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Chapter Text

“Everyone is in danger!” Jon snarled, slamming his hands on his side of the desk.

He hadn’t meant for it to go this way. Jon knew that if he didn’t present himself as calm and level-headed, Elias would surely laugh him out of his office. He had come in calm and level-headed, sure … and now he could feel saliva collecting in his mouth. Fantastic. Foaming at the mouth would be a beautiful way to top this off.

Elias held one hand up. That was half of Jon’s frustration, truly. Elias Bouchard, sitting primly in his chair, hadn’t so much as gotten a hair out of place, nor had he given any indication that he was actually listening to Jon’s pleas. “You keep saying that,” Elias uttered, “But you’ve yet to present any actual proof.”

“Nine disappearances in the woods. Only the past year.”

He gave a shrug. “Would you like me to call the constable on hungry bears? Wolves?”

“Carlos Vittery was found encased in webbing.”

“Perhaps he shouldn’t have wandered into a cave. Again, none of this presents any danger if you stay out of the woods.”

“And what of Naomi Herne? Four days after her fiance’s death, she –“

“Wandered into the forest to die.” Another placid shrug. Elias’ eyes kept drifting to the papers on his desk. “Suicide. All very sad.”

He could rattle off the others, each death stranger than the last. Of course they were supernatural. Jon never had any doubt, even when a little voice in his head piped up and offered rational, mundane explanations. That voice sounded an awful lot like Elias Bouchard, one of Prince Magnus’ advisors.

As it went, Prince Magnus preferred to station his advisors in the various villages of his kingdom – so that they might best be able to advise through correspondence about each village’s particular needs. Jon didn’t have any problem with that, truly, but he liked to wonder if each village’s advisor was as boorish as Elias Bouchard.

“People have been reporting nightmares,” Jon insisted, but his protests rang hollow to his own ears. “Strange nightmares, I’ve had them myself, all the same - well, all the worst period in their lives –”

“Come now,” Elias said with a sigh. “I have work to be getting on with.”

“And feeling watched –”

“By the merciful and loving eye of God, no doubt. We are blessed.”

Elias wasn’t going to understand. Was Jon really surprised? Elias, of all people in town … the only reason Jon had approached him in the first place was due to Elias’ status. He was the closest thing in their small village to an authority. Well, given that Jon wasn’t on good terms with the constable and the priest unnerved him terribly. Besides, Elias was the only one in the village who communicated with the prince – who lived several days’ worth of travel away, on the other side of the forest that encapsulated their small village.

“You haven’t heard anything?” As the anger cooled, Jon’s tone turned weary. Defeated. Damn it. “From outside of town? From the other villages, maybe, or …?”

The longer he went on, the quieter he became, until no sound came out at all. Elias spared him a pitying look that extinguished the last of the fire in Jon’s chest. No help to be found here. “Mr. Sims,” he said, pushing his glasses far back up his nose, “You clearly have an aptitude for investigation. So let’s investigate, shall we?”

Maybe …? “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“There are three hundred and eight people in this village,” Elias rattled off. “Three hundred and nine, if the Bennett pregnancy turns up. And do you know how many come to me, or to the constable, crying about monsters in the woods?”

Ah. There went that last shred of hope. Jon’s hands tightened on his knees, staring across at the desk. He couldn’t say for certain … but he could guess.

“Just you. Now, unless you think everyone else in this village are uneducated, inept imbeciles …” To that, Elias’ eyes dipped down and landed on Jon’s bag.

Jon did not spend all of his time reading. After all, he had to eat and sleep.

(Maybe not the best two examples. Jon frequently delayed both in order to read.)

And he investigated strange goings-on in the village, which took a good chunk of his time. Still, he ran the only bookshop in the village – how could he not achieve the status as the village bookworm?

Jon had had held the title for as long as he could remember. He turned to books at an early age, scarcely knowing why they called to him in ways that most people did not. Looking back on it, it seemed only an inevitability that he would become a voracious reader. The bookshop had been a family business. He had no friends and many bullies. Jon could only explore the forest so many times before his grandmother threatened to shut him in the shop for good.

Which … it was fine. He cared little for what people thought of him.

… He cared quite a lot. But there was little to be done about it, so he pretended like he cared very little. It wasn’t a bad thing to be.

“I don’t think they’re idiots,” Jon muttered, because he didn’t. They just hadn’t connected the dots. Elias continued as if Jon hadn’t spoken.

“Isn’t it much more … logical,” Elias practically purred, “That the village kook is wrong, and everyone else is right?”

The village kook?

He felt his shoulders slump. Had he overestimated what people thought of him? Certainly, he wasn’t one for social events – and growing up as the flighty, impulsive young boy hadn’t done him any favors. Jon stared at the desk. The whorls in the wood seemed to stare back up at him.

In truth, Elias’ position wasn’t the only reason Jon was here. He was here because he knew nobody else who would agree to help him. Perhaps if he’d gotten more allies on his side, gotten a petition ...

“Now, don’t go around causing a fuss.”

Jon flinched and looked up at Elias, meeting his cold grey eyes. Not the first time that he’d felt like Elias Bouchard was reading his mind … but if he said such things aloud, he really would be looked at as a kook. “You ought to focus on something else. Your shop, for example.”

No sympathy, then. Jon tried one last avenue. He really hadn’t hoped for this one, but he had no other options.

“Then at least allow me to venture to the estate outside the village?” He asked. “The witch that lives there, she may know something that can help us.”

That sent Elias into a polite laughing fit, his hand going to cover his mouth. Jon’s face was hot. God, he thought if he’d just said it confidently enough … “Didn’t your grandmother teach you that it’s unkind to refer to women as witches?”

His grandmother had been the one to tell him the story, actually. Jon hadn’t been sure whether it was anything more than a story, a scary tale meant to keep squirrelly boys in their bed all night. Best not to ask whether Lady Blackwood also ate children’s fingers and toes if they tried to sneak sweets before dinner.

Confirmation that Lady Blackwood actually existed, though? And lived in the treacherous woods?

Even if she wasn’t a witch, she survived it somehow.

Elias cleared his throat, breaking Jon out of his stupor. “The prince of Lady Blackwood’s lands is not Prince Magnus,” he clarified. “Prince Lukas owns the land to the west of the village.” The west! Jon’s mind flickered to the piles of rolled-up maps in the shop. Maybe … “So if you did go upsetting a gentrywoman’s nerves, it would be quite troublesome. Do you understand?”

He did. To trespass on another prince’s property was a tricky situation. It wouldn’t be entirely unreasonable for Prince Magnus to have Jon arrested by the constable, or worse, if only to smooth matters over with Prince Lukas. Depending, of course, on how much trouble he caused with Lady Blackwood.

That wasn’t where Jon’s mind lingered, right then. He was still thinking of those maps. The surrounding areas … how far he would have to go …

“Of course,” Jon intoned solemnly. “The forest is still dangerous.”

“Wouldn’t want to be eaten by spiders, would we?” Elias asked whimsically, shattering Jon out of his musings.

No. Had to be a coincidence. A very odd one. Jon had never told anyone about the incident with the spider, out in the forest (and to think, perhaps that very same creature had claimed Carlos Vittery’s life, like it’d claimed the life of …?).

Still, it was not a memory that gave him any more confidence for what he had to do.

He stood from his chair, his mind spinning with legends and compasses. It could still be done. Of course it wouldn’t be safe, but he could take precautions. People were dying, after all, slowly but surely.

“A word of advice? From one non-imbecile to another.” There was that smile again. Jon could almost see a canary fluttering behind his eyeteeth. “Put your intellectual efforts towards something else. Father Rayner would appreciate your … dedication.”

An involuntary shiver passed up Jon’s spine. “Perhaps,” he uttered, and then fled as politely as possible.

At least his world seemed a little brighter when he stepped outside. Funded by Prince Magnus’ coffers, Elias held the nicest abode in the village. The most stifling, too. Jon squinted up into the blue sky and the dark, scraggly trees that strained upwards to meet it. A singular cobblestone path led out of the village, beyond the stone wall that surrounded their home.

A thin ribbon of a river bisected the village east-west, snaking underneath the wall and into the beyond. Even from inside the village walls, he could see the trees parted around the banks of the river. That would provide some sort of path, at least, so he wouldn’t utterly lose himself. Right away, anyway.

Hell. Gone to Elias request help with the forest, only to find himself facing a solo journey. Sounded like madness, like certain death, like …

The sounding of the church bell grasped Jon’s attention. He turned his head to see a few mourners coming out of the church, all dressed in black. All of them recoiled in the bright sun, wincing like they’d never seen light before. Coming out of the church from one of Father Rayner’s services could be brutal.

He hadn’t woken up that morning and decided to visit Elias, though the thought had been bubbling in his mind for a long while. Two days prior, someone else had disappeared from the village. Sarah Baldwin. Jon recognized her name, but hadn’t known her face.

What he’d learned about her, he’d picked up from bits and pieces of gossip in his shop. People tended to disregard his presence there, as they’d disregarded his grandmother. One shopkeep owner perched on a rickety stool with a clothbound novel was the same as all the rest, they supposed. Not only that, but something about his dark, dusty shop seemed to encourage people to spill their idle, morbid curiosities to one another.

Allegedly, Sarah had remarked on seeing strange lights in the forest before her disappearance. Jon had sat on the roof of the bookshop that night and peered very hard into the woods. He’d seen nothing.

All moot, come this morning. Sarah Baldwin’s body had been recovered from the forest by a hunter. Jon didn’t know the details of the body’s condition, but if one’s body was found in the forest … it was rarely good.

His heart lurched in terror, seeing the coffin being brought out of the church. The graveyard was nearby. As a child, the graveyard had seemed ancient and untouchable. Now … even as someone nearly thirty, it made Jon to squirm to think about internment. So many corpses, found in so many horrific ways.

This village was all he had. Jon never had a particular wanderlust; he’d been content to have his adventures in between the pages he read. He liked how familiar the village was. The cobblestone streets, the shingled houses, the flowerpots spilling over. Even if he was not the most beloved figure in the town (kook rattled between his ears like a lost bird), the village was all he knew.

Or had been, until Jon had begun to pick. Now he could not ignore the tall trees surrounding the villages, nor the disappearances everyone so neatly ignored. It was more than only wildlife. It was more than the mundane.

Who better than a witch to know?

Jon reached back and adjusted the ribbon holding his hair in a low ponytail. The light tugging at his scalp brought him to attention. He brushed off the front of the bookshop apron (perpetually covered in dust), nodded to himself, and walked past the funeral congregation.

***

He could do with more sleep.

Just after dawn, Jon sat on the roof of his bookshop with a novel in hand. Something pleasant about reading a romance just before everyone rose for the day. Jon found that he often let himself relax more when it was quiet, let himself believe in true love and saving the day and happily ever afters. Too easy to let himself grow cynical and detached when he was around other people, for whatever that said about him – or other people. Jon flicked a page as the sun continued to cross the horizon.

His bag sat next to him, full of rations, water, books. He’d thrown a knife in there. Not like he was a particularly competent knife-wielder, but if he was going to be beset by wild beasts in the forest, he’d like whoever found his body to know he did try.

If he had a lucky break, it was coming upon the map. Blackwood Castle wasn’t labeled, but about two miles west from the village was a break in the trees and a few symbols indicating farmland. Nothing else close. Lady Blackwood did not like neighbors, it seemed.

Another page flip, and the chapter ended. Jon neatly dog-eared the page and stuffed it in his bag.

God, he hoped leaving so early meant that he wouldn’t encounter anything. Jon had considered asking someone else to travel alongside him, but he could legitimately think of nobody who would take well to Jon The Bookkeeper showing up at five in the morning and asking them to traverse into the woods.

They’d call him mad.

Hm.

He shimmied his way down from the rooftop and hefted his bag across his shoulder. After a moment’s pause, Jon removed one of the books from his bag, tore off the flyleaf, and affixed it to the door.

OUT RUNNING ERRANDS, Jon wrote in flourishing cursive. It seemed the most optimistic thing to say. Carefully, he locked the front door. He could see the towers of dusty tomes from through the window.

Don’t think about what’ll happen to the place if you die, Jon’s morbid mind unhelpfully supplied. By way of goodbye, Jon patted the window, and then he was off.

Soon, the village was swallowed by the forest behind him. Jon was disinclined to wander too far from the edge of the river. At least here the sky wasn’t blotted out by branches, and with his lantern raised in the chilly morning fog, he could make out his surroundings. It came at the cost of the occasional schlurp-ing of his boots into the river muck. Mud halfway up his knees was manageable.

He re-adjusted his cloak over his shoulders and pressed on. Advisors might not listen to him, but surely he could convince a witch to.

Once he was startled by a doe and fawn drinking from the river and twice by an owl’s yellow eyes staring at him from the trees. Still, it was not the certain death that he’d feared and he saw nothing outwardly supernatural.

Eventually he came upon a fork in the river. Jon stopped to consult the map again – yes, from here it was only about a half-mile to Blackwood Castle. No signs of people in the area. Jon wasn’t much of a survivalist, though, and it was entirely plausible that Lady Blackwood was self-sufficient. Really, if people in a neighboring village started calling Jon a witch, he wouldn’t venture out much either.

This meant that he had to leave the safety of the river. Jon rose the lantern a little higher.

Definitively the morning now, but the dense tree cover didn’t do him any favors. He stayed in as straight a line as possible.

It took him a few minutes to realize that the birds weren’t chirping.

He couldn’t hear anything, actually. Not the river behind him, not the rustle of leaves, no skittering chipmunk or warbling call. The air tasted oddly stale.

Jon tried to tell himself that this might be a good thing, actually, he’d hear anything that snuck up on him… but Christ alive, was it a disconcerting sensation. “Just a little farther,” Jon spoke to himself in a rusty voice, just to hear anything. “Just a little farther.”

Even if the witch was evil, by god, she would be company.

Up ahead, Jon saw twisted iron and the glint of sunlight against glass. He let out a sigh of relief despite himself.

My name is Jonathan Sims, I run a bookshop in the neighboring village. Witches liked books. I’ve noticed strange disappearances recently, and wondered if you’d seen anything in the woods. Not asking for anything specific. Just a conversation. Maybe she was lonely. Or maybe she put little children in ovens.

He stepped through the last of the treeline, safe and unharmed, only to come upon the largest castle he’d ever seen.

Scarcely saying much. Jon hadn’t seen any other castles; his little village didn’t boast any. Still, Jon had over two decades worth of reading fairytales … and this was so much grander than he’d ever imagined.

Imposing dark stone framed massive windows several stories high. Jon didn’t have the architectural knowledge to know what kind of towers rose above all the rest, dotting the skyline – but there were at least a half-dozen different kinds all clustered together. Shorter cupolas peeked out shyly between the jutting buildings. Somewhere towards the rear, Jon caught sight of a greenhouse.

Most of the castle was framed by a massive stone wall, at least twice as high as the village one, bastions serving as mock protection. The only exception, peculiarly enough, was the front – Jon could peer inside the giant metal gates and see the glittering surface of a fountain. A garden, maybe? Everything else was too dark to make out.

Scarcely a hut on chicken feet nor a swamp bog. If this was where lords and ladies lived, how did royalty live?

Jon suddenly felt very, very small and very, very stupid. Damn it, he hadn’t seen any other village but his own. Was this simply how castles were? He wasn’t sure he wanted any part in this. What if he did something foolish? There had to be protocol.

“You’re fine, you’re fine,” Jon reassured himself. The strange noiselessness had followed him here. “Just a castle. Just go up to the front gates and …” What, knock? Jon saw no evidence of footmen. Certainly Lady Blackwood wouldn’t appreciate strange men wandering up to her front doors.

He walked up the dirt path to the wrought iron gates. They weren’t only meant to keep people out – the craftmanship was exquisite. The iron formed into whorls and curlicues like they were made of water, and cold enough to feel just that. He let his hand run over the front gate, marveling, before …

It pushed open. Too loose, like something was the matter with the hinges.

Jon leapt back like he’d been shocked, hands going into the air. I didn’t do it.

No booming voice thundered down to meet him and no arrows whizzed by his ear. Well! That was a good start. Perhaps a witch didn’t need to lock her front doors? Right, yes. Probably curses and things. Fireballs raining from the sky. Jon’s stomach started to churn.

He pushed the gate a little farther, just enough to slip through. A few steps into the massive garden, and …

Something was wrong.

Too difficult to see from outside. This had once been a beautiful place to welcome visitors – a large courtyard with a hedge maze, stone statues, topiary.

All had fallen into incredible disrepair. Thorned vines had erupted from the hedge maze, rendering it impassible. All of the statues had been destroyed or defaced, most only displaying their bases. Others were covered with such thick moss Jon couldn’t tell their subject.

What truly unnerved Jon were the topiary. They depicted lords and ladies, mythological creatures, and perfectly mundane ones – but the same plants that overran the maze had choked the topiary. Thorned vines pierced the once-beautiful botanical artwork. Between that and the overgrowth …

Well, hard not to imagine that they had once been living beings once, strangled and stabbed by thorns. Jon’s eyes lingered on a royal lady, a spiky growth bursting from her chest.

There were no flowers on the vines. Jon caught sight of wilted petals, so dark and rotted that Jon couldn’t even fathom a guess. Everything smelled of plant rot. If this was magic, Jon was both impressed and a bit frightened.

“What happened?” Jon asked, raising his hand to touch the topiary of a lion. “Did – ow!”

Damn it. Jon withdrew his hand and saw blood welling up from his finger. Fantastic. One could only hope these weren’t cursed. He would be extremely irritated to fall into a hundred-year sleep because he’d pricked his finger on some cursed thorns.

Had the witch done this, defaced her own home? The only part of the courtyard that appeared untouched was the fountain, but it was a sad affair. Water spurted upward in a cold spray and fell into a shallow black pool, so light that it didn’t make a sound. It felt like mist against Jon’s skin. Perhaps that was why the air felt so thick here.

He looked up towards the castle and saw no lights. No signs of life. Fear began to curl in his gut. Perhaps the witch hadn’t done this, but the forest did. And if the forest did …

He wasn’t safe here, either.

