this could be misinformation.”
Scar swallows—once, twice—painfully aware of his heartbeat. “Well, we’ll see what we can do for you, here.” The stranger’s smile is thin-lipped. Scar swivels in his seat and calls, “Cleo, do we have a book called—called The Art of Watching anywhere?” He breathes, and then tacks on, “It would probably be in the back, if anything.” The back. Where they keep rare books, ancient books, and books on magic.
“Not that I know of.” The response comes too quickly for Cleo to have possibly checked, but Scar trusts it anyways. If there’s anything he’s learned over the years, it’s to never doubt Cleo when they say that they do or don’t have a book. Somehow, Cleo just always seems to know.
Scar returns his focus to the stranger. “I’m sorry, sir, it appears we don’t have it,” he says as calmly as he can manage.
The stranger hisses something—a curse, perhaps—under his breath, in a language that Scar doesn’t recognize, but that makes him shiver with its grating sound. “How could you possibly know for sure?” he demands, eyes sparking violet. Scar very valiantly doesn’t flinch. “You didn’t even check.”
“If Cleo says that we don’t have it, then we don’t have it,” Scar repeats, distantly amazed at how steady his voice is. “If you’d like to give us your name, then we can note you down in case anyone ever comes in with the book.”
The stranger’s face tightens at his words. For the first time since he entered the bookstore, he looks genuinely afraid. He shuts his expression down into a more neutral one quickly, though. In a slow, controlled voice, he tells Scar, “You can call me Grian.”
A chill runs down Scar’s spine, like cold fingers trailing down his back. “Grian,” he parrots, and with numb fingers, moves to jot down the name on a scrap of paper. “Thank you, Grian. If we ever come across that book—The Art of Watching, was it?—you’ll be first to know.”
The stranger—Grian—nods shortly. With a sweep of his cloak and a glint in his too-violet eyes, he’s gone, leaving Scar staring blankly at the door as the little bell rings cheerfully. Clumsily, he checks his pulse on the inside of his wrist. It’s faster than it should be. He feels dizzy.
Cleo comes out from the back, as pale as if she saw a ghost. “Scar, was that—"
“Yes.” That was a wielder, without a doubt.
A pause. “Are…you okay?”
Scar doesn’t have a response for her.
Cleo sends him home early, after that. He tries to get back into the routine of rebinding the books, still shell-shocked by what has just happened, but he only makes it halfway through the second book before it slips through his fingers and he doubles over, choking on the delayed response to his gut-wrenching fear.
The scar across his face burns like it did when it was a fresh wound, and he has to focus so hard on not throwing up that he can barely hear Cleo’s words, frantic and desperate. She grips onto his wrists, keeping him from flailing in a futile attempt to protect himself from a danger that’s no longer present.
When Scar’s vision clears and his ears stop ringing so loudly, Cleo is right in front of him. They reach up and glide a thumb across his cheek. It comes away wet with tears that feel hot where they slide down Scar’s face.
The store is closed, too; Cleo has shut the door and drawn the curtains, blocking out the rest of the world. The guilt that has been festering in Scar’s stomach roils. First he’s late, then he’s not even able to do his job effectively—and now he’s forced them to close the store until he can pull himself together. After everything they’ve done for him, too.
“Go home.”
Scar starts, and he stares at Cleo with wide eyes. “What?” His throat is painfully raw, and his voice is more of a hoarse croak than anything.
“Go home,” Cleo repeats. Her hands are cool against Scar’s skin, flushed with panic. “You looked sick enough before all that. The last thing you need today is to be working.”
“Cleo,” Scar tries, but Cleo lifts a finger.
“Ah, I’m not finished. Your other choice is to stay in your old bedroom, I keep the store closed for the rest of the day, and we can both take the day off. Up to you.”
Scar swallows. “I’ll go home,” he agrees in a bare whisper, because if he stays, then he’ll be forcing Cleo to close the store.
Cleo’s face softens. “I can ask Lizzie to walk with you, if you’d like,” she offers. “Or Joel. They’d both be willing, you know.”
Lizzie and Joel are the only others in the village who know the origin of the wound on Scar’s face. If he explained what happened—that a wielder showed up at the store and requested a book on Watching, of all things—then they would undoubtedly be willing to escort him home.
But they’d then have to walk back to the village alone, through the forest. And Scar wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine,” he promises, unsure as to why it feels like he’s lying through his teeth. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Cleo.”
“Tomorrow,” Cleo agrees, but there’s a look in their eyes that Scar doesn’t recognize, even after knowing them for so long. It’s gone as soon as they blink, and their eyes sharpen. “Be safe, Scar,” she demands. “Promise me you’ll be safe.”
Scar shivers. “Always,” he vows. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Cleo, I’ll stay safe. Promise.”
Cleo doesn’t seem mollified. In fact, at his words, she only looks more devastated. Tears shine in her eyes, and in one fluid motion, she pulls Scar into a tight embrace.
“I love you, Scar,” she breathes into his ear as his hands come up to clutch onto her back. “Never forget that. Stay safe for me.”
She doesn’t say anything else after that, even when Scar tries to convince her to explain. She just fetches Scar’s cape and his cane for him, and ushers him out the door, stealing glances down the road both ways as if she’s searching for something. As soon as Scar is out the door, she retreats back into the store.
About halfway down the road out of the village, he looks back over his shoulder and meets Cleo’s eyes. In the light, they look like they’re glowing, a toxic green that gleams through the window. Her lips are pressed together. Scar lifts his head in a final half-wave. Cleo just clenches her jaw and shuts the curtains, leaving Scar to stand there, confused and hurt, as he stares back at the bookstore.