Work Text:
The Deep Dark Wood is as peaceful as its name makes it out to be: that is, not at all.
Or it isn’t to Oliver, at least, shakily creeping along the dirt path, stick in his hand clenched so hard his knuckles are white. Drippy seems to be taking the shadowy corners, quiet chitterings, and occasional glowing eyes in stride, though Oliver doesn’t know if it’s fair to compare the two of them, considering he’s never been in this world. Maybe this is what it’s like everywhere; maybe he’s going to get used to it sooner rather than later. Whatever the case, he’s not used to it now, scrambling over half-forgotten paths with roots and ribcages obstructing his way.
He’d like to go back to Motorville. Safe, clean Motorville, with flat roads and concrete underfoot—though from Drippy’s startled shriek when a car got just too close when they were on their way to the town square, maybe the dangers there are just the ones he’s used to.
...No, he takes it back. This is much worse, he thinks, as a small creature with giant leaves for hands rustles its way out of the bushes in front of him, makes a tiny squeak, and then dives for his ankles as he yelps and tries to back away. It is, at least, as he wildly waves his stick in its general direction with his eyes closed, better than the feral dog that had found him when he first stepped onto the plain.
They have names—the creatures have names. He hasn’t learned them yet, too preoccupied with avoiding getting mauled, but it doesn’t stop Drippy from trying to teach him them after the hard part is over and he only has his scratches to tend to. With each new one, he’s nagged to take out the Wizard’s Companion and have a look for it, which makes him feel a bit like a toddler learning his animals in a picture book. At least the rune for Healing Touch is starting to stick in his mind; he’s cast it once without checking the book, now, and Drippy had been delighted by it, insisting that he was learning so quick. Fireball has yet to do the same—he’s far more hesitant about casting that one, especially in a giant forest like this...
...But whenever he does cast it, he feels the magic flow through his chest to his arm to his fingertips, forming into a spark into a flame into a swirling fire at the tip of his wand, and he can’t help but feel elated at how easy it comes. Maybe he can get used to this, he thinks, as the leaf-creature goes down with a hiss into a puff of smoke.
He watches it evaporate into the grass, fragments of magic left glimmering in the green, and swallows. Or maybe not, as a cold flash of guilt runs through him, killing the euphoria of the spell almost as soon as it hit. We’re not killing them, Drippy had said quickly after Oliver had gotten more than a little upset at the idea when they were out in the field near Ding Dong Dell, but Oliver doesn’t really believe him—not when they make noises like that, pained and awful.
Panting, face flushed, staring at where a corpse isn’t, he doesn’t register Drippy shouting a warning until a little too late, startling and whirling around—
Just in time for a blur of orange to slam into the side of his stomach with a horrible ripping noise, and cold, sharp pain snaps through him a second later.
Oliver shrieks, loud and choking, and the creature kicks off of him harshly—combined with the pain radiating up his side, the force makes him fall backwards, thankfully landing on soft grass. As he falls, he feels something warm and wet splash against his hand, and a glance down reveals bright, seeping red blooming across yellow fabric. Drippy yells something, but Oliver can’t hear him through the pounding of his heart in his ears, breathing quick and shallow.
He looks back up, vision blurry and frantic, at the creature; some kind of almost-rabbit, whirling back on him with a spear—drenched in red—raised up at its side. Blood pumping, Oliver pushes himself to a sitting position, shakily grits his teeth, and draws Mitey from the depths of his heart.
Maintaining the link between himself and the familiar is harder than he thought it would be. He was already struggling through it before, frantically calling for movements that end up getting him hit, the scratches appearing on Oliver’s own skin a second later. It’s like seeing through a second pair of eyes—managing that along with his own movements have caused him to trip and fall twice now. At least from the ground, he thinks hysterically, he doesn’t have to move.
Thankfully, Mitey also has a mind of his own, and doesn’t need any further instructions for this instance than attack. Oliver watches, shaking, as he swipes at the creature, backs up to avoid a returning blow, and then dives in to stab it right through the skull. Oliver winces away before he can witness it, turning his head to the side.
Mitey retreats back into his heart the second the fight is over, and the adrenaline pumping through Oliver’s veins starts to give way to cold, pulsing pain in his side. He shakily lowers his back to the ground to lie down, a keen coming from the back of his throat as he does it, choked and taut, feeling tightness in his chest and shoulders, feeling like his body is suddenly weighed down by his wet clothes. He grips the grass underneath him, pulling up fistfuls of it as tears stream from his eyes, his head spinning with panic as the tree canopy above blurs in his vision.
“—lie-boy,” comes an urgent, rough voice through the haze of pain, “Ollie-boy, can you—?”