Jon took a chilly breath, fog puffing in the air. No, the witch had to know something. And if she wasn’t there any longer, if she was buried in the thorns somewhere … then the castle had to know something. Jon refused to believe that the knowledge to stop all this didn’t exist somewhere. Had to. Had to.

He approached the front door with some trepidation and gave a hard knock.

Not a surprise that he didn’t get an answer. “Hello?” Jon called out, because if he was about to trespass, he wanted to prove that he did try lawful entry.

Nothing. His voice echoed along the stone walls of the courtyard. Jon looked up at the large balcony on the upper stories that wrapped around what could only be a ballroom, almost expecting someone to be looking down at him. Nobody there. The windows (those that weren’t shattered, oh dear, that wasn’t a good sign) dimly reflected the gray sky above.

“Hellooooo?” He tried, one more time, already pushing on the front door.

It swung open with an impressive creak. Rust rained down on Jon from the hinges. Inside, he saw unlit braziers on the wall, unlit candles on the tables. Dust covered the ornate surfaces, from the wooden tables to the windowsills. Pity, because this was the most lavishly decorated room Jon had ever been in. He ached to sit on the plush velvet sofa, dust be damned. A stone fireplace sat cold. Dead plant matter sat in ceramic bowls.

The Lady, it seemed, was dead or gone. Her home was abandoned. He truly was alone, out here in the forest.

That thought plagued him as he walked past the front room, through the hallways. Not only neglect, Jon occasionally saw signs of active destruction. Every painting and portrait he passed were destroyed.

No, not destroyed, exactly. Jon saw claw marks, bigger than any creature he knew of – not only on the paintings, but the wallpaper, the floors. He sidestepped shattered mirrors and destroyed busts. Feathers from a few mutilated pillows covered the floor.

A beast? Had someone been here before him?

Jon was looking for an office, or perhaps a library. Something that would provide some clue as to what lurked in the forest. A castle this large … well, Jon supposed he would be as safe here as he would be out in the forest, nor was he inclined to repeat his journey so soon.

Fear kept his footsteps light. While his determination outweighed his trepidation, something about this place was unlike anything he’d felt before. He felt lonely in the village, of course he did, he had no friends and apparently people ridiculed him. Fine.

This? This not only felt like he was alone, but that he would never not be alone again. That he could walk these halls for days, months, years, the rest of his life … and nobody would know him or his actions. He would die alone, no matter how much he screamed. Perhaps thorns would wrap around his body and he’d turn to rot.

Still a more enticing prospect than being ripped apart by a wild beast, Jon told himself, a portion of his brain dearly keen on getting back to his bookshop.

He’d check every room he had to. He was going home with something.

At the very least, it was easy to open a door, flick his eyes in, and see whether it was suitable for investigation. Jon made quick work of a few hallways. Why did castles have so many sitting rooms? Surely if you had guests over, even an entire village, you wouldn’t cordon them off into drawing rooms and cigar rooms and gambling –

Someone was at the end of this hallway.

His first indication was only of life, the gut instinct that something at the end of the hallway lived and breathed. Jon stopped in his tracks, his breath dying in his throat. Too dark to make out anything. The only window in the hallway was several stories up and the creature rested in its shadow. It heaved out snuffled breaths.

Had he been spotted? Well, the creature wasn’t bounding after him. A beat passed and Jon was able to make out a shape – he gulped.

Massive. The creature was hunched over, but he had to be well over seven feet tall. It could even have been approaching eight. Bear? No, bears couldn’t get that tall. Jon didn’t know of anything that could get that tall, not around here, but then again, spiders didn’t grow to the size of horses either.

In either circumstance … it wasn’t something he was going to stick around for. Jon took a step back, eyes locked on the creature.

He felt a bust brush against his shoulderblades. Jon took a sharp inhale and went fumbling, but the damage was done. The marble plaster fell against the hardwood floor and shattered, the sound ricocheting off every flat surface in this room. Well, at least the damn silence was broken, too.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Jon heard a bestial huff behind him and, blood running cold, looked over his shoulder.

A pair of burning crimson eyes stared back at the end of the hall, shining through the darkness.

Oh, he had to go.

He had to go now. This was not how he wanted to die – not here, not now, and certainly not in pursuit of some information that might or might not help. He quietly bemoaned the state of his boots and legs. Hard to run with mud caked halfway up his knee. Hard to outrun a creature of that size.

Had to try. He fled around the corner of the hallway. God, if only he could remember the twists and turns it took to get here, but surely there had to be other ways out. This place wasn’t a prison. If anything, half the window seemed to be at least partially shattered, he could --

Jon heard an ungodly roar behind him, loud enough and powerful enough to shake the frames on the walls. He made a noise of terror that he wasn’t aware he could make.

His sprint grew more frantic, especially as he heard the galumphing beats of a quadruped in motion. Lord, Lord – ! He slammed his hip on the edge of a corridor and felt pain sear up his side. Fine, that was fine, he just had to –

Before he could turn another corner, Jon heard the creature barrel after him into the hallway. Another roar, and Jon could’ve sworn that he felt a gust of hot air hit his back.

No. Outrunning wasn’t going to be an option, nor did he have time to hide. He couldn’t be certain if he was heading in the direction that he came – and he had to leave now.

Jon’s eyes fell on a window.

It would be a substantial drop. Though Jon wasn’t stories above the ground, it would not be as simple as shimmying out into the front courtyard. Nor did he have any guarantee that this creature wouldn’t launch himself right after him.

But what else could be done? Would he be ripped apart otherwise?

Jon lurched for the latch on the window and pulled it open. He only had a second to make a decision. Looking out the window, just below him, he saw overgrown hedges to cushion his fall. More than a few of those twisted vines, too.

Best to be impaled by a thorn than torn apart by a wild beast, Jon thought wildly. He simply did not have time to think this through.

Breathing hard, Jon got one boot up on the windowsill – and then leapt.

As he fell through the air, he could’ve sworn he heard the creature bellow something behind him. If he didn’t know any better …

It sounded like the creature was shouting no!

Odd.

Not like Jon had time to focus on that. No, he fell into the hedges – he felt thorns pierce his body – he felt his head strike against the wall – and then he felt very little.

Chapter Text

The first time he’d been near another person in years and he’d nearly killed him. In Martin’s defense, he really could’ve knocked or shouted.

Martin still wasn’t exactly sure what had come over him. Instinct, he supposed? Ever since he had been transformed, he’d found himself able to tap into strange, new parts of his brain. Frighteningly, sometimes they were hard to ignore.

Though he’d seen hunters and the like at a distance in the forest, no people had been in the castle since his mother. When he laid his eyes on that blurry smudge of a person at the end of the hall, his only thought – burning through his hind, making his claws flex, his heart race …

INTRUDER.

His mind had snapped back into reality when he heard the man’s yelp of fear as he half-fell, half-leapt from the window.

Fuck.

Martin had gone out the window after him, landing neatly on all fours. Nothing but a bit of mud smeared on his paws, but the intruder wasn’t so lucky. He didn’t look conscious; blood dripped across his forehead. Martin wasn’t even sure where all the blood was coming from, but as he picked him up from the hedge, he saw a fresh coat of blood along the thorns and leaves.

Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god, Martin had killed him. Well, it wasn’t technically his fault – the man had leapt out from the window – but what a monstrous thing to think, he’d only jumped out the window because Martin had decided to be a bit beastly, and Christ alive, maybe Martin was better off alone.

Martin was the worst person in the kingdom to play nurse, but there was little choice. He cradled the man in his arms, the stench of blood thick in his nose and in his fur, and hurried back inside the castle.

It’d been a long time since Martin had had to apply first aid. Serious first aid, anyway. Splinters in the paw were a real motherfucker, but not hard to remove. Back when he’d first shifted, Martin hadn’t really known what to do with his claws. He still blunted half of them, using the walls of the castle as a makeshift scratching post.

Then again, back when he’d first shifted … he’d had to play nurse a lot. And all of his patients died, so, things weren’t looking good for this guy.

Plenty of bedrooms for the taking. Martin chose one that looked comfortable enough for this man’s recuperation and slid him on top of the sheets. A plume of dust flew up, making Martin sneeze hard. Better dusty than torn apart.

“Don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead,” Martin chanted to himself, his own voice sounding odd to his ears. He really didn’t like how speaking proper words felt like it took conscious effort. Martin tried to talk to himself every so often, just to keep his voice from going out completely. Still. His vocal cords felt much more suited towards roaring and grumbling these days, and that was to say nothing of talking around his tusks.

Martin stripped him of his clothes quickly and pushed him onto his stomach. Oh my god, he’s so tiny, I’m going to stab him on accident, oh my god. As he’d expected, this man had fallen back first onto the thorns. Most of the wounds weren’t deep, but there were a few … well. Martin might have gotten much better with his dexterity over the years, but stitching had been outside his realm of expertise even before all this.

The most he could do was disinfect the cuts and wrap him in bandages. Disinfectant didn’t taste good, but his paws were much too big to open the bottle otherwise. He spat the cork out across the room.

He felt around his head for any sensitive points, though Martin wasn’t sure what he was looking for. At least his head wasn’t bleeding. Small mercies. His pulse, when Martin rested his thumbpad against his wrist, was steady and strong.

Maybe the shock, Martin told himself hopefully, as he pushed the intruder onto his back. He debated against re-dressing him. Frankly, it already felt like a massive invasion of privacy as it was. And they were filthy, ripped and matted with blood. And taking clothes off was easy, but putting them on ...

One of the staff. Yes, one of the staff’s clothes would definitely fit him. He could at least bring them around. Martin tucked the man underneath the sheets and got his head on top of a pillow.

Worryingly enough, even if Martin hadn’t talked to another living person in years … he wasn’t thrilled by the idea of company. He was nauseated by the idea of company.

That this man knew he was here, in this castle, was horrifying. What if Jon woke up and fled the castle while Martin was out? What if he ran back to his home and told all of his little friends about the big scary monster that lived in the castle? What if he came back with a mob? What would Martin do with all those people?

Okay. He could bar the door so this man couldn’t leave. Wait – there was a window in the room. To hell with it, Martin could bar the window, too.

Martin stopped his rifling through the dresser. Wait. That’s bad. Don’t do that.

The years of isolation had been difficult for an encyclopedia’s worth of reasons. Martin hadn’t seriously thought he’d ever see another person again. In a very subconscious way, he’d forgotten other people really existed. The world felt like it’d shrunk down to him, his castle, and his rose.

Except … there was a person, living and breathing. Flesh and blood. A person who would not like to be imprisoned in his room. A person who did not deserve to be imprisoned in a room. A person who would doubtless look at him and see a monster anyway.

Martin stiffened a little at the thought, but – what was there to do about it, really? The intruder would wake, see him, scream, and flee back for the forest. Maybe if he were lucky, he could get a few words in edgewise. Maybe he wouldn’t bring back a mob. Maybe he’d just consider this a close call and vow never to come back to the castle again.

Frankly, he doubted it. Martin had read plenty of fairytales. The monster always got killed in the end. And yeah, he’d never eaten a child or kidnapped a princess, but all the monsters looked like him anyway. His mother had seen that before the curse.

Such was life.

Martin slung the change of clothes over his shoulder and walked back to the bedroom. As he did, Martin guiltily righted furniture that he’d knocked over. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to spruce the place up a bit, other than to make it look like he wasn’t a rabid wolverine who’d somehow locked himself in a castle. He lit a few candles on his way. Didn’t usually fuss with it, not with his dark vision, but … human people persons didn’t see as well in the dark, did they?

When he returned, the man’s eyes were flickering underneath his lids. He squirmed under the sheets, face twisted into confusion and pain.

Martin dragged a wooden chair across the floorboards and sat next to the bed, a little fascinated.

Though he was still a little blurry, Martin watched in fascination nonetheless. He’d destroyed most of the paintings in the year after his mother’s death. And, of course, topiary never did anybody any justice. There were pictures in books and things, but … wow. Martin rested his cheek in his paw, seeing his nose twitch. How fragile this person seemed. Dangerous, sure, but he had skin. Exposed to the air. How did he survive?

Maybe he wasn’t that fragile. After all, he had survived throwing himself out of the window.

His eyes fell to the intruder’s hand. Carefully, so as not to disturb him further, Martin placed his paw next to it. Wow. Even without the fur … tiny. And he had such long fingers. So many joints. Did he have a normal amount of joints? Martin could’ve sworn that there was meant to be one less.

“N-nnnh,” the man grunted, and the hand abruptly clenched into a fist. Martin ripped his paw away like he’d been burned. “Nnh.”

“Uh, hello,” Martin whispered, focusing on his enunciation. No growls. How did people greet one another, again? Even back when some of the staff had been alive, they’d not met his eyes. Martin couldn’t blame any of them. “Are you alright?”

The man’s eyelids fluttered open. Brown, unfocused, hazy. He wore glasses, too, that had thankfully survived the crash-landing. A tattered ribbon held his hair back, but he still looked like he’d been through a windstorm.

And then the eyes focused on him. Martin flinched hard enough to inadvertently screech the chair back.

The intruder scurried backward in the bed, almost striking his skull against the headboard. “Careful!” Martin urged automatically. Okay! Loud! Too loud, that was talking much too loudly, there had to be a happy medium between whispering and shouting.

A familiar scent struck Martin’s nose, but he hardly need the confirmation. His ears pressed close to his skull in disappointment. Fear. Martin held his paws out, pads facing towards Jon. No threat, he wished he could impart. No threat.

The man looked him up and down, chest heaving with breath. “You’re sitting down.” He huffed out a breath, wet his lips, and tried again. “You’re sitting down?”

Martin looked down at the chair. Yes, he was sitting down. Was sitting weird? Did people not sit? Surely people sat. If people didn’t sit, then why did they have all these chairs? Martin was almost positive he remembered sitting before the transformation, but this man was looking at him with such shock that he really had to think about it.

“Y-yes?”

The man’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates while he clutched the sheets close to him. “You keep talking,” he insisted.

Right. Yes, well, he knew this would happen. This man thought he was a monster, some stupid beast, and while Martin had hoped that he’d be able to at least have a conversation with the man, maybe convince him that he just wanted to be left alone … it appeared not. Dejected, Martin shut his mouth and let out a mournful hmph.

“I – I, yes, right, right,” he muttered, dropping the sheets to press the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I’m sorry, I only –” There, he cut himself off with a small hiss that sent Martin’s ears twitching. The man took his hands away from his eyes to probe curiously at his back.

“You fell on some thorns.” Martin tried to keep his volume low again. Maybe that was the problem, still? Talking too loudly?

(Some logical part of Martin’s mind knew it wasn’t. The problem that he was a big fucking monster. And no matter what he did – )

“Did you …” The intruder’s arms twisted further down his shoulderblades to touch at the bandages.. “You helped me?”

His paws felt odd and oddly sweaty. “Nobody else could. I’m … I’m the only person here.”

“Person,” He repeated, as if in awe. There, he saw his guest gave a little shake of his head and scoff. “Sorry, that’s rude. I just didn’t realize you could speak. Or, er, sit.”

“I can even roll over,” Martin tried to joke.

Didn’t get a laugh. Yes, maybe he wouldn’t be trying jokes again. Hard to read the expression on his face, not with his eyesight being how it was. His ears flattened against his head shyly, trying to look at the pattern on the duvet instead.

“You chased me, before?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, genuinely apologetic. “You startled me. I didn’t realize you’d gotten in.”

“It wasn’t exactly difficult. Both your front gate and your front door was unlocked.”

Right. God, he hadn’t thought about the front gate in ages. Whenever he did go outside … well, the front courtyard made him sad. Best to wander around the greenhouse or the farm plots out behind the castle. The courtyard was … rough.

“I’ve got a hard time with keys,” Martin admitted, holding out his paw. While he had five fingers (gratefully, because otherwise Martin would have lost his mind on Week 2), his hand was easily twice the size of Jon’s own. Some fine motor tasks were beyond him. “And it’s not like we get visitors often. Most people know to avoid the big scary castle.”

(Was it a pointed remark? Maybe. None of this would’ve happened if this man hadn’t had a jaunt.)

At the word visitor, something clicked in the man’s head. “Right. Right, yes, I was – I was actually looking for someone when I came in. That’s why I’m here.”

All business suddenly! Even as he sat covered in bandages, talking to a monster. Martin wasn’t exactly keen to help, but his curiosity was piqued. “Looking for someone?”

A terrifying thought bloomed in the back of his mind. Shit. The staff. Surely they had families, people from outside his estate – wouldn’t they? Certainly (and sadly) some had kept their entire families here, but the others …

Then again, allegedly he and his mother had a vast network of distant relatives. Nobody ever came knocking on the door to ask about what ever happened to poor little Martin Blackwood, and it wasn’t like they didn’t have the funds to travel.

“Lady Blackwood,” His guest asked, and Martin frowned.

Thoughts about his mother were rarely uncomplicated or new. Martin had come to think of his feelings on the matter as several immutable facts. He had grieved for his mother. Some days, he still grieved. Some days, he didn’t. He loved his mother. He hated what she did. He understood what she did.

Still, to hear someone say her name aloud? It was odd, like she’d become slightly more real again. Martin flinched in his chair, massive shoulders stiffening like she might come around the corner.

“She isn’t, um …” Ooph. How to explain. “She died a few years ago.”

“Oh,” he echoed softly, vowel hovering in the air. “And – And I’m sorry, are you some sort of squatter, er …” One hand went up. “I don’t care if you are, for the record. Better someone lives here than not.”

Well, thank god he’d gotten this man’s high opinion of him. His ears perked back up at the mild indignation. He didn’t need anyone’s permission.

And how curious to know that this man didn’t know a thing about his family – that his mother had a son.

“I’m her son. Martin Blackwood.” A pause. Wait, nobody had ever called him as much, because by the time his mother had finally died, the staff were already in the ground … but it was his title, unfortunately enough. “Lord Blackwood, now.”

No immediate response, but Martin heard the man take a sharp intake of breath. He knew what the next question would be. Frankly, it was a surprise that it hadn’t been asked before now. Martin didn’t want to get into it. He really didn’t. It was a horrible, miserable little story with no heroes and no princesses in castles and he’d made every mistake imaginable and no knights ever came and nobody ever slayed the beast and if he’d just been --

The man managed the start of the question. “How –?”

