Chapter Text
Hunter had gotten the key to prove he was useful.
He had gotten the key to make his uncle proud
He had gotten the key to prove he didn’t need to be replaced.
He had gotten the key to make his uncle proud. To make his uncle slowly pull off that horrid mask and meet his eyes, gentle and kind. To have his uncle speak to him in a soft tone, place a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and smile.
His uncle would tell him how well he did, how proud he was. How he had proved himself to not be a failure.
Hunter would be worthy of praise.
Hunter would be worthy of love.
It was all he wanted.
It should have been easy. He was The Golden Guard, after all.
He hadn’t earned that rank for nothing, even if his uncle certainly helped in that.
He wouldn’t be so weak to lose to some human and her little girlfriend. Even if said girlfriend was the youngest Blight, he was still The Golden Guard.
It should have been fine.
So, how did it go so wrong?
He can’t repress the flinch as Belos fist comes down on the throne loudly.
Even without looking up, he can hear Belos shaking, form shifting and tearing away at his skin in his anger.
He can hear the bones straining and popping as a spray of black gooey matter flies past his periphery and the banging continues. Can hear the rattling of armor and cracking, the magical metal of it nothing compared to the force of the shifting of Belos’s own body.
Each moment seems to drag on, each bang accentuates the seconds. There’s almost a rhythm to the violence.
A drumming rhythm getting ever quicker with his heartbeat.
He had thought he had done well. Thought he would be praised.
He should have realized- should have trusted- his uncle already had a plan, that he would only get in the way.
He was ordered to stay in his room, stay safe. He was important to The Titan after all.
Yet, he still went against his orders due to an irrational fear.
Now, the portal key is broken.
Now, he pays the price.
He can hear Belos heave, can picture him hunching his shoulders as the banging stops, and he dares to glance up. Black covers the walls, the floors, even the tall pillars reaching up to the rooms roof hadn’t remained untouched.
Each mass of dark substance seems to move and ripple in the flickering fire of the room's light.
Sometimes, it looks like his uncle's body, even when bubbling over and pulling itself apart, wants to pull itself back together. Each drop and strand of black writhing in its spot, seeming desperate to reattach itself.
To make it's owner whole
He was terrified the first time he saw it.
He still is.
All that is child’s play however, when he sees his uncle.
His robes are stained, black bleeding into the white. So much so he can’t tell if it’s just his uncle’s body, or if it came from collateral spray.
His uncle’s armored hands are clenched and leaking black in long, thick strands that pool onto the floor. Like tar, falling down in globs and weaning off in strands.
Worst of all though, is the mask.
The surface is so cracked, and split that- if he had not known the magic infused in it- he would not know how it remained- semi- in one piece.
The cracks and missing pieces allow what is beneath to leak down the gold surface. As he stares at the only discernable part of his uncle’s face, his eyes.
His throat seems to close up as he swallows.
He hasn’t seen his uncle this bad in so long.
He hasn’t seen his uncle this, bad ever, actually.
His facial scar burns in reminder of the last time it was even close.
It makes him want to bring a hand up to scratch at the course, discolored skin, but he would dare not have the audacity- the gall- to move right now.
Looking up was already an act of defiance, yet he can’t seem to tear his eyes away.
Belos’s eyes meet his own, glowing fiercely with power.
Angry.
He can’t help but breathe faster as Belos stares him down.
The room that was once so loud, is now silent.
It makes him squirm in his place, fingers twitching nervously, and holds his quickening breath.
Cringing, as a bead of sweat slips down his face and hits the floor, seem so loud, in the dense quiet.
He can feel himself tensing more with each second of stillness. Every bit of training, self-preservation and instinct screaming at him to run from the danger.
Like the beasts of the forest when it goes silent, he knows nothing good is to come.
He wants to run away.
He wants to close his eyes and pretend he’s somewhere else.
Perhaps back by eclipse lake, in the snow and the moon high.
Back when he thought he had done well, had a chance.
Back to the walk home, his cardinal friend at his side, despite knowing they shouldn’t be.
Running his hands through wooden, yet magically fluffy feathers. Listening intently to the soft chirps as he and his palismen spoke.
Soft nudges at his face and ear, a scar across their eye matching his own on his face.
Peaceful, calm.
Safe.
His fingers twitch for the feeling of those red feathers now. Instinctively wanting the grounding feeling of running his hand down them in the moments he dared to try and let himself.
But, before he can blink Belos is before him, and he has to remind himself not to scream as the air surges in power from his uncle’s presence alone.
Had he tried, he would not even have had time to scream. As Belos is already grabbing his face harshly, fingers pressing into his teeth, and pulling him up to face him.
His breath stutters, started anew, as he stares down the face of his uncle.
The face of The Emperor.
The eyes seem to glow brighter in contrast to the black now covering the whole of the mask.