Through tears, Oliver opens his eyes, and finds Drippy standing next to his head, staring down at his face with wide, worried eyes. Something about the way Oliver sniffles up at him, whimpering, seems to solidify some kind of decision in his brain, and he hops away to circle down to Oliver’s wound, and—
A cold numbing sensation spreads across Oliver’s stomach like an ice pack. He gasps, breath catching in the lump in his throat, and chokes a little on his own spit, coughing in shock as the stabbing pain is replaced with what feels like the wound being packed with snow. Then, just as quickly as it happened, the sensation fades into a cool, soft chill, soothing against the last vestiges of the wound. His choked whines turn into large, gasping breaths as his body catches up to the pain being gone, tension dissipating from his shoulders as air once again fills his lungs.
“Sorry, Ollie-boy,” Drippy says, “I’m a bit out of practice, but I got the job done, en’t it? You alright, bunting?”
His voice is softer than it has been since he broke out of the doll. Oliver swallows back tears, but feels new ones form, staring up at the gaps in the trees as the blackness around his vision finally starts to clear. He slowly, shakily, pulls himself up, sitting hunched over in the grass, trying not to sob too loudly.
Dark red on his shirt still spreads across the fabric, wet and turning cold against his skin. Oliver stares down at the new hole punctured in his shirt, and hesitantly presses shaking fingers to where it is with his already-bloodstained hand. The skin beneath is perfectly mended, woven back together and smooth under his touch even as he flinches away at the memory of pain. If he concentrates hard enough, he can still feel it; sharp stabbing radiating beneath the warming flesh.
The blood is stark against the yellow cloth, dripping down to seep into the waistband of his jeans. This is my favourite shirt, Oliver thinks blankly, and immediately feels tears fill his eyes as he dissolves into sobs.
“Ollie-boy,” Drippy murmurs as he curls in on himself, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes and starting to bawl. “I know it’s scary, mun, but we have to keep moving. It en’t safe here, is it?”
“I wanna go home!” Oliver wails between his tears.
“I know, sunshine, I know, but...”
He trails off, lantern jingling as he looks away from Oliver, whose sobs turn gasping as he tries to swallow back cries. It’s not safe here, he knows, considering he was just ambushed by a—whatever that rabbit was, and there are more of them out there, but the last place Oliver wants to go is further into the woods. Grass stains on his jeans from his falls are one thing—a giant splotch of blood covering his side is another. It’s this that makes him break down, that makes everything feel heavy on top of him at once.
Why did he come here? He could be at home, safe and warm, familiar house and familiar streets; instead, he sits in the mud and sobs, loud against the silent woods, only other sound the rustling of leaves in the wind. Drippy looks up at him, brow pinched together, expression unreadable through Oliver's tears.
“Oi,” he says, “come on, now, you’re getting blood on youer face. Look, there’s a waterfall just down the end of this path—we can wash it off there, en’t it?” Oliver doesn’t respond, too busy scrubbing away tears. “There en’t nothing magic can’t fix, Ollie-boy, mark my words—just as soon as we get that new wand, we’ll have youer clothes good as new, alright?”
Oliver shakes his head, still weeping. “I can’t do this,” he blubbers.
“‘Course you can!” Drippy urges. “Come on, mun, you can’t let a little stabbing get you down. You want to save youer mam, don’t you?”
Oliver hesitates, sniffling beneath his fingers, the simple reminder catching on his brain. The answer, of course, is yes—deep and desperate, clawing at his heart as though the grief is new. Going home now would be going home to an empty house, cold and dark, no one left to catch him but himself, and he knows he can’t do that; the journey ahead is long, stretching farther than he can see, but it’s worth it for the ending. It has to be.
He just has to endure this until he can get his mom back.
The thought steels him slightly, and though he still sniffles, he stands up. There’s a squelch as he puts his foot down, and he stares down as he realises the amount of blood sinking into the grass is turning the dirt to mud. The breeze is no longer fresh and clean, the stark smell of iron hanging in the air. “Right,” Drippy says, and Oliver is only now aware enough to note his voice is just slightly shaky. “Let’s get going, shall we?”
Oliver takes a deep breath, blinks away the last few tears in his eyes, and keeps walking. He’s never going to get used to this, he thinks, no matter how much magic he learns to make it better. But he doesn’t have to get used to it; he just has to endure it. It's worth it, he has to keep reminding himself; it's worth it.
A month later, Oliver will be stabbed in the shin by what he will come to learn is called a tyke as they trek through Golden Grove. He will once again be forced to the ground, but his chief complaint will be scrunching his nose up and saying, between gritted teeth, that it’s just kinda gross when they pull the spear out and a spurt of blood gushes out before he can catch it with Healing Touch.