He hadn’t meant to growl. It was an unconscious reflex that he’d been unable to stop. Either way, his guest stopped and so did the growling.

Ah. No good. Martin was about ready to apologize, a different sort of reflex to the grounding, when the man said, “I’m Jonathan Sims. I’m the bookshop owner in the village east of here.”

Martin was about ready to apologize again when Jon said, “I’m Jonathan Sims. I’m the bookshop owner in the village east of here.”

Oh. This man was from the village. Martin could practically feel his estimation drop by a few degrees. Logically, he knew it hadn’t been anyone’s fault. Well, it had been one man’s fault, and given that this man’s name was not Elias Bouchard, it wasn’t this man’s fault. And yet, Martin had to bite his tongue to keep from blurting something regrettable.

Still.

Jon took his silence as confusion. “We’re looked over by Prince Magnus,” he explained with some patience. “Nobody there has ever had reason to come by.”

God! No reason! Martin saw red the color of his eyes, just for a moment. No reason while people were dying, no reason while Martin had begged Elias Bouchard for help through his letter, no reason while everything had been slowly going to shit. No reason at all.

While it wasn’t Jon’s fault, Martin could feel his temper rising. Instead of silence, he pivoted quickly to change the subject. “How are you feeling?”

“Ah, fine?” He uttered weakly.

Certainly didn’t sound fine. Martin didn’t know what to do about that. He tried to tuck the sheets underneath Jon’s legs, just to do something with his paws. “I could get you some water.” Thankfully, they had plenty of both in ample abundance.

“That – yes.” He saw Jon reach up and touch his throat. “That’d be great, thank you.”

A reason to get up. To get away from here, at least temporarily. This had been a lot of talking. Martin stood from the chair and went for the door. As he ducked his head through the doorway, though, he heard Jon clear his throat. “Lord Blackwood?”

Oh, no, he didn’t like that, but Martin didn’t feel quite comfortable correcting the man yet. Instead, he answered with a straight face, “Bookshop Owner Sims?”

Jon didn’t laugh at his response. “Am I, ah …” He trailed off. “I’m not the best with, uh, determining people’s intentions. Am I being held here, or –?”

A pang of horror hit Martin’s heart, and then a wave of self-recrimination. You were thinking about locking him up in this room, like, twenty minutes ago. Stuff it, Prince Charming. “No, no, no,” Martin insisted. “You’re not, and you can leave whenever you’d like. You were just, um, bleeding loads, and your head … but you can leave whenever you want. I’ll even show you out. I know the castle can be a bit of a maze.”

Yes, yes! Maybe if he were nice enough, Jon wouldn’t cause trouble for him later.

It wasn’t the best plan, but Martin could not think of a better one. He thought of intimidating Jon into staying quiet – and found himself unable to process it. Ironic, given how they’d met, but Martin found he could not fathom being actively threatening. What was he going to do, threaten to bite Jon’s head off?

“Yes, you’re telling me. If it were less convoluted, I wouldn’t have to toss myself out a window.” Jon considered Martin’s words. “Thank you. I’m not running out just yet, I … my head,” he agreed, fingers going up to probe at his skull. “I’m just making sure.”

“I don’t blame you,” Martin said. Granted, if he woke up in a bed with a big monster waiting nearby, then he’d flee as quickly as possible to avoid making conversation with a stranger. Still, he could see why Jon would be concerned about his head. “Let me get you some water.”

***

The heath in the kitchen was still warm from lunch. Jon hadn’t said anything about food, but surely he ought to be hungry. Falling out of a window did that to a person. Martin hadn’t ever been keen on getting company, but he was proud that it was a day when he made vegetable stew.

On most days, he did still try to cook, at least as a way of maintaining sanity and a schedule. Some days, though? Martin could scarcely summon more effort than it took to chase down a deer and drag it back to the stables. He’d gotten over the oh god what have I become of it all a few years ago. Deer? Stupid. Easy to hunt. Hair annoying to pick out of teeth. Just don’t look in sad, sad eyes.

Martin returned with a bowl of broth in one hand and a skin of water in the other. To his surprise, he walked into Jon with a chunk of bread in hand, book in the other.

At least, he was pretty sure it could be bread. Could be a raw potato. No, definitely dark on the inside. Definitely bread.

“You – you’ve brought me soup, too?” Jon asked, a little puzzled. “But I …?”

“I can make soup.” Was he defensive? It occurred to Martin that his palate was no longer discerning, and a bolt of self-consciousness struck him before he could stop it. What if it was bad? Christ, he ate raw wildlife as a lazy meal, what if …

However, Jon took it from him and rested it on his lap. He tore off a chunk of bread, dipped it in the soup, and popped it into his mouth.

“Oh! Oh, this is great,” Jon said with such surprise in his voice that Martin had no doubt he was being completely sincere. “Do you grow the vegetables yourself?”

“Can scarcely go into town for them, can I?”

“I suppose not. I can’t give you much for this, but – here.” He pressed the rest of the bread in Martin’s direction.

Normally, Martin would refuse. Only polite. However, he didn’t often get to have bread these days. Sometimes he made the unleavened kind, if the wheat turned out that year, but making yeast was a pain in the arse.

Gently, Martin took the chunk of bread and took a polite nibble.

It was so good. He couldn’t eat all of it now, because he’d start crying over it. When was the last time he’d had good bread? Couldn’t cry in front of company. Martin stowed the rest of it away in his jacket. This man was trying to thank him? How odd.

“You don’t need to give me your bread,” he defended, but he wasn’t about to pull it out of his jacket.

“I broke into your home.”

Best to ask why now, Martin supposed. He was curious.

“You wanted to talk to my mum. What, uhm … what did you want to ask her for?”

Jon paused in his eating. He stared into the bowl of stew, and then removed his glasses from his face entirely. “I wanted to ask,” he said, beginning to polish the lenses on the sheets, “If she knew anything about the forest.”

“Oh. Sure, loads. I mean, probably.”

“Specifically, about any …” he heaved a great sigh, then. “Monsters, I guess. Monsters that live in the forest.”

Was that meant to be a joke? It wasn’t a very funny one. Not because it was cruel, but just because it wasn’t funny. Martin tilted his head to the side and raised his paw towards himself. “Uh?”

“Um, no, not you.”

Well, that was reassuring – and perplexing. What kind of monsters in the woods was Jon concerned about? For that matter, how was Jon so confident that Martin was not them? Jon couldn’t trust him, they’d only just met. Was it because he wore clothes and talked? Was it because he cooked stew?

God, maybe this man was stupid. Hm. Martin knew well enough that monsters could talk.

At Martin’s silence, Jon clarified. “There’s something wrong with the village. I can’t give you any proof, but I’ve heard stories about some missing villagers. Big spiders. Lights in the forest. Bodies have been found, they’re – they’re rather brutalized.”

It had been a long, long time since his mother had told him a story. Well – to call them stories might have been a bit too kind. His mum wasn’t the sort to read him to sleep. If pressed, though, she always had a horrific tale to whip out about monsters in the forest that ate misbehaving little boys.

He never really thought they were fairytales, either. He’d seen enough impossible things from his mum to know what magic could do. Even as an adult, his mother had forbade him from going to certain parts of the forest – and even as a monster, Martin dutifully avoided them. Even if the monsters saw him as one of their own, Martin wasn’t keen to have a chat.

“I think there might be monsters in the woods,” Martin admitted. “But I don’t know of any specifically. I’d – I’d have to look, she might have some books or things on it.”

Jon seemed to disregard his last few sentences. Martin was being stared at, again. Come on, then. Martin thought with some irritation, I don’t look any different than I did a few minutes ago. Yes, the eyes are red, you’ll have to get used to it.

“You believe me?”

A simple question, asked in awe.

“I – uh -” Again, Martin felt out of the loop. “Like I said, I am a monster that lives in the woods. It’d be hypocritical if I said there wasn’t any others, right?”

“Right. Right, yes, of course, I …” The glasses were replaced on Jon’s nose. “Sorry, yes. It’s just been a very long week.”

Martin didn’t know what Jon’s week had entailed, but if it was comparable to being chased and falling out a window, well. He didn’t want to know. Maybe this sort of thing was usual for him.

The thing was, kindly, Martin didn’t care. If there were monsters in the forest, then to put it bluntly, not his problem. Yes, yes, it was very nasty of him not to care about the villagers. Said villagers who, if they knew Martin existed, would be coming to his castle with pitchforks and torches for absolutely no bloody reason, so Martin altogether wasn’t very invested in their safety. The world was cruel. At least none of them had a tail.

And yeah, Jon was treating him kindly now, but he was probably no different, in the end. Once Jon sat down and had a think – well, there was only so much monstrosity one person could take.

Still. At least Jon wanted something from him, now. Martin didn’t know how much he could trust Jon (probably not much), but if Jon were the sort to break a promise, then Martin didn’t have a chance anyway.

“If you promise not to tell anyone that I’m here,” Martin pressed, “I could send you off with a few books of hers. If I can find them.”

There were five libraries and seven studies in the castle, all of which were used in some way or another. Then, of course, there was the greenhouse. His mother had spent most of her days there. Shit. That’d take a while to sort through. That was a lot of company to deal with. Inertia weighed him down momentarily, but he soon shook it off.

Not like he had much better to do, and he didn’t want this bloke running off and telling them about the unhelpful monster in the castle.

“Not a problem,” Jon gushed with genuine enthusiasm. He put his bowl to the side of the bed and moved to swing his legs off. Some noises of pain were involved. “That would be a fantastic help. Where should we start?”

Uh.

“Now?”

This man had a head injury. Martin couldn’t even determine how bad it was, but he’d passed out from the fall. The last time Martin had passed out, he’d woken up a monster.

Jon’s head snapped towards him. “Er, sorry, have you got something else to be doing?” He asked, and Martin had to admit that no, he really didn’t.

Chapter Text

Jon wasn’t quite sure what to make of Martin.

Certainly, he ought to be more frightened of a monster who so clearly wanted him gone. Jon wasn’t exactly thrilled to stay in the castle, certainly, but no more frightened than he’d be of a grumpy human host. In most normal circumstances, he’d politely excuse himself and leave.

However, his skull had grown a thumping pulse and his muscles protested every time Jon moved his arms. He could feel the lacerations across his back. The shirt Martin gave him (a billowy thing, more suited for a pirate than a bookkeeper) was nice and loose, at least, but the idea of trekking a few miles back to the village was horrific.

Especially with the confirmation that other monsters live in the forest.

At the thought, another thrill passed up Jon’s spine. Despite the implications, he couldn’t help but feel vindicated. He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t fanciful. He was a perfectly reasonable person, and people were in danger. All the more reason for him to do something about it.

Jon harbored no delusions that the townspeople were any more likely to believe him without proof (that didn’t come from the mouth of, uh, a beast). However, if he returned to the village with proof in hand … Elias, especially, would have no choice but to believe him. Something would be done. At any rate, people would know.

As they walked the halls, Jon considered the notion that Martin was behind the disappearances. After all, Martin was right – he was a monster in the forest. Jon dismissed the notion. Martin was a touch gruff, but Martin also saved his life.

Also, tracking people down and killing them seemed to involve more sociality than Martin was comfortable with.

He didn’t know where they were going, so he trailed behind Martin. Martin seemed to be more than pleased with such an arrangement – as was Jon, for that matter. He couldn’t stop staring at him.

His initial suspicions, even seeing Martin a hallway away and in shadow, were correct. Martin stood close to eight feet tall, and Jon wanted to take a ruler across his wide shoulders. The thick brown fur that covered his entire body only seemed to add to his height, though it seemed to lighten up around his face. The nose was undeniably catlike and pink, as were the velvety ears that stood straight up from his head. His horns were not. They curled down in a counter-clockwise spiral to his temples.

Jon took special notice to the thick black claws curling from his … hands? Martin’s hands were certainly more paw-like than human, though Martin didn’t seem to be having much trouble with his dexterity. Every so often, Jon caught sight of Martin flexing his fingers, and he realized there were at least some joint maneuverability there. Fascinating. He wanted to touch them, and the leathery pawpads on the bottom side.

Back in the bedroom, Jon initially only caught every other word of what Martin said before he grew used to Martin’s flow of speech. The words kept getting caught against the large fangs (perhaps tusks? Jon made a mental note to look up the biological difference) that erupted from Martin’s low jaw and stretched well over his top lip. Martin also growled a lot, and he wasn’t sure whether Martin noticed.

And the eyes! Not only red, but glimmering crimson. They glowed at him when Martin glanced over his shoulder, making sure Jon wasn’t trailing too far behind.

So – yes, in short. Jon feared that he ought to be more frightened of Martin than he was. Martin might have saved his life, but that scarcely meant he was out of danger. Perhaps it was a Hansel-and-Gretel situation?

(The rabbit in the back of Jon’s mind remarked that if Martin did want to eat him, then there was little he could do about it. He couldn’t run away, not in his state, and Jon couldn’t think of any weapon that would pierce Martin’s body. Perhaps a crossbow? He had a dire lack of crossbows.)

Martin’s tail, perhaps irrationally, eased some of the tension, however. Jon wasn’t sure what would make a tail scary, but the tail Martin had simply wasn’t. It looked like a retriever’s. Martin also cut an irregular hole in the seat of his trousers to accommodate it.

Of course it wasn’t a happy story. Jon didn’t know anything about what happened, of course, but Martin would not live alone in a gigantic, half-destroyed castle if it were a happy story. He didn’t press further, but privately hoped he didn’t find any bodies in the library.

Martin stopped in front of a door and pressed forward without reaching for the doorknob. What lied behind was a room the size of his shop. A bolt of almost divine overwhelm struck him when Martin remarked, “This is the smallest one, but I needed to stop here first anyway.”

The smallest library. Hm. Sure. Yes. Jon froze in the doorframe, temporarily short-circuiting. There were a fireplace, and a few cozy-looking chairs, and thick plush rugs, and at least a dozen bookcases stretching from floor to ceiling. Jon can’t make out the titles on the cloth-bound times, but good Lord.

He was going to start vibrating. That would do no good for his wounds.

His new host crossed to one of the chairs, a high-backed velvet. It was easy to see Martin’s preferred furniture in the room – well worn and sunken in and positively covered in brown fur.

Martin shed.

Probably was an infuriating tendency, so much as Martin cared about that sort of thing. And yet, Jon had to repress a smile at the thought of it. As it stood, Jon often had to pick his long hair out the bath. Couldn’t imagine.

Martin picked up a small cloth pouch, fidgeted with it, and pulled out something that Jon had never expected in a thousand years. He would have guessed a dagger or a baby rabbit before ...

A pair of glasses. Martin put on a pair of glasses, the lens almost comically too small for his large eyes. One of the lenses had a clack running through it. His red eyes seemed much less piercing when magnified as much, and he peered back at Jon owlishly.

Martin stared at him. Jon was not talented at picking apart other people, he knew that, and he couldn’t fathom why Martin was staring at him. He reached up to adjust his shirt self-consciously, face hot. What did Martin expect him to say? Me too?

“Pain in the arse, innit,” Martin muttered, punctuating his remark with a growl.

Jon returned to the bookshelves. Most of the collection was what he might imagine in a posh estate – the classics, written hundreds of years prior (an impressive array of Greek tragedies and comedies, all told), the who’s-who of political elbow-bumping, various treatises on science, medicine, maths. Modern pieces were few and far between, much less genre fiction. Some caught his eye, but as much as Jon might like to, he wasn’t here to read.

While he perused the titles, Martin approached him from behind.

Jon froze. His head scarcely rose to Martin’s chest, and he could feel the thump-thump-thump of Martin’s heartbeat reverberate against his skull. That was to say nothing of the head ratiating off Martin’s body, but Jon could really only think of Martin’s fangs and Martin’s claws. It would be so easy, Jon thought, a terribly gory image creeping into his mind, no issue at all …

“Nn, this is just one on dinosaur theory.” Martin reached above Jon’s head and plucked out a book, disappointed. “Don’t think we’ll be needing this.” He backed away, book still in hand, and threw it onto the sofa. “Don’t think it’s anything.”

“Do you think we’ll find anything here?”

“Not really, but it’s worth checking. I always preferred this place, and she didn’t really …” Another breathy growl, sounding almost akin to a grumble.

His heart was rapidly starting to calm in his chest. Keep your distance, Jon warmed himself, he’s a monster. He might have a very good library, but you don’t know anything about him. Find something and leave.

God, did Jon ever want to know more about him, but this was not the place to ask. “Well,” Jon remarked, gesturing towards the door with his hand. “Lead the way, Lord Blackwood.”

***

Together, they examined three libraries and two studies. Jon didn’t really have any desire to be born rich before (in the village, only Elias Bouchard was in that social class, and he was hardly good company), but he certainly started to see the benefits of being born wealthy. He felt a glimmer of almost painful joy when he saw a book he’d already read on the shelves, and – despite the enormous weight of the situation – made a few notes to himself about potential books to inquire about from traders, after all this was over.

Despite this, they hadn’t found anything worthwhile. No books on monsters – not even any books on magic, or what might lurk in the woods outside the castle. Jon could feel Martin’s prickly displeasure radiate from him. A polite man, Jon thought, would excuse himself to leave – but he wasn’t polite, nor did Martin seem ready to throw him out. He had to leave with something.

As they walked the halls, Jon had to admit Blackwood Castle was a strange place. Whenever Martin turned a corner ahead of him, Jon had to fight down the notion that he was suddenly alone, that there was never a Martin Blackwood at all, that his life in the village was a happy, sunny memory – or even worse, a daydream to deal with his loneliness.

The head injury, Jon suspected, or the surreal nature of meeting a monster man. He didn’t know what would inspire such a feeling, but as it was.

In their latest room, Jon had stepped forward to curiously examine a carved statue of an albatross when he heard Martin roar in frustration. Jon jumped, wheeling around him (what weapon did he have? Could scarcely throw the bird at him), only to see the brute get his claws up underneath the desk and tip it over. Papers flew everywhere and something snapped ominously from within, as the desk hit the floor with a thud. Martin’s shoulders heaved in exertion as a bit of drool gathered and fell from his lower lip.