The tar like substance drips onto the floor, and Hunter can feel as some of it splashes onto his hands. The substance staining his skin and seeping into the space underneath his nails.
“Hunter.”
Belos’s voice seems to echo off the walls, all-encompassing and powerful.
Just like an emperor should sound.
“What was it that I asked of you?” Belos seethes out.
Hunter knows full well what’s to come, know it will be worse if he doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t comply.
Yet his throat remains sealed shut, all he can do mouth the words.
It’s pathetic.
He quickly gets shoved to the ground for his incompetence.
He can hear Belos chuckle, the harsh sound coming through grit teeth and accented by the rippling of muscle and shifting of bone.
“One thing, my dear boy.”
The stained white of Belos robe comes closer and shifts, the tainted fabric folding at the knees and bottom, as he leans down in front of him.
To some it may be an honor to have The Emperor kneel down to their level. The honor of a being so far above you, be willing to do so, could make almost anyone ecstatic or fearful, depending on their hunger for what such a being held.
He supposes he’s the ladder, for he certainly is fearful.
He shifts his head to look up just in time for the same hand that had gripped his chin before, and dug its fingers against his teeth, gently takes hold, caressing his scar with such a tenderness.
A tenderness Hunter knows well, is false.
Fleeting in nature, with all the delicacy of a beast raking its claws against its prey.
Just careful enough to not break skin.
Not till it’s ready.
Yet, despite that.
He can’t help himself from leaning into his uncle’s touch, even if he’s looking up at the oozing mask of a face with wide eyes, barely held up by his shaking limbs.
“I told you to stay here.”
The hand trails up his face, and into his hair, leaving a smear of black in its wake.
Fingers run soothingly through his hair, tips pressing lightly into his scalp.
It feels nice.
“To stay safe.”
The words are said with such a honeyed, caring tone. His uncle’s voice lowering in a crooning octave, each word accented by a soft brushing of fingers through hair, he can’t help but fall for it so quickly.
This is all he had wanted in getting the key, and he’s getting it.
Let it last for just a little bit longer, please.
And as if the universe is cursing him for daring to think such a thing, something shifts in those glowing orbs, and Hunter knows, more than ever.
That he is a fool.
Why did it always have to end so quickly?
Why does affection always cease the moment he lets himself have it?
Is it truly that undeserved?
The fingers that had been brushing through his light blond strands, now grips them, and he’s pulled up, body sagging on the floor and neck craning uncomfortably.
He keens, unconsciously bringing hands up towards his uncle’s, trying to move the hand and relive the pressure.
Some unfortunate instinct he was too unfocussed to stop himself from acting on.
His fingers barely grace Belos wrist in his pathetic attempt.
Another hand grabs his wrists in a crushing grip.
He can feel those hands shake.
Hunter knows it’s from anger.
“You were unable to do even that”
The pressure on his wrists increase, then keeps increasing.
Something tells him it isn’t going to stop, either.
His throat seems to finally open in a flood of pathetic, cut off words.
Begging, pleading for a mercy he knows well is not there. Not even for him.
What kind of emperor would be unwilling to give his subjects a proper lesson, even if they are family, after all.
“Uncle please! I’m sorry, I’m sorry I thought I was helping-“
The pressure keeps increasing, his bones strain.
He can feel them shifting and grinding together beneath his skin as they’re pushed closer and closer together.
His uncle says nothing.
“PLEASE! I didn’t mean to, please! Please! Ill do better! I swear I-“
A pop cuts off his pleas.
He cuts off his own scream.
He clamps his mouth shut to a whine instead, teeth grinding together, as more pressure is added at the sound, to his now broken wrists.
He can feel his bones grind against each other, and broken off pieces of them dig at the thin, stretched out layer of skin. Hands sticking up and out at awkward angles, and his arms bending oddly in some instinctive attempt to relieve the still crushing pressure.
He whines again as Belos’s hands shift his hold on him, despite his attempts to stay quiet.
How pathetic must he look? Laying and whining like a dog at its master feet.
The Emperor’s dog.
The Golden Guard.
A hunting dog.
Belos's hand lets go.
He falls to the floor like dead-weight.
The impact sends surges of pain up his arms.
The grip on his hair keeps him upright.
“Those little hands of yours broke the key, the thing I needed most to complete The Titan’s will. Do you not understand how important that was, Hunter?”
More black substance oozes from his uncle’s form as he seethes into his ear. He feels it seep into his hair and drip down his face.
It makes his skin crawl, little bugs twitching their antenna and legs poking at the pores of his skin for the best burrowing point.
Despite this, he sees a thread, and scrambles for the best excuse he has.
Anything to make him less a failure.
His legs shake, and his head is pulled further back as he gasps out stuttered words.