“For god’s sake,” Jon squawked, cold fear dripping down his spine, “What did you do that for?”

Martin’s crimson eyes snapped up to meet his. The man was fluffed up like a threatened owl. Jon saw something click behind his eyes, and he reached up to smooth the hair on top of his head. The rest of Martin’s fur followed suit.

“Was frustrated?”

“Yes, well –” Jon wasn’t this man’s teacher, and he wasn’t about to give him a lesson. “Just warn me before you start flinging furniture, won’t you?”

Martin’s ears were a clearer giveaway to his emotions than his face. They drooped in shame.

“We’re going to have to check the greenhouse. She spent a lot of time there, Mum really liked gardening,” Martin explained with some apology, sparing a glance out of the window. “That’s the only place I can think of.”

“Er …” There was something about Martin’s expression. “Is there something wrong with the greenhouse?”

“No, no. It’s just …” Martin snuffled. “Don’t worry about it. Just don’t touch anything.”

It was the first word he’d gotten about not touching things. Jon had been touching many things, actually, without a single word of warning from Martin. Scarcely a good sign that it was coming up now.

Outside, the air tasted of rain, but Jon was relieved to see clear skies. Martin had stopped only temporarily to stow his cracked glasses by the front door and thrown on a cloak (made, Jon realized, of stitched-together drapery, the quality was actually very nice). He hunched his shoulders and skulked out the front door, up the small dirt path.

Though Martin seemed intent to go straight there, Jon’s eyes were drawn to the pierced topiary, to the sad black fountain spitting water. The curiosity overwhelmed him before he could stop himself, and he asked, “What –?”

But Martin was gone, hurried away. For the best, then. His guide being well over two feet taller than him, along with the pain coursing through his legs, had not yielded much fruit by way of conversation. Jon followed, tugging his own cloak tighter around himself.

Jon couldn’t get a good look inside the greenhouse until he was right up against it. Martin started to fiddle with the padlock on the door. From a distance, Jon thought the glass was … well … green. It wasn’t. The glass was clear, but the sheer mass of curling vines inside had blocked sight of anything else. Jon saw that some of the vines had protruded through a few broken panes of glass. Some grew right into the soft earth outside, others snaked their way to the courtyard.

Jon was no horticulturalist, but that was not good.

His attention was taken by Martin’s now-familiar growl of frustration. Jon braced for the shattering of glass – indeed, Martin looked over his shoulder at Jon as if checking his reaction. Martin didn’t break anything. Instead, he stuck one of his long, curved claws into the opening of the lock.

Something hideous crunched inside.

Martin roared in pain. He yanked his paw back from the padlock (which fell, jammed open, onto the ground). Jon saw the problem at once – Martin’s claw had snapped off quite close to the quick. A few beads of blood welled up, quickly obscured as Martin clutched his paw to his chest.

He couldn’t quite place the sound, because he hadn’t ever heard a person make it before. But, after a few seconds, there was no doubt: Martin was whimpering.

Jon didn’t blame him for it. It looked painful. Just odd to hear those pitiful noises coming from a large beast, like a kitten who lost their mother. “How bad is it?” Jon asked, reaching for the paw.

Martin let him take it. The fur was coarse, there, and even thicker than he imagined. Jon ran his fingers over the paw pads (rough like a dog’s, Jon notes, and smelled like corn) to examine the broken off claw. It was only bleeding a little, then. “Will it be alright?”

The whining abruptly cut off. Martin took his paw back and ran it against the tip of his nose self-consciously. “Yeah. Yes. It will be, it’ll grow back. It just hurt.”

“I can imagine. Why do you keep the door locked?”

“It’s …” Martin gaped at air, uncertain of how to answer. Instead, he turned to push the front open door open. Jon half-expected some trapped monster to come leaping out at them.

Jon didn’t find that. Instead, he mostly saw vines, taking over the interior of the greenhouse. They’ve punched through tables, they’ve punched through plant pots. What might once had been a very pleasant nursery was choked by the vines, growing as thick as Jon’s body. He saw Martin hurry forward into the central aisle, not keen on sticking around. Jon concurred.

Not only was it oddly eerie, but the smell was about ready to do him in. He hadn’t smelled it outside, but inside … it smelled like rot. Not plant rot. The vines all had the stench of death to them, so pungent that Jon had to cover his nose in his shirt sleeve.

Wasn’t unheard of for flowers to smell like corpses. Actually, Jon considered it a rather prudent survival strategy, capitalizing off the innate repulsion to the smell of death. But … as Jon inspected the vines, he saw no flowers on them. No living ones, anyway. Just dead, shriveled petals every few feet along the mottled green surfaces, interspersed with plum-colored thorns.

Martin started to sort through papers on a workbench, having found a way through the maze of vines. Jon’s eyes traced along them. All growing out into the courtyard, certainly, but growing from …

All of a sudden, Jon caught it. It was easy to overlook, almost entirely covered in vines as it was. A rectangular slab of stone sat near the back of the greenhouse, about as high as Jon’s waist and as long as he was tall. The vines slithered out of the stone lid, casting it askew.

Not only was the stone box rather nondescript … something more eye-catching rested just above it.

A singular rose sat on a pedestal above, covered in a clear glass case. It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful rose that Jon had ever seen.

A few of the petals had fallen to rest on the bottom of the container, but the rosehead was no less stunning for it. Beautiful hues of red and pinks – it reminded Jon of the first summer apple, of a cat basking in the sun, of the sensation of someone’s warm, soft arm against your own. It exuded a faint pinkish glow. As charmed as Jon was by it, he immediately understood that something about the rose was magic.

“Jon?”

He turned to see Martin standing there, a leather-bound book clutched in his head. His ears were flat against his head, his nostrils flared. Behind him, his tail flared out like a bottle-brush.

Jon didn’t think it was anger.

“What is this?”

“It’s …” Martin’s eyes dipped from Jon’s own to the stone slab. “It’s my mother.”

Oh. Jon turned back around to see an inscription on the top of the lid (at least, the free portion not overrun). Half oft it appeared to be a family crest, worn almost smooth by time, and …

Hm.

LADY BLACKWOOD.

Laid to rest in a place she found peaceful. There would be fitting in it, Jon thought, except he couldn’t quite break his attention away from the vines slithering out of her tomb.

He looked back up at the rose, and then to Martin. Martin knew what Jon wanted to know … and Martin averted his eyes. That told Jon everything.

Alright. He could hardly expect his host to reveal all his secrets – and for the best that Martin told him not to touch anything, because the rose was calling to him. The urge wasn’t intense, and Jon could scarcely be sure that it wasn’t just his own mind, but … still. “Well,” Jon murmured, hand leaving the stone lid. He took a step away from the tomb and Martin visibly relaxed. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“That’s okay,” Martin said, voice soft. In a flash, Jon caught a glimpse of the sort of person Martin might have been, before. “It happened a while ago. I’m okay.”

“How?” Jon asked before he could help himself. His curiosity, he reasoned, was partially the reason why he was currently standing in the greenhouse of a monster-man.

Martin looked away and to the side, a few wrinkles appearing on the bridge of his nose. “She got sick. Really sick,” he emphasized, “And I couldn’t, not with …” His hand, still missing half a claw, pressed against his shirt. “I couldn’t help her. Nobody did.”

Did?

He looked down at the vines extruding from the coffin, at the singular rose. In memorial perhaps? Jon realized with a start that it was the only living flower he’d seen on the entire estate. The beauty of a million flowers, to be certain, but …

“I found her notes.” Jon was quietly grateful that Martin had changed the topic. “If she knew anything about the forest, saw anything, it’d be in here. We, um …” Martin sighed. “We didn’t get loads of visitors, but there were a few. Ages ago. Prince Lukas was here, once. I think Prince Magnus, too?”

“Really? They came to the castle of a witch?”

“She wasn’t just a witch,” Martin protested, and Jon winced in apology. “She was a lady. They did, actually. When I was little. I don’t remember them much,” he admitted, “But you’re free to look over her journal, if you want. Just don’t wander off with it.”

Best not. Jon took the journal from Martin. It was almost certainly several decades old – greasy leather, yellowed pages, entire thing a bit limp. As it was, when he flipped through it, all the writing appeared to be legible. They both maneuvered out of the greenhouse outside to see how much time he had to read it before nightfall, and –

The sun was already beginning to set.

Had they really been searching the castle all day? Jon blinked in surprise. Lord, he’d been so taken by the courtyard again – there was simply no way he could reach the village before nightfall, not now. His head practically throbbed at the very thought. Wandering through the forest at all held little appeal, but wandering through the forest at night with an aching body was leagues worse.

He turned to stare at Martin. Martin was pointedly avoiding his gaze. Jon looked at him a little harder, and Martin let out a scoff.

“You might have to stay the night,” Martin grumbled, shaking his head. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But you should. Either way, I did my end of the bargain, you don’t mention me to anybody in your village.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Another thing in his life that held little appeal? Staying the night. Martin was fascinating, of course, and the castle was spectacular … but Jon didn’t feel safe here. For good reason, he couldn’t place all of his trust in Martin. “Apologies for intruding on your busy schedule, but I think I might actually stay the night.”

“’s fine,” Martin huffed at him. “It’s a big castle. And it’ll give you more time to look over, uh,” Martin tapped the journal with a dulled claw. “That.”

Perhaps this would be more convenient, after all. Jon began to walk away from the greenhouse. An owl’s hoot momentarily grabbed his attention, and he turned to look – only to see a thin stone wall jutting out from behind the castle. Even from here, he could see a few tombstones, clustered together against the exterior wall. The vines hadn’t left them alone, either.

Not unusual for a castle like this to have a cemetery, Jon thought, but it only served to remind him that he’d only seen one other living person there. A castle this big also seemed like it would have a staff. A shiver ran up his spine at the sight. Perhaps they left? Ran away, the lot of them?

“You can stay in the same room. Uh, I keep food in the kitchen closest to the … I’ll show you. Don’t go anywhere else,” Martin added, with a paltry attempt at seeing intimidating. The snarl was a lot less impressive than it would have been several hours ago.

Perhaps his self-preservation meter was off, because Jon could only sigh and say, “Yes, Martin, I didn’t intend on wandering freely about your home. I know how guests work.”

“It’s not that. It’s just not safe.”

Oh? “Structurally?”

“No.” A pause. “Mostly.” Martin shrugged and pulled the front door open. “There’s a lot of secrets in the castle, and a lot of them are dangerous.”

“Other people? Creatures?” Jon pressed further.

Another shrug was his only answer on that point. Fine, well enough. Jon was normally keen to explore, but the journal seemed a far greater treasure.

Jon genuinely tried to remember the path they took from the stocked kitchen (as opposed, Jon wondered, weary, to many unstocked ones in the castle) to his room. He considered waiting until Martin fell asleep and drawing a chalk line, but ultimately decided against it. If it came down to it, he would figure it out.

When his eyes fell upon his bed, the pounding headache went from uncomfortable to unbearable. His vision blurred – yes, alright, fine, brain, I’m going to lay down – and he stumbled a bit to the side, only to be caught by Martin’s waiting arm.

“You okay?” He asked with genuine concern, his large eyebrows (if they were, indeed, eyebrows and not oddly placed tufts of hair) furrowing together. “I’m not a doctor.”

Jon nodded. “I’m fine. The walls on your castle are just very hard, I’m afraid.”

Martin smiled a little. “There used to be a moat.”

Well, that would have been something to see. With the castle in such a state, it was hard to imagine what it must’ve been like in all its glory. It was something sad, now. He stumbled back into his head and sat there with the journal in his hands. Martin didn’t move from the doorway, having to awkwardly crane his head to stand under it.

Awkwardness abounded. Why isn’t he living? Does he want me to say something? ‘Thank you’? Jon coughed – it hurt. Best not to do that again, no matter how awkward it got.

“The village,” Martin blurted suddenly. “Where you’re from, it, uh ...”

It had never occurred to Jon that Martin might be curious about him. He was hardly the one with the beastliness, or the castle, or the royal title, or the one with the creepy vines growing all over his property. Comparatively, Jon was almost painfully normal. He sat up a little higher in bed.

“Are people going to be missing you? Like, ought I worry that there’s going to be a search party sent out in the morning?”

Ah. Not exactly the question about village history he’d been expecting. It wasn’t an unfair question, though, even as Jon sagged a bit against the headboard. He had to think about it – though, in retrospect, he didn’t have to think about it very long.

“No.” What else could he say? He wasn’t good at lying, never had been, and even less interest in preserving his dignity. It was Martin’s safety at sake, after all, and Jon didn’t want to see Martin hurt on his behalf. “I could be gone a year and they wouldn’t come looking for me.”

“But your bookshop?”

“A few might stop by, wonder where I’ve gone to.” Jon put on a crooked smile. “But they won’t search for me.”

Of course it hurt to think as much, after having lived in the village for all his life. No connections, no friends. Jon tried to tell himself that their unwillingness to search would come from a partially rational place – the woods were dangerous, and why risk them to save weird, annoying Jonathan Sims? Not important enough.

Martin still stood in the doorway. Jon could’ve sworn that those red eyes had softened. “It’s nice that way, sometimes,” he tried. “Nobody caring. You can do what you like.”

Maybe so. Jon wasn’t sure what to make of it. There was a man who had been alone in the middle of the woods, and it was a different sort of alone than being amidst hundreds of people. “I tend to do what I like, regardless of who’s looking out after me. Probably why I haven’t got anyone looking after me anymore.”

Martin tilted his head to the side, looking every inch a perplexed dog.

“My grandmother.” Was it too personal? To hell with it. He could mention what he liked. “She ran the store before me. Used to joke about shackling me to the till so I wouldn’t run out.” It had been a brief illness, and Jon knew how illnesses came about, but still – sometimes, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had stressed her a little too much …

“Oh.”

“So, you know, you may be right about this being alone business.”

Martin didn’t respond to that, but Jon caught the nervous way he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Too personal, perhaps. People didn’t like talking about death much. Jon swooped in to save his host by dismissing him. “Have a good night. Thank you for allowing me to stay.”

“Good night. Hope you find some answers in there,” Martin rumbled at him, practically vanishing from the doorway to parts unknown.

Mm. Depressing line of conversation. Jon looked down at the journal in his hands. A certain sense of freedom, yes, being able to go where he liked, when he liked – but the idea that he might die alone in the woods? That the constable, or the priest, or god forbid Elias would be the one to arrange his burial?

Would he have been so friendly to Lord Blackwood if he wasn’t utterly lonely himself?

God. Jon blinked, shook his head. No, he was just being dramatic. It wasn’t uncommon for him. Clearly being here had shaken up his nerves; he’d be sure to hurry when he left in the morning.

For now, he had this journal. Jon settled back on the headboard, flipped the journal open to the first page, and began to read the words of the deceased lady of the house.

Chapter Text

Martin was going to eat him.

Not really. He considered threatening it (isn’t that what monsters did? Ate people?) when he saw Jon staring at the rose, desire in his eyes, but Martin knew he’d never actually eat a person. For god's sake, there was always a 50/50 chance he’d cry after hunting if he thought about it too much. On his really soft days, he’d rather cuddle with a deer than eat it.

Still.

Martin stood in the greenhouse at the small hours of the morning, staring at the faintly luminescent rose. The fear that had welled up in him, seeing the look in Jon’s eyes … he’d never wanted to scrub the image out of someone’s head more.

He wasn’t sure what he was scared of. That Jon would destroy it? That Jon would ask too many questions about it? That Jon would …?

It’d been years since he last saw the rose, or even been in the greenhouse. Martin wasn’t an idiot. He knew where the vines were coming from. And when he put his mum in the tomb, he’d placed the rose there. It sat up there, mocking him. Silently, as roses did.

What troubled Martin now was the few dead petals that have curled up on the base of the glass dome.

Martin always knew there was a time limit to this curse. Until the last petal falls …

He wasn’t sure why his mother had done this. His mum had been in pain, and angry, and – and Martin had come to believe that she hadn’t meant to do this, wouldn’t have done it in her right mind. Regardless of that, it was done and he had to live with this. He had to live like this until the last petal fell, and then … the curtains fell on Martin Blackwood.

Martin wasn’t sure how long he had. It was all a bit finicky in his new form, but Martin was … twenty-nine or thirty. The rose had lived far longer than most roses did, but now …? He saw the dead petals curled up and before his eyes, another fell, spiralled, and touched down. Martin didn’t know how many petals the rose had. Many, many more. Perhaps he might live a lot longer. Perhaps the petals would start falling faster.

Until the last petal falls ...

Martin reached out his paw; his paw-pads brushed against the glass. It was warm to the touch.

God, he didn’t want to die, but he saw no other option. The only option presented was impossible for a beast like him.

Maybe it was just feeling pissy, maybe it was the reason he was turned into this in the first place, but Martin didn’t pay any mind to his mother’s tomb as he skulked back outside. Mum, you could’ve fixed this, Martin thundered inside his head. What was your point, here? That I’m unlovable? I get it. Didn’t have to sentence me to death over it.

It was positively gushing rain outside. Even with his cloak, Martin was soaked through in a matter of minutes. He could only imagine the state of the river that ran back into Jon’s village – and he thought, with some dismay, that it’d probably be pretty irresponsible to send Jon back out in this downpour. Not with his injuries.

UGH.

His brain ran the calculations before he could put a stop to it. He had hosted Jon for twenty hours so far.

Martin supposed he just didn’t know what to do with him. What did you do with guests? Logically, Martin couldn’t find any problem in Jon. He was too keen on touching things and he was a bit persnickety and Martin knew that Jon wanted to ask a dozen questions Martin didn’t want to answer … but Martin couldn’t exactly complain about that, could he?

And yet, to talk to another person, even only briefly … Martin didn’t know. It made things feel different. He couldn’t say whether it was good or bad, whether he’s hoping or despairing, as he walked to Jon’s bedroom. He felt different in a way he couldn’t put his finger on, like the entire world had rotated several degrees.

The little fucker was gone.

Martin grunted in realization when he saw the upturned sheets, the discarded bandages. The fire (god, he hadn’t even thought about it, he’d forgotten the castle got cold during the night) was dying in its hearth. What was more, Jon’s bag was missing – as was his mother’s journal.

He roared. Yes, that felt normal. That felt like things were getting back to the way they were meant to be.

This was what being nice had gotten him, hadn’t it? That was right, he took care of Jon’s injuries, fed him, showed him around his home, let him see his mother’s grave – and he absconded in the night. Probably terrified at the sight of the big, bad monster man. Was just counting down the minutes until he could flee, because a forest full of monsters was better than Martin.

Well, Martin thought, he hasn’t seen the half of it. That was him being nice. That was him being human. And if the curse was right, if he couldn’t be loved before the last petal fell, then what was the goddamn point of being nice anymore?

He thundered down the hallway, dripping water onto the carpet. You know what would show him? I’ll track him down. He can’t have gotten far. Not in the rain, not with the swollen river. In retrospect, Martin wasn’t surprised that this man came from the village. The village was always full of selfish assholes, who never lifted a finger to help a poor dying woman, and he skulked by the kitchen door, only to see –

His mother’s journal, resting atop the table. The table was mostly meant for laying out food and (Martin remembered, from an age long ago) for the kitchen staff to play cards around. Jon’s bag was resting next to it. Martin couldn’t see much of Jon, except for a pair of knees and shoes sticking out from under the tablecloth.

“Uh?” Martin asked. The anger left so quickly that it made him dizzy. “Jon?”

“Ah!” Instead of coming out, the legs retreated fully under the table. “Good morning!”

“Why’re you under the table?”

“There’s a, um –“ Jon’s voice was a little embarrassed despite himself. “There’s a cat? She came in from outside.”

He nearly swallowed his tongue. In his defense, there was a lot going on, but how could he ever forget about – “Patches?”

“And a few little stitches, it seems,” Jon added, fondness radiating off him in waves.

No goddamn way.

In a blink, Martin’s mind emptied of any thoughts – whether he even liked having company, the rose in the greenhouse, his imminent mortality, or even the usual philosophical nightmare about whether he was a man or beast. He fell to his knees and picked up the tablecloth.

Underneath rested a black-and-white cat on her side, resting on a thick blanket. Four kittens, looking like tiny, fuzzy Holsteins, suckled away at her belly. They were no longer than Martin’s middle finger and all soaked through with rain. Patches valiantly tried to groom one of her children’s heads, but the angle was much too taxing, and she soon flopped back down on the blanket.

Jon tried to do her work for her, attempting to pat one of the kittens with a tea towel, only to be met with an insistent hiss. “Alright, alright,” Jon relented, dropping it. He returned to what he was doing before – tearing up chicken onto a little plate, evidently.

“She doesn’t know you.” Martin took the tea towel and blotted at the kittens carefully. It was plenty warm in the kitchen, but it couldn’t hurt.

“She knows you?”

“She comes in when it rains.” He didn’t want to make any claims that Patches was his cat, necessarily, but he did rip a portion of the door off so she could come in/out as she pleased. “And I thought she’d come in when she was ready to have her kittens, but …”

“Time and tide wait for no man,” Jon intoned and grinned. “Or feline.” He continued to tear up the chicken.

Martin was pretty sure he didn’t come up with that on the fly, but he hadn’t read The Greats and he had no plans on doing so – nor giving Jon the satisfaction of telling him he hadn’t. Patches rested her head on the blanket, thoroughly exhausted. The kittens paid Martin no mind, their tiny eyes still shut and their ears pushed flat against their head.

He wondered if he ought to name them. Maybe Patches would be convinced to stay a little longer, what with four kittens in tow – it would be nice, he thought, to have a bunch of kittens running around the castle. Not like there wasn’t enough mice in the cellars to support a dozen litters’ worth of cats, and he liked Patches.

Martin’s eyes scanned down the line of cats. All the patterns were different, but the colors were similar. Stitch and Sew and Knit and … and …

Before he could think of the last name, he felt eyes on him. Jon, with raised eyebrows and a curios tilt of the head, regarded him silently.

Maybe it was innocent, maybe it wasn’t, but Martin reared his head back defensively anyway. His horns scraped on the underside of the table and shift the whole thing ominously. Patches let out a low, displeased noise at the interruption. “What? I’m not going to attack her or anything. She’s …” How best to describe Patches? “She’s a friend of mine.”

“I didn’t think you were going to attack her. It’s just …” Jon’s eyes fell to Martin’s hands, where he used the blunt side of his claw to rub along a kitten’s back. “Not important. I take it that the rain’s still falling?”

Maybe if he pretended like it wasn’t … “It’s not bad.”

Patches raised her head, and Martin swore that the cat glared at him. He looked down to see that the water from his fur had started to stain her blanket. Apologetically, he shifted away. “Might not be safe for you to go back today,” he grumbled, abashed.

“Hm. Well, could explore around here more.” Jon seemed quite pleased with the idea as he pulled apart the last of the chicken.

The idea of spending an entire day playing tour guide again caused him to instinctively growl.

“You don’t have to come along. I trust that I won’t get lost enough to starve.”

The rose flashed through his mind again, and Martin dismisses it. That was a reason, sure, but – “It’s not safe. There’s dangerous things in the castle.”

“More dangerous than you?”

The fur on his shoulders started to puff up. “I’m not dangerous,” he complained. At least, not more than anyone else, he doesn’t think. It was good to pretend to be dangerous, sometimes, but – he didn’t really want to hurt anybody.

(Minus wanting to hurt Jon when he thought he’d run off with his mother’s journal. That was – that was not good.)

Jon gave him a knowing glance. “Mhm.”

Right, pretending like they knew each other, pretending like Jon knew anything – ! “Fine. I’ll show you.” And if Jon got hurt, well, he was the one who decided to be difficult, didn’t he? Not that Martin was going to throw him in the way of danger, he wasn’t a monster – well – er –

“Patches, you stay here. It’s bad out,” he remarked, rubbing the back of one dull claw along the top of her head. Patches purred at him in joy and inspected the chicken with greedy eyes.

***

There were plenty of odd, spooky things around. Any one of them could be used to prove to Jon that exploring the castle was A Bad Idea, actually. In the end, Martin eventually chose what he’d come to call The Hallways. He’d never gotten hurt in The Hallways, just very, very frustrated. He hoped that would be enough to convince Jon that he ought to just rest in the library with his mother’s journal in hand. Martin would even feed him.

Why did Jon even care, anyway? Big old spooky fuck-off castle. It was sad and it wasn’t his business.

In Martin’s opinion, a village was much more interesting. The sheer amount of people, and shops, and things going on. Granted, Martin had no interest at all in exploring Jon’s village. Angry mob or no, Martin wasn’t willing to put aside the grudge. Another village, though … Martin liked to daydream of happier realities, on days when he didn’t want to look around at his own surroundings.

Jon carried the journal close to his chest as he walked, trailing behind. At least his head didn’t seem to be bothering him as much. Up above, Martin could hear the rain splattering against the rooftop. He wondered if Jon could hear it.

“Did you find anything in the journal?”

“It’s less, ah, scientific endeavor than I was expecting. I’ve only read a few entries so far, it seems to be more of a … well. Household matters, her day-to-day life. Like, a diary.”

“Oh.”

He was a little curious, all things considered. Not because of whatever might live in the forest – Martin had an almost painful disinterest in monsters – but because that was his mum’s diary. He hadn’t known she kept a proper diary, just notes on her magical work.

Nervously, Martin folded his arms in front of him. He immediately felt quite vulnerable.

“There’s not many entries,” Jon added hastily, “She goes months at a time without writing in it. Seems to be more of a way for her to remember important details. A bit disappointing.”

A little better, he supposed, though he wasn’t keen to know what his mother thought of him towards the end.

Not going to matter, Martin tried to reassure himself. He’ll find out what he wants, he’ll go to his village, and you’ll never see him again. He knew the dangers of trusting too quickly, but Jon seemed a trustworthy enough sort. At least, Martin trusted him when he said his village didn’t care about him, and thus Martin believed Jon didn’t have the social status necessary to whip up a mob. Bigger things to worry about.

They came to the cluster of guest rooms in the west wing. A long hallway stretched out in front of him, collections of doors on either sides.

The staff always told him stories about the sorts of balls and gatherings the Blackwoods used to have. Massive, grand things, every bed filled with family and friends. Dancing for days. There was proof enough of that, wasn’t there? The giant ballroom still showed some ancient scuffs on the floor. He was taught how to dance formally, but …

Everything went to shit early on. Martin wasn’t sure he ever had a chance.

Either way, nobody had stayed in these rooms for a long, long while. “Alright, what’s this about, then?” Jon asked, tucking the journal underneath his arm.

“Through the door.”

Martin stood right where he was, thank you very much, and gestured towards the handle with his paw.

Jon wasn’t stupid. He crossed his arms over his chest and raised his eyebrow at Martin. Martin couldn’t help but to smile.

“Hey, you wanted to explore the castle. We’re exploring the castle.”

“I’ve got some concerns about your hosting capabilities,” Jon muttered under his breath, shifting down his shirt until it covered his hand. He reached for the handle, opened it, only to reveal …

The hallway that they’d just walked down.

Like clockwork, Martin felt a soft woosh of air behind him. He turned around, only to see an unsurprising yellow patterned wallpaper at his back. Every time. He raised his paw and skittered his claws against the surface, proving that it was, in fact, a new wall that had just formed.

Jon looked through the door, and then at Martin, and then through the door again. “What …?”

“Mhm. You can try it again, if you’d like.”

And Jon did. Martin did have to quietly marvel at how eager Jon was to get to the next door, practically scampering forward to yank it open. Again, the hallway seemed to shrink, and another identical hallway stretched through the open door. All of it the same: the doors, the wallpapers, the mousehold. The window never looked out at anything else, and he never heard anything behind the doors.

As much as he wanted to show Jon the dangers of the castle, he didn’t actually want to see Jon get hurt – or even scared too much. So, Martin wasn’t going to tell Jon about the first time he got stuck in the hallways. It felt like he was there for an hour, maximum, but upon his escape … a day and a half had passed. His mum, at that point gravely ill, had been furious.

He didn’t tell her, either, about the strange echoing he’d laugh he heard towards the end. That laugh made him so angry.

Martin wasn’t going to let this get to that point. He’d go out his usual way.

“Oh, hell,” Jon whispered in awe, staring at the hallway around him. He dragged his fingers along the wallpaper, curious, and rubbed his fingers together to inspect them. “This is …”

“Annoying.”

“Fascinating. And if I try another door – “ Jon pressed down on another door, only to receive the expected results.

It wasn’t joy that crossed Jon’s face. Honestly, it wasn’t too far off from the look Patches got when she tried to gauge a high jump. Jon worked through a few more doors. Martin followed at a distance, never lingering too far back.

“Right, so –” Jon finally stopped by the window, waving his hands at him. “Tell me. How long has this been happening? What caused it?”

Martin had considered this question already. He was tempted not to answer. It was dangerously close to the topics that he didn’t want to dwell on. However, he tried (sometimes not very hard) not to be a dick. And he had, even temporarily, trapped this man and himself in its sprawling hallways. The least he could do was offer an explanation.

“When this happened,” Martin said, pressing his paw against his chest. “I wasn’t the only person in the castle who … changed.” Is changed the kindest word? He thought so. “All the staff did, too. Um, most died, like, right away. Some lasted a few weeks, a few months.”

Martin didn’t clarify how they died. That was scary stuff.

“But some of them … stayed. I don’t know. I don’t think it’s ghosts. I don’t know if ghosts are real.”

“They’re real,” Jon said emphatically, and Martin carried on. He didn’t have any real urge to debate the supernatural with Jon – mostly because, uh, he didn’t really have a leg to stand on there. He existed, and magic existed, and who was to say that ghosts didn’t?

“It’s more like, they’ve become the castle. It’s like they fused with it. And, here, I don’t know who it is.”

That always made Martin sad. He’d been caught in the hallways a few times (when you were sad, lonely, and wandering, then it was hard to remember where you’re going), and he didn’t even know who became the hallway. He’d asked. Gotten no answer.

Better than people who died right away? Better than people who had their organs strung up in armoires, or suffocated because they couldn’t pull themselves out of a chest? Better than the poor sods who turned to wood over the course of weeks, better than that poor woman who cooked her own flesh with stove gas?

Martin didn’t know if ‘better’ factored in here. He knew that he got off relatively easily. He knew that they probably hated him, for however sentient they were now, and he didn’t blame them for that.

“Can they communicate?” Jon asked, caressing the yellow wallpaper.

“No.” And he had tried, damn it. One time, he intentionally got lost in these walls, trying to get whoever drew the unlucky card of hallway monster just to talk with him, damn it. Not a word. “I don’t know how aware they ...”

A hand.

A hand, pressing against the inside of the wall. A monstrously large palm – Martin was the expert in those, but this one was nearly twice as large as his own. What was more, the surface of the hand wasn’t smooth. As it pressed against (nearly through the paint, he could see the cracks in the wallpaper) the wall, he could see the surface of the hand was coarse, marked by pebbles and ridges.

One of the fingers, stick thin and much too long, brushed against Jon’s own.

“J –”

Jon was already leaping back, well behind Martin. Martin wondered why for a split second, before –

Oh. I’m a big monster. He thinks I’ll protect him.

And Martin knew he will. It was his fault they were here.

The hand retreated back into the wall, leaving the wallpaper largely undisturbed. Neither of them moved. Jon as Martin thought that it was over, that whoever-it-is has settled, the hand slammed back out again with tremendous force.

It moved quicker this time. A serpentine shape, a pyramid, oinverse pyramid – Martin blinked on the third shape before realizing they weren’t random. Years of this and none of the remaining staff have ever talked to him, but Jon?

On the wall, the hand spelled out:

SAVE US

At the last letter, the hand retreated within the wall, leaving nothing behind.

Martin realized he was trembling, fur puffed up and tail between his legs. Save us.

I can’t. I can’t save anybody, don’t you understand? That’s the point. The spell can’t be broken. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

“Save us?” Jon whispered, looking up at the wall and then up at Martin. “If there’s a way to transform you all back, then –”

It hurt. It hurt to hear. Martin knew it wasn’t Jon’s fault, but it hurt anyway. He could see the growing suspicion on Jon’s face, though, and he knew he had to give some answer.

“I-if there’s any way I could save anyone here,” Martin asked, reaching for a joke that didn’t quite land, “Don’t you think I would’ve done it already? This isn’t good for me, either.”

It was a bit of logic that Jon couldn’t refute. His gaze dropped to his shoes. Quietly, he murmured, “Monsters in the forest, monsters in the castle. Hm. More complicated than I thought.”

Martin wished he could stop the line of reasoning right then. He wished he’d never taken Jon up here, he wished that he’d forced Jon out of the castle entirely. Picking at this wouldn’t lead to anything but pain, and this really wasn’t Jon’s problem. He didn’t want Jon to get involved.

Martin wasn’t sure whether he’d been through enough, whether he’d suffered enough, but he wasn’t going to volunteer for more humiliation. Hey, the curse stops and we all go back to normal if I can get someone to love me. Isn’t that funny, especially when the curse was given by my mother?

Jon reached for the door and pulled it open. Instead of another hallway, they were greeted with a flight of stairs – back down from where they came. “It looks like they just wanted to send a message,” Jon intuited. “Martin, I...”

Whatever was written on his face, Martin didn’t know. Jon seemed to bite something back. Instead, Jon asked (in a way that makes Martin realized he’d never asked Jon’s age, because he seemed at least fifteen years older than him): “Will I find out if I read your mother’s journal?”

“You might.” Martin’s eyes flicked to the journal in Jon’s hands.

“Alright.”

For a second, they stared at each other. Jon’s hand was draped protectively over his bag. Martin didn’t move from his spot.

Of course he wanted to help the staff. He really did, of course he did, he wasn’t that kind of monster. Except he knew what happened, and Jon didn’t, and that was that. Jon would realize the truth of the situation soon enough.

Also, he wasn’t going to fuck with a man who agreed to stay in a monster’s castle.

“Alright, then,” Martin said.

Jon nodded at him and turned to head down the stairs, his shoes beating steady against the steps. “How do you normally get out?” He called over his shoulder. “Presuming, er, you had a plan on getting us out.”

“Oh, usually I just go through the wall,” Martin returned airily, “The new one … the fake one? If I get a really good running start, I manage it.” Briused his shoulder like hell, and he wasn’t actually sure if he was destroying a part of the actual castle … but hey. Call him a carpenter, making doors.

“Ah. Right. Well, gets you out, I suppose.” They go down a floor, and then another. “Could you do me a favor, Martin?”

Oh. Oh, he liked being called Martin. Quite involuntarily, a rush of endorphins hit him. When was the last time anyone had called him Martin? He liked hearing his name again. Martin’s ears perked up.

“Could you get me a, ah, blueprint of the castle? Mark off where you’ve noticed these, ah, phenomena?”

While he could do that, Martin wasn’t sure if he wanted to. “Jon ...”

“I’m going to be careful,” Jon promised. “They clearly don’t want to hurt me.”

“One. One doesn’t want to hurt you.”

“Two.”

Had he met –?

Jon finished with a smile. “The chap that lives in the walls, and you. It’s a start.”

Was it a start? Yes, Martin supposed it was. He could think of a few reasons why the remaining staff might be fonder towards a guest than towards Martin himself. It wasn’t something he was proud of. Yes, he supposed it might be a start, but he couldn’t see a good way for it to end.

Chapter Text

The roses are wilting today and the boy isn’t paying attention to his tutors. Dreadful week. He has the magical aptitude of his father (that is to say, none at all) and yet the face he’s growing into is nothing but a curse for me.

Jon hadn’t lied to Martin. The entries were sparse in the journal, and often had little personal remarks. Mentions of visitors, mentions of new staff, mentions of this purchase and that social event. Those ones were safe. When he came upon one that read more like a diary … those ones always read sour.

They were relentlessly negative towards ‘the boy’ wherever they existed. The boy was dim, the boy was lazy, the boy chattered too much. The boy was falling behind in his reading. The boy wouldn’t care if she died. The boy, the boy, the boy.