“I- I didn’t break it! It was the Blight’s youngest- she- she tricked me! I just wanted- “
A black spike shoots out, a mass of bones, muscle, skin and organic material shifting into a fine point, and grazes his throat.
He gasps, tongue once again a dead-weight in his mouth, throat cotton logged, as he stops speaking .
The blood that trails down his skin feels warm.
The hand in his hair is cold.
“What you wanted-.”
The tendril slowly pulls back, and circles under his chin, fine point pressed lightly on the underside of his jaw, warning him not to speak.
He doesn’t.
He swallows down a whine as it breaks through skin.
“Was to prove yourself useful, despite me telling you what to do, to remain so.”
His face is pulled closer to Belos’s, just a hair's breadth away.
He can smell his uncle’s tainted breath through the mask.
He smells like a corpse, sweet and rotting.
Hunter sometimes will traitorously wonder if his uncle was dead, and Belos was some poor imitation left in his place.
The black of what’s underneath drips onto his cheeks, seeping into the corners of his eyes from his hairline, and joining the welling of tears.
“All you have actually done, is proven yourself a disappointment.”
The hand in his hair lets go, and he is roughly dropped to the floor.
His uncle sighs, running a hand up oozing surface of what was once a mask as he stands.
He can feel the eyes glowering down at him without even looking up from where he’s slumped on the floor.
“I had hoped for better in you, Hunter. However, The Titan still has big plans for you.”
Through his blurry vision and panting he can see his uncle wave him off with a hand, walking away as he speaks.
“Go to your room and clean yourself up, I will have the healing coven head visit you soon enough. You would not be much use without your hands for long, after all”
He nods, and pushes himself up with his elbows, seething through grit teeth at his mangled wrists. Feeling the bones strain against muscle and skin, in a way he knows they shouldn’t.
Black ooze drips down his face and joins what's already on the floor as he manages to stand and he meets his uncle’s eyes, surprised by how quick this has gone, and the mercy he finds in them.
Belos has never been a merciful man.
The sudden change makes something in his gut churn.
Change never seems to do him any good.
Change is dangerous.
“There is still blood in the key, my boy. However, mistakes like that cannot continue, understand?”
He nods again, feeling oddly dazed.
His throat stings at the movement.
“Good, now go and rest. I have work to do.”
The words are soft, and he finds himself pushing the door open with a strained smile after his uncle turns away and begins to leave.
It was salvageable, his uncle can still use it.
It has worth.
He provided something that has worth.
He dares to look back one more time, and speaks quietly.
He needs his uncle to know he appreciates his kindness.
More blood flows down his throat as he does.
“Thank you, uncle.”
His uncle turns one last time, but this time he can’t tell what’s behind his eyes
.
“Your welcome, Hunter.”
He can only hope it works.
He’s glad for the quietness of the halls as he stumbles down them.
He lets his mind drift and body move on autopilot as he passes by guards, and imagines a world where they aren’t there.
Where he’s free of the looks he receives.
The pity.
The mockery.
The scheming.
He certainly is in no state to fight currently, and Titan knows Kikimora would certainly take advantage of that, if she were here.
He can be thankful for that much.
He pushes his door open with an elbow, just barely stumbling in far enough in time to collapse on his bed.
He is uncaring of the blood and black matter that seep into his sheets as he lays on the bed.
He can immediately hear worried chirping as he closes his eyes, breath slowing.
He can hear the flapping of wings and little talons landing on now ruined sheets to his left, yet musters no energy to look.
The little, wild, cardinal is what started his downfall. The palisman is what started his unintentional defiance.
A small beak lightly pecks at his left ear, trying to draw his attention in distressed chirps.
He can’t find it in himself to respond, though.
Instead, he closes his eyes and thinks, it feels as if Belos's hand is still there, molded into his face.
He feels it often.
He feels it when he knows he has once again been a disappointment.
He feels it when he sits in his room, bloodied and bruised, marked as a failure
He feels it when he reads books he knows he shouldn't, thinks things he knows are forbidden, and feels things he has no right too.
His jaw aches when he lies to his uncle, he feels the knuckles of his uncle's backhand press on his teeth in a way that makes him wish he could pull them out.
He can taste blood in his mouth as he talks to the insistent bird that refuses to leave him despite his efforts.
He wishes the red of his blood could be as pretty as his cardinal friend's pigment.
The small beak has now bit lightly on his ear, and began to tug.
He groans, head listing left as he sits in his haze.
The pain is a reminder
The pain comes when he knows he's doing something wrong
The pain is deserved
He can feel armored hands cup his face, but he knows they aren’t truly there.
His wrists ache as they swell, and his fingers twitch at the pressure of hands holding them together ghost over his skin.
Wooden-yet soft, feathers nudge his messed face, uncaring as the black matter that stains his own skin, stains their feathers too.
He can’t help but nudge back, starved for the attention as he takes in the cardinal through lidded eyes.