If she wasn’t complaining about the boy, her ire turned towards the staff. The staff didn’t do their work, the staff complained relentlessly, the maids taught the boy how to play poker. Eventually, Jon got the impression through her waning remarks that they avoided her entirely.

He still tried not to linger on these passages too much. Even if he didn’t much like Lady Blackwood, it felt oddly intrusive, and they didn’t tell him what he wanted to know.

There were scarce mentions of magic, other than the occasional spell to encourage her flowers or to shift the weather. At least it was enough to confirm she was capable of it, but nowhere in her writing did Jon get the impression that she worried about monsters attacking the villagers next door.

Still, Jon pressed on. After they returned from the Hallways, he collapsed in one of the sitting room chairs. It was a plush, comfortable chair and, after stoking the fire, he couldn’t fathom being anywhere else. While he wasn’t one to complain as a guest, Jon was certain that last night was the closest he ever came to hypothermia. He woke up coughing in the middle of the night, rushing to light a fire.

Toasty and warm, Jon leaned against the arm of the chair and continued his studies. On and on and on, until his eyes alighted on an entry that leapt from the page.

Prince Magnus has sent an inadequate apology –

“Hey,” Martin said, coming into the room. In one paw, he held a rolled up set of blueprints. In the other, clutched quite precariously between two sharp claws, was a cup of tea. “Wasn’t sure what kind you liked.”

Jon put a thumb in the journal. “You brought me tea?”

Martin’s chin jutted up in his own defense. “Look, you saw a guy in the walls, I thought the least I could do --”

“Mrowr!”

“Oh!” Martin nimbly leapt to the side, causing a bit of the tea to slosh out onto the floor. “Sorry, you’re coming in here?”

And so she was. Patches held a kitten by the scruff of the neck, industriously making her way to a patch of carpet in front of the fire. The kitten was deposited and Patches, primordial pouch swinging to and fro, silently bounded back to the kitchen and retrieved the others.

“It is a bit cold in the kitchen,” Jon had to admit. He swung one of the blankets off from the sofa and put it in front of the fire. The kitten squirmed in his hands (but so soft), and he soon retreated back.

Overall, the situation was decidedly less than ideal and growing worse by the hour. Jon nevertheless found himself considerably warmed by the sight of the tiny kitten in front of the fire. Patches soon returned with a second, spared a warning glance to Jon and Martin, and retreated back to the kitchen.

“Maybe she’ll stay for a while?” Martin wondered aloud, hopeful, before he shook his head. “Um, anyway. Tea.”

He deliberately put the delicate cup on the table before unfurling the blueprint. On it were at least a dozen alterations in red ink, in what might be the most terrible handwriting Jon had ever seen. Claws, he supposed. Must not have been conducive to excellent handwriting. One of Lady Blackwood’s journal entries entered his mind, about Martin shirking his penmanship courses, and he banished it from his mind. Martin had more or less gotten the point across through scribbled drawings.

“This balloon seems to be closest?” Jon took the teacup, hooked a few fingers around the handle, and brought it to his lips.

Hm, not much of a difference between posh tea and village tea. Or Martin was dipping into whatever the staff had on them.

Martin growled under his breath.

“Is it not a balloon?”

“It’s a statue,” he complained. “A bust, shoulders-up.”

“Ah.” He squinted. Looked an awful lot like a balloon. “Dangerous?”

“No, not even to me. I don’t think they have the power to be, they can just be kind of … disturbing, sometimes. Are you going to visit all of them?”

“Well, it depends on what I find out. See if they have any information to give me.” Jon looked up. “Are you going to tag along?”

He wasn’t sure what Martin was, exactly. Not a warden. Not a chaperone, technically speaking, and with the acquisition of the blueprint, Jon hardly needed him as a tour guide anymore. They weren’t friends and there was every indication that the people left behind in the castle, perhaps quite understandably, didn’t like him.

So why on Earth did he feel the slightest disappointment when Martin shook his head? “No, no. I … I’ve got things to be doing,” he said, bashful, “And some of them really don’t like me. Like, Hallways doesn’t like me, but some of them really don’t like me.”

Jon presumed those ones on the blueprint were indicated by a skull-and-crossbones (two penises intersecting a lightbulb, but Jon understood the gist). “I’ll save those until last, just in case ..” They try to kill me. “They’re generally ornery.”

“Yeah. Smart idea.” Martin shifted on on his feet before going to sit cross-legged on the floor by Patches, who had just returned from bringing in the rest of her children. He stroked her head tenderly. Laid out on the blanket, Patches began to purr. “I’ll be, ah, around. If something happens. You can shout.”

The journal was practically burning in his lap. Yes, he had to go. If Martin wasn’t present, then Jon would absolutely take the opportunity to curl up as close to Patches would allow and read the journal to completion.

Jon finished the rest of his tea and rose from the chair. His head was feeling good. Though he could feel the injuries from the thorns whenever he shifted, it wasn’t unbearable. Honestly, the only thing that troubled him is the strange lethargy …

But he didn’t sleep well last night. Who would, in a castle like this, in a situation like this?

He didn’t head off for the haunted bust just yet. As soon as he was decently far away from the sitting room, Jon slid down to the floor and propped the journal open in his lap.

Prince Magnus has sent an inadequate apology for the slaughter of Fiona and Emma. He claims responsibility for the monsters in the forest in the neighboring village, and insists that while we are safe enough here under Prince Lukas’ protection, he cannot provide protection for anyone who crosses into the forest on his territory.

I asked him what was to be done. There are certain components that I cannot make here, and I cannot lose staff to giant spiders every time we need hickory. He promised that arrangements would be made, perhaps for a trader to make an additional journey to Blackwood Castle. That would be satisfactory, I think, because god knows the staff would be inclined to waste entire days at the village as it was.

So long as he arranges it, it matters little to me.

The boy overslept today. Lazy brute.

The entry ended. Though the entire journal was written in plain blue ink, one word glowed in particular.

Spiders.

He checked the date, but it didn’t grant him any definitive answers for himself. It was about a year after his fateful encounter with that massive spider in the cave – the spider that took the blacksmith’s child instead of him. Were there reports of another spider attack soon after? Jon couldn’t recall. The years following the incident were a blur in his mind.

One thing remained clear, even as an adult. The creature that he saw, mostly spider, hauntingly human? It was by no means natural. It was created, intentionally or not.

And now? That he’d seen a man turned into a beast, and a group of staff turned into … whatever they were, now?

It only solidified the theory in his mind. Those monsters in the forest were created – not by Lady Blackwood, it seemed, but by someone. For what purpose? And why? If they were created to kill, they were not incredibly efficient at it.

Lady Blackwood had noted nobody in her journals that would be capable of creating such creatures, and Jon knew of nobody personally. Massive constructs, capable of murder, capable of instilling such fear? It would have required a massive amount of energy to create – not to mention sustain, and not vanish into smoke.

Given that the creatures were still around, Jon could only presume that their creator (or, relatively unlikely, an apprentice) was also still around. If they were to perish, then he suspected the monsters would, too.

He wondered if Martin hoped that he would return to normal after Lady Blackwood’s death, that the staff would return to their normal state. He wondered why they hadn’t. What would still be providing the energy?

“Hm,” Jon muttered, tracing his finger down the yellowed page.

The journal was stowed away in his bag (carefully adjusted, so as not to ruffle the pages of his books) and he stood. Perhaps one of the sorry staff would provide some illumination on the issue.

The blueprints led him to a dining room, though one that clearly hadn’t been used for some time. Jon’s supernatural curiosity didn’t completely stop his mundane curiosity – he paused to gawp at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He had read about them, of course, seen them described as everything from a bundle of fish hooks to a choir of angles. He’d never had the opportunity to see one in person. Even unlit and radiating dust, it was something to admire.

Enough light was let in from the large windows, despite the rain, for Jon to move around. The Blackwood family crest was craved on the long dining table. Exquisite china was stowed away in a nearby cabinet. Jon wondered if this was where Martin and his mother, seated at opposite ends. Did she hurl the complaints that didn’t make it in the journal in Martin’s direction?

A blur of movement caught his attention. “Hello?” He turned, and … there was only one bust in this room. The bust was also peculiar, in that it didn’t carry the visage of an old, wrinkled gentleman, but rather a young woman with high cheekbones and large glasses.

“Are you the woman trapped in this statue?” He crept forward and drew up a dining chair. It put him at about eye-level with the statue. Seemed only polite.

A talking bust would have been a marvelous asset, but Jon wasn’t that fortunate. The woman’s eyes stared blankly, straight ahead into the abyss. Jon wondered if she could actually see. He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

The face started to change.

The hair grew longer, thinner, the eyes a little larger. It was only when Jon started to see eyebags grow from the marble that he realized who he was looking at.

Jon had never considered getting a likeness of himself in marble, but there was something extremely disconcerting to it now. He pressed a hand to his cheek and made eye contact with himself. The statue also had his hair pulled back in a ribbon. A few miscellaneous cuts, presumably from the thorns, marred his face.

“That’s … that’s me, yes,” Jon tried to coax, trying to remain optimistic. “I’m trying to help you. And Martin … Lord Blackwood? Him, too.”

The statue started to shift again. It took less than a second for Jon to realized who the statue was shifting into: hair erupted from every surface, the bust itself grew larger. Fangs, a feline nose. Without the red color, Jon noticed that the eyes seemed quite sad.

… Up until they started to melt.

They both sizzled in their marble sockets. A gray fluid leaked from the corner of the eye, at first, before dripping slowly down the curve of the cheek. It left scorched valleys in its wake. When it finally rolled off the base and splattered against the wood floor, it scorched right through.

Jon looked up to the now empty-eyed statue in horror, two deep gorges now carved into the surface of the cheeks. The statue made no more movement.

For god’s sake.

“What is that meant to tell me?” He demanded in a whisper, gesturing wildly to the floor. “Not to trust him? That he’s the one who’s done this? But why would he be cursed like the rest of you? Why would he not kill me straight off? And his mother –”

The statue shifted again, shedding marble hair, growing smaller. Jon didn’t recognize this last person at first. A narrow neck and pinched features. Her chin tilted upward, and she seemed to be looking down her nose at him.

These women’s features were not remarkable – not a beautiful woman, not an ugly one. Not like Jon was the prime assessor on beauty, anyway. However, the sculptor had clearly transferred their opinion into the marble. This woman, the sculptor said, was not a good one.

“Lady Blackwood?” Jon asked.

The bust remained lifeless. Jon noticed that Lady Blackwood’s nostrils were flared.

It was hard to know what to do with that information, but at least he could put a face to her name. He watched her, noting that the horns and fangs were definitely not a family trait. Hard to tell, otherwise, if she’d given any features to Martin.

“Suppose there’s nothing to do but continue to read her journal,” Jon whispered, trying not to be overwhelmed. “But – if you can think of anything, or if you can communicate with the others … do let me know what I can do.” A pause. “That isn’t, er, gouging out Martin’s eyes or anything. I’d prefer not to kill anybody.”

If Martin was evil, and all of Jon’s intuition was completely off, Jon didn’t know what else he could do about it. He wasn’t a wizard, he had no weapons. He didn’t even know where Martin slept, and it wasn’t like he could take the big beast in physical combat.

Jon crossed one leg over the other, deep in thought. While it was tempting to retreat back to the warmth of the sitting room, he couldn’t help but notice how empty and dusty the dining room was. How tucked away this poor bust was, away from everything else.

It felt almost insulting, to pretend his presence was doing any sort of good. But it was company, Jon supposed, and he flipped open the journal again.

The next few dozen pages were fairly political in nature. Lands changing hands, Lady Blackwood adding a few more acres to her collection. Lady Blackwood had included a few transcribed letters that she sent and received to various gentry about the situation, though the entire topic never seemed to interest her overmuch. Her roses made brief appearances, whether their blooms were sullen or surprising, and the boy (to his benefit) seemed to have largely escaped remarks.

He carefully flicked the page over. A letter, folded neatly, dropped into his lap.

Jon inspected the seal on it curiously. He didn’t recognize the family, but even broken, he could identify the crest as an anchor.

He flipped it open and wrinkled his nose. The handwriting. It was in cursive, and for the life of him, Jon couldn’t tell whether it was messy or so refined as to be illegible.

Lady Blackwood,

We understand your concerns with the newest shifts in property, Lady Blackwood. Pay no heed – our collaboration with Prince Magnus remains a propitious one, and there are several demands he must meet if he wishes it to remain so.

I have spoken at length with Prince Magnus about the question of monsters, and their free rein on lands formerly owned by our kingdom. He has sworn to me that the creatures will never venture onto Lukas lands – and so, they will never venture onto yours.

I asked him how he made such a claim. Prince Magnus claims that he exerts control over all the subjects in his kingdom, even the ones that were created by magic. They will not trouble you, my Lady, and you should set your fears at ease. The Blackwood family is well and truly alone.

With salutation,

Prince Peter Lukas

The letter was dated more than a decade ago. Jon fingered the corner of it, deep in thought. Prince Lukas had always been as distant as Prince Magnus to him, and he hadn’t paid the man more than a passing thought. And now …

Exerts control over all the subjects in his kingdom?

It could mean political power, Jon supposed, but somehow … it didn’t seem as such. That troubled him greatly. What sort of power did Prince Magnus wield over him? Everyone else in the village, in the lands beyond? It couldn’t be.

And why was Prince Magnus so unbothered by the monsters in his kingdom?

Jon silently folded the letter and placed it back in the journal. He made eye contact with the bust, now reverted to the woman he’d seen upon first walking in the room. “I’d just like one answer,” Jon told the statue with a weary sigh. “Just one.”

The statue stayed motionless.

Unable to avoid the rumbling in his stomach any longer, Jon stood and went to the kitchen.

***

He didn’t see Martin for hours afterward. Jon prepared lunch and ate alone. Afterward, he found himself so exhausted from the previous day’s events that he could scarcely rise from the couch, much less explore the rest of the castle. The damn lethargy still plagued him, and he was not even in much pain. Just exhausted, faintly nauseated.

He doesn’t see Martin for hours. Jon prepares lunch and eats – afterwards, he finds himself so exhausted that he can scarcely rise from the couch, much less explore more of the castle. He blames the ‘jumping out of a window’ business on his lethargy, but he’s really not in much pain. Just exhausted. Faintly nauseated.

Instead, he scoured the closest library for a few interesting books and returned to comfort. Patches still dozed by the fire, four little jellybeans cuddled against her stomach. Jon placated her with a bit of food from the kitchen earlier, and she seemed fonder of him.

With Martin god-knew-where, Jon chose to languish. He spread out on the sofa, one leg dangling off the side, and brought a book to his chest. A roaring fire, a book, an empty plate, and a mother cat to look at – despite the circumstances, and the looming threat, Jon found himself precisely as comfortable there as he was in the well-worn armchair of his bookshop. The stress started to seep out of his mind. For now, he was safe.

It didn’t surprise him that, upon turning the last page in the book (a deeply thrilling but ultimately very dry text about soil erosion), Jon promptly fell asleep.

He woke to the sound of dishware, his chin pressed against his shoulder. His glasses had fallen somewhere on the sofa below him. After rummaging for it, he caught sight of Martin putting down a plate full of food.

Jon lazily looked out the window. Dark outside already? His limbs felt like they’d been locked in place for some time. “Have I …?” He picked up his book, where it was painfully digging into his side. “God. How long was I asleep?”

“Er, not sure. Came in and found you like this.”

“Has been a long day, I suppose.” Jon moved to sit up, wincing at the taste in his mouth. Patches was still curled around her kittens, and the fire was still roaring, so he hadn’t actually slept for a week. “Thanks for dinner. Suppose I ought to eat.”

“’s fine.” Martin moved to sit on the fur-covered chair. “Got a bit worried. Didn’t hear from you. For, like, hours.”

Worried?

Seeing Jon’s expression, Martin puffed up somewhat indignantly. “It’s spooky around here, I thought you’d gotten hurt.”

Jon reached for the plate of food. His stack of paperbacks still rested on the table from where he pulled them out of his bag earlier. On top rested the fateful journal, and Martin jerked his chin towards it.

“Did you find anything?”

The boy, the boy, the boy. It rung in between Jon’s ears. Hard to match the very human child Lady Blackwood complained about in her journal with the monster man in front of him now, lonely and short-tempered. He swallowed. “Well, your mother was concerned about the monsters on Prince Magnus’ territory, but Prince Lukas reassured her that they would not venture on your land. Apparently a few of your staff were eaten by one. Did you know that?”

Martin’s bushy eyebrows rose … and his nose wrinkled, despite himself. “I – I think I heard stories, when I was really young. Sorry. I hadn’t thought about it in years.”

“It’s fine.” Not like that would’ve given him any more information regardless. Jon stretched a little on the sofa. “And a claim that Prince Magnus has control over all the subjects in his kingdom. Including the monsters.”

“Oh.” Martin winced. “That might just be … like, a noble thing, Jon. A king has control over all his subjects because he’s, y’know, the king. Not magical control.”

“I’m well aware of that, thank you.” No real venom in his voice. Given Martin had been alone for god knew how long, he could be faulted for being a little tactless. “Your mother didn’t elaborate on that. Barely elaborated on her own magic, frankly, and I didn’t get any answers about you all.”

“Okay.” Martin had averted his eyes to stare at the fire. “And the staff, were they of any help?”

“I only managed to get to one, that bust. She, uh …” It seems rude to tell him. It seems rude not to tell him. “Turned into you? And made your eyes melt. It was –” Horrifying? “Unlike anything I’d ever seen.”

Nothing flickered in Martin’s red eyes. “She does that, yeah.”

Mm. Jon sat back on the sofa with his plate in his hands, mind starting to bubble. “Martin, I …”

“Mum’s the one who put the curse on me,” Martin blurted.

The moment he spoke the words, everything clicked into place. Of course she had. Of course she had, if he’d had even a second to think about it – disliking her son, disliking the staff, seeming like a frightfully terrible person all around.

Lord, though. Even knowing all of that, something in Jon’s brain wanted to rationalize otherwise. Her own son?

Jon blinked, and Martin went on. “You’re probably figured that out by now, but just, yeah. She meant to curse me, and everyone else was just … in the way, I guess. Collateral.”

He huffed out a wet breath through his snout. In the light of the fire, Jon could see the all-too-human pupils in his eyes. Martin pulled out a tuft of hair extending from his chin, like he almost expected it to come off. “It wasn’t really her area, you know?” He elaborated. “Turning people into monsters. She preferred, ah, gardening. Roses, especially. She was very keen on roses, never wanted to have a gardener put in. And they were really lovely, honestly. Gorgeous, you should’ve seen them when they were in full bloom, they --”

As Martin spoke, his voice went a little higher, a little faster. Jon’s hands were up before he could help himself. Though he was some distance away from the chair, he mimed a smoothing motion. Martin went quiet, slumping back against his chair.

“Why did she curse you?” Jon asked softly.

Martin stopped in his deluge and shrugged his shoulders. He rested his ears flat against his head.

Whatever Martin filled his day with, Jon didn’t know. Still, he was grateful that whatever Martin did, he decided to be more forthcoming with information.

“Like I said before. She got sick. Not, like, magic sick, just … sick.” Martin raised his paw and hooked it on one horn, giving it a fidgety tug. For the first time, Jon saw various claw marks scraped along the shiny black surface. “And at first, it was – it was okay. We took care of her, we got medicine and she was – she was getting worse, but not quickly, you know? She still took care of her roses, up until she couldn’t, and then I did.”

Martin pursed his lips in his explanation, curling his legs up on the couch. “Did she …” He paused. “Did she talk about me at all? In the journal?”

It was a brief diversion. Despite Jon not being keen to entertain it, he couldn’t help but feel that this was what Martin really wanted to know. “I haven’t gotten to the recent entries yet. Just from when you were a small child. Eight, maybe ten.” A pause. “Just a child, you know. Kid things.”

“Right.” Whether Martin took this as a proper answer, or was just keen to move on, Jon didn’t know. “I didn’t … I don’t know what happened, I tried asking for help, but she, I never, I was just no good at –” A deep breath, and it was only then that Jon realized how close Martin was to tears. “The roses died. I killed them, all of them. I thought I could hide it from her. But one day, she – she wanted to see the roses.”

Though Jon could picture the situation in his mind’s eye, there was a curious blank spot where Martin Blackwood would be. A formless buzzing ball of anxiety and worry. If any of the undestroyed portraits on the walls were of Martin Blackwood, he wouldn’t know.

“And she …” Martin trailed off. “And she saw I killed the roses.”

“Martin, you --”

“I don’t think she meant to. It was – it was quick, the curse,” Martin sniffed, reaching one dulled claw to scratch at his nose. “Most of the staff died straight off. Some of them lived for a few days after, a few weeks. I think the longest lasted for a year. The ones that aren’t still around, I mean. Mum lived for a few years, after.”

“Did she change?”

“No. No, she didn’t. She was just still sick. We couldn’t get any medicine from the village. None of the staff were in a fit state to go, I certainly couldn’t, and … and I tried sending notes, writing letters. Begging for help, really, but they didn’t, they, ah …”

There it was. Tears fell from Martin’s eyes and sank into his fur, practically disappearing into the mass. Martin rummaged for a loose bit of his shirt and dabbed at his eyes with it.

He didn’t know the whole of what went on, still, but this man – his host – was crying in front of him. Jon pushed his empty plate to the table and asked, trying to keep his voice soft, “Martin. Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I want you to know, alright?” It was a muffled noise with most of Martin’s face hidden under his shirt, and he finally pulled his head back up from the collar. “Because all this is my fault, and you’ve got a lot going on, and you’re mad, and you’re just – you seem like you’re a good person.”

Jon blinked. That was certainly not true. Well, he might’ve been a little mad, given how long he’d spent here.

“And you’re going to want to fix this, but I’m telling you, there isn’t any way to fix it. Focus on your village.”

Ah. Jon knitted his eyebrows together. “The staff certainly seem to think there is.” Why would they ask Jon to save them, otherwise? Desperation was one thing, but there had to be some reason. “And curses … I’m not an expert, but I thought all curses could be broken? An – an exit clause, of sorts.”

“Well. When it first happened, the staff thought the way to fix it was to kill Mum.”

Not an implausible theory, but considering Martin’s mother was dead now …

“And I didn’t exactly – she was a sick old woman, Jon. I basically had to keep watch on her at all times, make sure nobody …” Martin shook his head. “Didn’t exactly endear me to anyone. And then she died, but I was alone by then. Nothing changed.”

“So your mother gave you a curse with no way to break it?”

“She did give me a way to break it.”

And then Martin lurched upward. It was like Jon had forgotten how imposing he was, because he seemed so much taller than before. He crossed the short distance to Jon, and Jon could see the glint of the firelight against his fangs and eyes. A mountain of a beast. Quite unbidden, Jon had to wonder how, exactly, Martin defended his mother against the staff.

Martin knelt.

Even kneeling, he was about at Jon’s seated eye level. His horns were framed by the fire behind him. It felt like Jon could stare right through his eyes, right through his skull, to look at the flames.

“Jon,” Martin entreated, clearly trying to fight down the tears. He cleared his throat thickly. “I am going to live in this castle, as a monster, until I die. Everyone I know died horribly, and I lost every friend I had because I wouldn’t let anyone hurt my mother. If there was absolutely anything I could do, I would do it. You understand?”

“You’re not going to tell me what can break the curse,” Jon whispered in realization.

“No. Because you wandered into a monster’s castle and decided to stay for tea. If I told you that I had to get the moon down, you’d start building a slingshot. But it’s … it’s just not possible, for a person like me. Mum knew that. She just wanted to make sure I knew.”

Jon wanted to put his foot down. Jon wanted to demand that Martin tell him, because good lord, this wasn’t how anybody ought to live – for Martin, or the poor staff still lingering there. There had to be a way. He believed there was a way.

But … then again, Martin was right. If there was a way to sort out the curse, wouldn’t he have done it already?

“I’m sorry,” Martin went on. He brought up his pawed hands to rest on Jon’s shoulders. “I wish I could help you more, with the villagers going missing. But I really don’t think there’s any more connection, and you shouldn’t have to worry about this place.”

“Don’t apologize,” Jon returned. “For God’s sake, don’t do that.”

He got a sad little smile at that, his lips pressing against his upturned fangs. “Think I need to apologize more, actually.” And Martin stood from the floor.

It was his tail that did it, inadvertently thumping against the thin wooden table in front of him. The journal, Jon’s tidy stack of books, and his empty plate all went skittering onto the rug. Patches leapt to her feet with a hiss, demanding explanation.

“Ooh, god, Patches, so sorry – “ Martin effused, already bending down to pick up what was left behind. “Are these – oh! These are yours.” He brought the novel up to his face and squinted in confusion. “Mum wasn’t ever keen on genre fiction.”

Jon was more than keen to leave the emotional moment behind them. He’d about jumped a mile when Martin knocked over the table, nerves shot from the impromptu heart-to-heart. That was probably why, when Martin lamented about the sort of books his mum didn’t keep, he blurted: “Keep them.”

“What?”

“I’ve got plenty in the shop. It’s everything else, the reference materials, the nonfiction, the rare artifacts … those are harder to come by.” Probably because they were adorning dusty shelves in old castles, but Jon didn’t say that aloud. “Really. I’m about halfway through this one, the romance, and it’s rather good.”

Martin squinted at the cover. “I’m definitely not taking it if you’re only halfway through.”

“Well – read a bit of it tonight. See if you like it.”

“I suppose I could …” He winced, squeezing his eyes shut tight. “Shit. I’ll have to find where I left my glasses. For them being my only pair, you’d think I remember …”

“Reading glasses?”

“No. I’ve always been really farsighted,” Martin admitted. His shoulders were practically raised to his ears, almost shy. “And, um. I’ve already cracked the one lens, so I try to keep them safe and wear them only when I need to. It’d be really hard for me to read, otherwise.””

God. Jon would die.

He was filled with such burning sympathy, almost painful with it, that he reached for the romance novel at once. “Go sit down, Martin.”

Martin didn’t respond with words so much as an instinctual baroo?

“I’ll read out loud to you. It’s a bit late to be going on a scavenger hunt.” He took the novel from Martin’s paws and leaned back on the couch. On more than one occasion, he’d considered reading aloud to the children. He’d always been too worried that nobody would come to go through with it. “Sit, sit.”

His companion blinked at him, a little confused, and then obediently went to sit in his chair.

Jon tried not to think of how it must’ve been. Tried not to think how much staff a castle of this size would require or how many graves Martin had dug. Tried not to think of Martin, swept up in dutiful obligation to his mother – a woman who hated who hated him so much that she cursed him, and everyone in the castle, to be a monster forever. Tried not to think of until I die.

Instead, he flipped open to the first page of the novel and settled his own glasses on his face. It was a newer novel, this one. Quite trendsetting. Funnier than Jon was expecting, that was for certain, and he’d been surprised at how fresh the tone felt. Certainly not a book that he minded starting again from the beginning, and he wondered if Martin would appreciate the aristocratic nature of it.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged,” Jon started, eyes flicking to the beast in the chair, “That a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

Chapter Text

Jon was asleep.

He’d been nodding off for the better part of the last hour, each sentence coming slower and slower. Sometimes he’d repeat whole paragraphs altogether. Martin didn’t mind. It wasn’t like he was close to sleeping. Every nerve in Martin was on fire. It was all he could manage to pay attention to the story Jon told him, but even so, he found his brain screaming at every pause.

The first time he’d ever told the whole story aloud. He’d been expecting for Jon to rage at him, to say that Martin was the monster that deserved to be slain at the end of the story. And true, he didn’t know Jon’s opinion on the matter, but … he had seen that angry determination flicker in Jon’s eyes when Martin said the curse couldn’t be broken.

He hoped Jon went home in the morning. He hoped Jon figured how to stop the creatures in the forest, he hoped Jon was hailed as the hero of the village, he hoped he got to marry whoever he wanted (a figure that, in Martin’s mind, resembled Mr. Darcy more and more), and he hoped Jon got to be as happy as possible for the rest of his life.

Martin didn’t think it was possible for anyone to be happy in the castle.

Jon stared to snore. Martin turned to look at him, his chin tucked against his chest, book still in hand.

Not a place for a guest to sleep.

He pulled himself up from the chair and went over to the couch. With the back of his paw, he nudged Jon’s shoulder. “Jon?” Martin murmured, then tried again. “Jon?”

Nothing. Out like a light.

Martin had lost quite a few things with his years of isolation. His mind, some might argue. He was certain he no longer had any idea what was socially permissible. Was carrying a man to his bed be seen as a kind gesture, or utterly unthinkable.

Well, he figured.

He slid his arms underneath Jon. Martin tried not to jostle him; he realized after a few moments that he was holding his breath. Jon didn’t wake up, at least, as Martin held him loosely against his chest. Oh god, Jon was too light. Martin could trip and launch him across the room. Oh, hell.

For most of the day, Martin had been sitting out in the greenhouse. He had just wanted to think – staring at the rose, watching a few petals shrivel and fall. Martin didn’t know what finally convinced him to talk to Jon about what happened, beyond a general oh, to hell with it when the sun started to go down. He didn’t want Jon to stress himself out by trying to solve an unsolvable problem, and … well. It was nice to have someone that knew. Martin hated the idea of someone coming upon the castle one day and finding only a dead beast inside.

(But mostly, it was for Jon’s stress. This was the man who saw a person in the wall and decided to go looking for a person trapped in a statue.)

Jon was going to help his village. Save his village. Martin was confident about that, and he tried to be optimistic. It was just that the only way out for Martin involved – well.

It wasn’t going to happen.

He nudged Jon’s bedroom door open and put him on the unmade bed. Much less blood involved than the first time, Martin considered. No first aid at all. Martin removed Jon’s glasses and set them on the table; he took the book and put it in his jacket pocket. He did want to finish that.

And then … Martin couldn’t force himself to leave.

He didn’t pull up a chair or anything. Somehow, that toed the line into a little too weird. Instead, he just stood there, watching Jon sleep. The ribbon in his hair always seemed too tight. Did Jon get headaches? Martin wanted to know if Jon got headaches.

And that bookshop of his. How many books did it have, exactly? Jon moved like he’s used to rooms much smaller than the ones in the castle. Martin had never been inside a bookshop. He desperately wanted to be in a bookshop. Jon’s bookshop sounded good.

And the village! Martin had hated that village for such a long time after the curse. He sent so many letters to the king’s advisor, pleas for his mother’s medicine after everyone had been transformed. Desperate, he’d even left a few at the outskirts of the town, hoping someone might pick them up.

But … Jon was from there. And Jon wanted to save them. And Martin thought that Jon was a good person, but even so. Martin wanted to see his village.

He took a look at his own paw, at the bit of plaster he’d applied to the broken one. Martin winced. No, there was no bookshops or villages in his future. For that matter, no Jon. The rain was already clearing up, and Jon would be gone in the morning.

His heart fluttered a little in his chest. A shiver crossed over his shoulders, causing his hair to stand on end. A wild little idea blasted through his mind: he wanted Jon to stay. Maybe not forever, but certainly for a while, so he might be able to have a friend, and …

Of course he couldn’t ask that of Jon. But it was a nice thought, and Martin entertained it for a few seconds before deciding to let Jon sleep. Regardless of Jon’s kindnesses towards him, waking up to a pair of red glowing eyes wasn’t anyone’s cup of tea.

It took Martin some time to find his glasses, but he soon returned to his room with the book in hand. Martin knew he definitely wasn’t going to be sleeping anytime soon, not with his heart growing from a flutter to a hammer in his chest.

In retrospect, putting a name to the odd feelings in his chest took longer than he expected. Martin had read romance novels before, borrowing them from this-or-that member of the staff when things were sunnier. He knew how they went. And yet, when he reached the end, and the witty Elizabeth Bennett ended up with the (in Martin’s opinion) daft, clueless Mr. Darcy ...

Hard not to let his thoughts wander.

This made it worse. Martin knew it made it worse, because the curse did not give one singular shit if he had feelings for someone else. If he fell in love with someone else. And yet, when Martin finally fell asleep with his glasses still on, he let himself imagine a regal ball, a flourishing garden, and a bright sky.

***

Jon was staring really hard at his glasses. “I’ve read books on glasses repair,” he confessed, “But I’m sorry. I don’t know anything practically about it.”

Martin’s shoulders drooped in disappointment. To make matters worse, his tail went between his legs.

At least the glasses weren’t totally destroyed. When he woke up that morning to find his glasses partially under his arm, he’d felt his heart leap into his throat. The lens on the cracked side had fallen out, two fractured pieces resting on the table. He could make do with one lens.

Martin’s shoulders droop in disappointment. He hates it, but his tail goes between his legs.

It could be worse. When he woke up that morning to find his glasses partially under his arm, he’d felt his heart leap into his throat. The lens on the cracked side had fallen out, two fractured pieces resting on the kitchen table. He could make do with one lens. Scared to death if he lost the other, sure, because reading was well-out if he did …

But he could worry about that later. He’d worry about that when Jon left.

Jon’s bag was packed and waiting on the table, Pride and Prejudice tucked neatly inside.

Though Martin disliked the idea, it was probably best that Jon left that morning. Jon didn’t look well. His skin seemed thinner, somehow, and the bags under his eyes had grown worse. Jon woke up two hours after him and looked like he could go right back to sleep. He’d eaten half his oatmeal and pushed the bowl away, looking ill … but Martin knew he made decent oatmeal.

“Maybe you could keep them in the library?” Jon suggested. “Only take them out when you read there.”

“I try to do that, but …” No, no buts. That would have to be the solution. Reading Pride and Prejudice and yearning in bed had gotten him into this situation. Martin looked out towards the window, a little mournful.

A perfectly blue sky. Martin hadn’t been able to find Patches, which probably meant she’d gone back to her usual invisible spot on the grounds. Just him and the ghosts in the castle again. Yesterday, he’d tried to gauge how long the rose had …

But he wasn’t a gardener. Obviously. If he was, maybe he wouldn’t be a monster.

“I should get going soon,” Jon finally murmured. When Martin looked back, he was sliding his half-broken glasses across the table. “Don’t want to risk the rain again.”

Martin’s stomach sank. He physically grabbed his tail from the back and pulled it back out from between his legs. No thank you. Never had to worry about his body language betraying him before, but there it was.

“You’ll send Patches and her children my love, if you see her?”

Oh, he doesn’t want Jon to go. Martin whimpered before he could help himself. Shit.

“I can walk you back to the village,” Martin blurted, chin tilting up. “If there’s monsters in the forest. You know, you should have help.”

Jon considered it. A nerve jumped in his jaw, like he wanted to stay something – but restrained himself. “Sure,” he responded with a smile. “It’s not a bad walk, just a few miles.”

As Jon stood up from the table, though, Martin was given more than sentimental reason to follow Jon. Jon stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the table. Unwell. Maybe growing ill from the stress.

Yes. Yes, best for someone to go with him … and hope nobody saw. Though Martin was a monster in the forest, he didn’t want to be known as one of the monsters in the forest.

Twenty minutes later, and Martin was glad to leave the Blackwood estate behind him. He tromped along next to Jon.

Martin had learned long before the curse how to sew. Granted, his lessons hadn’t included how to stitch together a shirt for a man covered in fur or how to cut holes in the seat of his trousers, but he managed to sew his trousers, shirts, and jackets decently well. Shoes were much harder, but he really hadn’t gotten much use for them anyway. He felt the earth between his paw pads. It was pleasant.

Granted, if anyone saw them, Jon was going to have a very hard time explaining an oddly-shaped wolf following him on two legs and regalwear.

“When I came through here the first time,” Jon remarked as they walked, “Nearly pissed myself when I saw a doe at the river. That feels like an age ago.”

It had certainly been the longest few days of Martin’s life. “Look at you now, though,” he teased. With the pleasant weather, Martin could almost convince himself they were on a regular outing. “You’ve ran into much more frightening things than a doe.”

“I don’t know. Does can be particularly nasty if I went near her fawn. Just ask Patches about maternal instinct.”

“Patches hadn’t ever seen a person before you came along.”

“You’re a person,” Jon remarked dismissively, and Martin was sure his entire heart was written on his face. Thank god Jon was walking ahead of him and couldn’t see. Otherwise this would’ve been one hell of an awkward hike.