He hopes it last longer than Belos’s did.
Concerned, expressive eyes stare back at him. Feathers mussed and stained and wet.
Titling head and concerned chirps as they flit back and forth on small talons.
Wings ruffle as they ask again, “What has happened?” and “Are you alright?”
He wants muster up the energy to respond.
Yet, when he opens his mouth all that comes out is a choked off sound, like something dying, and it is only now he realizes he's crying
Pathetic
Like a child
He can tell his uncle thinks the same
In the end that brings him no pity
Small brown eyes seem to lock with his own pink, now welling with tears that track their way down his messed face and onto already damp sheets.
Before, he had thought palisman were simply soulless things. Dangerous things made of wild magic.
Only a tool for wild witches to harm others.
As traitorous as it may be, though, he can’t stop himself from thinking otherwise.
The brown eyes of his palisman- even the one the bird usually keeps closed due to the scarring- seem to flicker with warmth, like a fire. A fire only meant to keep you safe, and protected, and happy.
A warmth meant only to give comfort, and lacking all the usual overbearing, sweltering heat of too hard grabs of the shoulder with oozing fingers, and a face with heaving breath leaning far too close to his own in a stark silence that leaves the room cold, yet the heat of the other person in it far too suffocating.
Fingers press hard against his teeth, pushing them deeper into his gums as he hears his uncle’s reprimands in his ear.
“Pain is a reminder my boy. Pain is the only way we grow and learn, after all. That is what world simply is, and I will prepare you for it.”
He flinches as a new weight presses into his stained cheek, soaking the tears falling from his eyes and replacing the feeling of Belos hand.
Suddenly, tensed fingers ready to strike become soft and plush feathers. The palm of a hand that cradles the bottom of his jaw become small talons that pull away at little strands of black that had trailed down his face.
A small beak carefully grabs onto the one long strand of hair that falls down in front of his face- now stuck to it due to the ooze- and with flapping wings does their best to move it out of his face, and out the way.
The small eyes flit over his form, darting from his legs, to his wrists- which he sees the feathers puff at, he’s surprised they can do that, like a real bird’s- and to his face.
Stopping on his watering eyes and letting him revel in the warm fire of them again.
It may be exhaustion
It may be the pain.
It may be hysterics.
For all he knows, it could be something else entirely, but.
For some reason the sight of this small bird, this small palisman, seeming to try and play healing coven for him pulling away at little black ooze it could get and his hair from his face, and looking him over as best it can.
Is the funniest thing he’s ever seen.
He cants stop the laugh that bubbles up in his bloodied throat and passes his lips in some choked off half sob- half laugh.
He wants to stop, but he keeps laughing.
And laughing.
It isn’t a surprise it doesn’t take long before he’s sobbing.
He may have been crying silently before, may have even let out a single sob, but now he’s hiccupping and moaning, and coughing from it all.
His chest seems to rattle with the intensity of it all, and through the latest bout of delirium he fears to look up.
He doesn’t want to look up and see that flickering comfort of warmth turned into the harsh dance of something disgusted and scorned.
He waits to hear the flapping of wings; the window being opened and sound of his palisman finally leaving him like he’s been telling them to.
They should see now he is far too much hassle, he offers no use to them.
Why should they stay?
They don’t do that though, and for not the last time in the past month Hunter has been proven incorrect and his understanding turned upside down.
A small weight presses into his cheek again, just like before. The small presence greeting him before Belos’s hand could.
And this time, this time the weight stays.
They don’t care about the mess.
The annoyance he’s sure he must be causing.
The worth of even doing this.
The worth of staying.
How useless he is.
They just, stay.
They stay and chirp softly at him, rubbing their plush surface feathers- that are getting matted by the second because of him- against his cheek in a continuous, almost pattern.
His hysteric ladled brain hardly picks up what exactly they are saying, or what they mean
Yet he knows its comfort.
They don’t judge him for his cries.
So, he doesn’t stop.
His palisman pecks and pulls at his bandages after, careful with his wrists, always reminding him when he needs to call a guard, to get the coven, to change them.
It makes him laugh sometimes.
He barely remembered what happened after crying like he did, the world a haze.
He doesn’t even remember the healing coven head’s visit.
Part of him is glad for that.
His wrist may have been set, yet he still feels the pain.
He knows the coven head could have very well made them good as new too.
They didn’t have the need to be set, and heal in their own time.
He knows it must be his uncle’s orders.
Pain is a reminder after all, yet he can’t help but hope he will be able to be given a full healing soon.
Though he knows it would not be deserved
It's a selfish thought, and a right not earned
His scars say so
Sometimes he likes to think they make him handsome
Like a real man
It makes him feel better in the way children with imaginary friends feel less alone.
The fantasy of it never lasts, no matter how long a person can insist it does.
Oh, what a fool he is