They followed the river for a time, the mud of the shore squishing pleasantly between his toes. Martin hadn’t been this far in years. He preferred to hunt near the estate. It would just be his luck to run into a group of hunters with a deer in his arms, after all. The sound of the river was really pleasant, actually, and Martin kept taking glances at how the sun reflected on the river rocks.

“I was thinking about something last night.”

Oh? Martin’s ears perked up.

“When you were writing letters to the village, who did you address them to? For your mother’s medication, I mean.”

His ears drooped. “We only had one name in our address book,” Martin admits after a second. “We didn’t have much reason to contact the village unless it was for official business, you know, so it was always just the king’s advisor.”

“Elias Bouchard?”

It had been nearly ten years since he heard the name, and yet. “Yes, that’s him,” he sighed. “He never responded to the letters. I sent payment along with them and everything.”

“Hm.”

God, he wanted to know what Jon was thinking. Did it disappoint him to know that Jon spent his night thinking about the curse? Maybe a bit, in an incredibly irrational way. What had Martin been expecting Jon to think about? Him?

Then again, Martin berated himself, what would he expect? He was a big brute that lived in the castle. He might’ve given Jon an interesting mystery to pick apart, but nothing else.

“The book was good?” Jon asked suddenly. Martin knew they were growing close to the village. He could see bits and bobs of desire paths through the trees; it made his fur poof out in anxiety. “The romance novel. I’m awful with remembering titles. Prudence and Patience?”

Close enough. “Really very good,” Martin confessed. “It’s got – not a twist ending, really, but, ah, Elizabeth was … I liked her loads. She was great.”

“Things are much less complicated, eh?”

“I’ll tell you that there’s no curse thrown in.” Why was he joking about it? Why was he smiling? God. “No monsters at all, in fact.”

“Ah. Maybe I ought to label it fantasy. Very unrealistic.”

Martin earnestly broke into a laugh before he could help himself, and he wanted to talk about books more with Jon. He wanted to read with him again. Martin had kept a tidy collection of his childhood favorites in his room. After being cursed, it’d taken just a few months for Martin to break down and ransack the staff quarters for books that he actually liked, as opposed to the dry tomes in the family libraries.

He didn’t have loads of them, now. They’d gotten destroyed one way or another, back when it’d been him and his mother versus the members of the staff.

Ah. Sad, again. Great.

To make matters worse, Martin saw the tops of buildings peek out from the other side of the tree cover. The village seemed so much livelier than he remembered. From deep within, he heard the tolling of a bell. Someone called out to someone else. A wooden carriage rolling over cobblestone, and he could smell … a lot.

Jon stopped in his tracks and turned to look at him. Did he look sad, or was Martin imagining it?

“I probably ought to go on my own from here.”

Martin knew. He folded his paws in front of him as best as he could.

At first, all Martin could hear was the twittering of birds and the bubbling of the river. The entire world had just shrunk down to the two of them, with the sun warming his fur. Martin cast a shadow over Jon; he didn’t have to squint in the daylight.

All at once, Jon broke out into a smile. “I was trying to think of what to say. All I can think is that it’s been the strangest few days of my life.”

Oh. Strange wasn’t good.

“But – “ And Jon reached up to touch his shoulder. “But you don’t deserve this, Martin. I really am – I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

Martin always felt the urge to cry in his whiskers first; out of the corner of his eye, he could see them start to tremble. No, he wasn’t going to start crying here, not after losing it in front of Jon last night. Crying didn’t do anything. Crying didn’t solve cases.

“It …” What else could he say? “It is what it is. It was really nice meeting you, Jon. I hope you sort out what’s going on in the forest.”

“So do I,” Jon returned with a huff, like Martin just made a joke. “Please look after yourself, won’t you?”

“Always do. But same to you. Get some rest.”

He stood there for a tick longer, his hand still on Martin’s shoulder. Martin didn’t know what Jon saw when he looked at him. In the mirror … Martin could get used to plenty of things, but certainly not used to the eyes.

Jon didn’t look at him with fear, though. If Martin didn’t know any better, he’d say that Jon was fighting back tears himself. Fighting back something, for sure.

But Jon averted his eyes, nodded, and removed his hand from his shoulder. Then Jon was off, walking towards the sound of the village.

Martin stood there until Jon vanished from between the trees, and then he stood there for a few minutes more. It was only when he heard some chatter from near the village gates that he pulled the cloak up again and hurried back along the river.

Why did the walk back to the castle feel so much longer when he was walking it alone? He eventually saw the iron gates, to dismay. The vines were still growing, the castle still stood. Martin didn’t know if they would ever stop, but they hadn’t seemed interested in invading the castle itself. Martin suspected the rose would die long before that happened.

The castle felt so much emptier when he stepped in the front door. Colder, too. Martin shifted off his cloak and threw it along the back of the couch. Out of habit, he started up the fire, but he didn’t sit down.

Even a few months ago, Martin would’ve coped with any excess emotion by going on a bit of a rage. He wasn’t an angry man, not really, and he certainly wasn’t enough of an academic to know about animal instincts. It was just just a lot on his shoulders, wasn’t it? He had reason to be angry – angry at his mother (obvious), angry at the staff (please stop trying to kill my mother), and angry at himself (couldn’t keep the fucking roses alive).

Now, Martin almost wished he’d left a few portraits be. Sure, they weren’t company, but they were a face to look at. Martin had forgotten how much he missed faces. It almost made him want to return to the dining room, where he could watch his own face melt over and over again.

He didn’t. Instead, he went back to the greenhouse, and he checked on the rose.

Have more petals fallen? He couldn’t tell. He was terrified of disturbing the rose to clear out the ones that had died. The head still glowed faintly, still enchanting.

Should someone truly love you before the last petal falls, you will live a man.

But until then, die a beast.

Harsh, as curses went.

It wasn’t like he had that written down anywhere. He just remembered. He remembered the way his mother had walked into the greenhouse. He remembered being so proud of her, walking the path from the castle to her garden under her own two feet. He remembered being scared of how she’d react to the petals, but wow, things could turn around, maybe she wouldn’t even be that mad –

Suffice to say she had been. He remembered how silent she’d gone. He remembered approaching behind her, apologizing in a high, quiet voice. He remembered the way the air started to shimmer around her as she spoke the curse, how she reached out and culled the last remaining rose. Then, honestly, he didn’t remember much.

It’d hurt. When he came to, he was … changed. And she was back in the castle.

He took a deep breath.

There was one thing he wanted to do, after finding the journal. Certainly, Jon had much more altruistic reasons, but Martin wasn’t sure if he had use for altruism anymore.

He returned back to the castle and brewed a kettle. Martin returned to the library with his glasses and journal in tow.

Normally, Martin wouldn’t bother with the fire. He was covered in fur. He was more likely to sweat than feel cold, but … he remembered how the fire felt when Jon was there. Terribly comforting, that soft noise in the background, the cozy warmth. Martin figured that he would need it, and he stoke the fire again.

So. His mum had kept a diary.

That was what Martin had been hoping for. Throughout all of it – throughout the worst of it – Martin had held out hope. She was difficult sometimes, sure. She was in pain. She was very sick. She was frustrated. And sure, she cursed him, but she’d been angry. She had really loved those roses, and loads of people did things they didn’t mean when they were angry. He ripped apart loads of things in the castle, even things he liked.

But she loved him. And sure, maybe that didn’t make everything okay, but it – it meant something.

She loved him, she loved him. She was his mother, of course she did.

Martin summoned up his strength, took a sip of tea (not flinching at the now-familiar sound of fangs on porcelain), and flipped open to the first page.

Chapter Text

Jon lasted for seven days.

As per his suspicion, the mysterious lethargy that plagued him disappeared the second he stepped back into the village. It was only the next step in the deeply troubling turn of events (and explained, among other things, why few of his fellow villagers sever seemed to leave the village).

The only person that held any serious power, the kind that might be used to confront a Prince, was Elias Bouchard.

What he ended up doing was more of a Hail Mary than a strategic plan. The morning after Jon returned to the village, he went to Elias’ door and slid the letter from Peter Lukas underneath the gap. He wasn’t proud that he’d nicked it from Martin right before he left – but he desperately needed some proof. Something tangible, for god’s sake. Nobody would ever believe him otherwise.

Surely the knowledge that their prince held some supernatural hold over his subjects, including Elias Bouchard himself, would spur him to action? From self-preservation, if nothing else? None of them wanted to be controlled by a prince, anymore than they already were.

He also hoped that the letter being delivered anonymously would, at least, make Elias take it more seriously. Didn’t come from the village crackpot's mouth.

Jon needed more time to think of any other plans, he knew. He had scarce few books on magic. Certainly nothing that explained the sort of magical power Prince Magnus would possess. Nor could anyone in the village practice magic (given the treatment of a witch-themed scarecrow during village festivals, Jon had little hope that anyone would admit it to him, either).

Even with all of that hanging over his head, even with the stress that sickened him, stressed him … Jon was surprised by how often he thought of Martin.

When Jon returned to the village, he realized nobody had asked after him. He opened the shop the next day and the few customers didn’t ask what had happened. Jon got the shopping at the same stalls he’d frequented since a young child. The village was still there, unchanging, thoroughly indifferent to the world outside it. People made small talk, certainly, but they were rather content to live their lives excluding him.

No wonder people wander into the forest, never to return, Jon thought to himself on the second day, It’s fucking dull here.

And perhaps it was the castle, perhaps it was the tragedy of Martin’s life, perhaps it was Martin himself – but Jon thought of him often. He remembered waking up that morning in his bed, strangely teleported from the couch. How gentle Martin must have been, to carry him from the sofa without waking him.

More than a few times, Jon thrust his hand into his pocket and felt the other object he took from the castle. This one, he didn’t even feel bad about. What use would Martin have for a shattered eyeglass lens?

He thought of Martin with his one pair of glasses. Half a pair, now. And if that pair broke …

That was probably why Jon visited the blacksmith on the second day and asked if he knew anyone who could make a pair of glasses, given only a lens. The blacksmith (never particularly fond of Jon, the last person who’d seen his boy before he disappeared in the forest two decades ago) quoted him a fairly ridiculous price in tandem with the jeweler, but Jon found himself reaching for the gold anyway.

It wasn’t as if Jon had a concrete plan to return to Martin, even then. He just knew that he had the broken eyeglass piece.

The following five days passed achingly slowly. If Elias did anything with the letter, Jon didn’t know. Nobody gave any word.

He did see Elias once, to pay his monthly taxes for the village. Jon placed the gold on the table and Elias, with a singular raised eyebrow, asked him how his days off had gone.

The hair had rose on the back of his neck, but Jon had just mumbled a polite affirmative and returned back to his shop. He’d been half convinced that Elias would bring a guard to his shop – for what offense, he didn’t know. And yet, he heard no more of it. Why would he, Jon tried to convince himself? They weren’t trapped here, not legally. Perhaps … biologically.

Five days of manning the shop. Five days of having few customers. Five days of bursting with knowledge that he couldn’t share with anyone. What was he meant to say? Don’t go into the forest? Don’t follow strange lights? Don’t go after strange sounds? If a death wasn’t enough to convince them, then a warning from the village kook was scarcely more.

After five days, the eyeglasses were ready. Jon went to retrieve them from the jeweler instead of the blacksmith, who had put on the finishing touches. They were pretty things, Jon noted – shiny frames, polished with perfect clarity. He did try them on, almost out of curiosity.

Martin’s eyes were very bad.

Once he had them, the next logical step seemed obvious. He had to go back to Blackwood Castle. What else was he supposed to do? Hold onto them forever as a strange memento? He already had enough beastly hair on his copy of Pride and Prejudice for that.

(Not that he got emotional over stray hairs in his book. Of course not. He was respectable.)

Life seemed a little brighter after he made the decision. In the back of his mind, Jon thought of things he’d like to tell Martin. Things he usually told himself or the stray cats he fed outside. He’d like to be judgmental about a customer’s book preferences with someone beyond Tibbles.

As night fell, he also found that he wanted to tell Martin about his worries. About how often he looked outside his bedroom window at the forest, certain he’d see some great shadowy eight-legged monster rise over the the treeline. About how he feared going into the village the next day and finding someone else had disappeared. About how everyone else seemed to be perfectly content except for him, and perhaps Elias was right, perhaps he was the problem.

Then he woke in the morning, just as the sun started to peek over the horizon, and Jon was just excited to see his friend again.

He had packed his bag the previous night. Among other things, he had packed four different romance novels. Jon wasn’t a romance novel enthusiast (in that he never found himself to have a favorite genre, preferring a little bit of everything for every reason), but he’d read quite a few. He hoped Martin would like them. One of them included a werewolf, which felt either horrifically insensitive or quite touching. Jon wasn’t sure which yet.

Jon didn’t know what the future would hold. It’d been a long, long time since he’d gone out and done anything with a friend, much less one who lived (a) outside the village and (b) outside human contact. For once, Jon tried not to worry about the future. As he trodded along the river path, he tried to think about which characters Martin would be fond of.

(And he did, at least a bit, think of the books still waiting on Martin’s shelves. Martin might not have liked them, but Jon wanted to read them very badly).

He surprised himself with his good spirits. He greeted the turtle slowly plodding along the shores of the river, he laughed when a chipmunk chittered at him from a branch. God, was that what being unburdened felt like? He could see the appeal.

Blackwood Castle greeted him like an old friend … though Jon didn’t linger by the topiary, especially with the knowledge of the staff’s transformations. Perhaps they had always been carved plant matter. Perhaps they had once been flesh and bone. He saw the front door shut and knocked, only to be met with silence.

Well. Right. Wind out of his sails, a bit. Jon shifted his bag against his shoulder, the books weighing him down.

Perhaps the greenhouse, visiting his mother, tending to that lovely rose? Jon recalled the way Martin looked at it. No wonder why Martin wanted to keep it alive so ardently. The last reminder of it all, and a lovely rose besides.

He made his way up to the greenhouse and let himself in. No Martin. Just thorns, a dead witch, and a rose.

Hard not to admire it, still. Jon approached the container. Before his eyes, a petal shriveled and fell from the head of the rose. It rested on a small bed of its siblings.

Ah. Maybe it needed a bit of water? He looked from side to side, looking for a watering pail, and found nothing. Jon considered plucking the whole container up and carrying it to the kitchen … but ultimately decided against it. Martin seemed intense about this rose, and while he might not care for Jon filching a letter or a broken eyeglass lens, he would definitely care about the rose being moved.

A little lost, Jon returned to the front steps and waited. He re-read a portion of his book; he figured about an hour passed. No sign of Martin in the forest. The door was unlocked, though.

It felt slightly more illegal to break into the home of someone he knew versus a complete stranger, but as it was. Jon pressed the door open.

No Martin.

Dread started to crawl up Jon’s spine, so tangible that he reached to brush along his back. Jon didn’t think Martin would simply leave his castle; in many ways, it was the safest spot for him. And yet …

He started to search. There wasn’t any signs of Martin anywhere. Plates in the sink (were those always there?), fur on the chairs (surely that was eternal), and the same long, cold corridors.

Deja-vu something terrible, really.

Jon checked in a few bedrooms, a few libraries, a few dining rooms. The castle was almost ludicrously large, and Jon couldn’t be certain that he wasn’t backtracking from time to time. Eventually, though, something started to look familiar. Yes, this was the area where he fell asleep on the couch, and …

Ah. There he was.

Something was the matter.

It looked like a whirlwind had passed through the room. Martin’s chair was ripped to shreds, the table in splinters. He’d also made quick work of the rug. What alarmed Jon initially was the fire – it was roaring, almost encroaching past the hearth itself and dangerously close to rug remnants. He quickly kicked them away. From deep within the fire, he could see dark shapes. Bits of the chair, it seemed like, and what might have been the drapes, and the familiar rectangular shape of books. No wonder it was so damn hot in here.

The only relatively untouched piece of furniture was the sofa – on which Martin rested. His clothing was in tatters. Jon could usually see more fur than fabric, but it looked like Martin had taken his claws to it.

Asleep, he begged.

Martin’s chest rose and fell.

Thank god, definitely asleep. Jon crept forward and put an arm on his shoulder, giving him a hefty shake.

Martin nuzzled his head against the pillow, letting out a few growly grumbles. He turned his head and cracked open one groggy red eye to look up at Jon.

God, Jon had never imagined what eyebags might look like on a wolf or a wild cat, but now he knew. His face softened, looking at Martin’s face.

“You alright?” Now that he’d gotten over the initial mental block of oh god, is he alive, has he died, how could he have died, Jon’s mind fired into overdrive. Something happened. Martin discovered something, something changed within him, something else had gone wrong.

The red eye continued to peer up at him, before Martin squinted in confusion. “What’re you doin’ here?” He mumbled, half in his jowls and half into the pillow.

Jon was sweating heavily. Great. “Got lost, found a great bloody castle, thought I’d wander inside.” Perhaps not the time for jokes, but Martin looked too groggy to understand whatever he said anyway. “Can you get up?”

Martin complied, more out of instinct than volition. He shifted to sit up. Jon came around the other side of the sofa to see Martin squeezing his eyes open and shut, and then rubbing his knuckles in his sockets to wake himself up. His fur was a bit greasy, a bit stringy, and utterly flattened on one side of his body.

Strangest of all was the odd, dull expression over his face, like he hadn’t fully woken up. It made Jon want to slap him, but he restrained himself.

“Martin?”

“Sorry.” Martin shook his head – and the shiver travelled down his entire body, like a dog shaking off water. “Sorry, just … tired.”

“Might need some fresh air.” Not only was the heat unbearable, but he felt like he could hardly catch a breath here. Martin stared at him languidly, up until Jon took his arm and slung it over his shoulder.

He tried doors at random. When Jon finally found an exterior door, he was earnestly surprised to see that he’d exited through the rear of the castle. Behind him were the remains of an orchard – dead, gnarled trees, some choked by vines, others simply standing tall – and, even further out, vast tracts of farmland. Jon saw that some of it had been tended to, a tiny garden against the long-forgotten fields.

And thank god, it was cold. Jon took in a deep breath and exhaled. Next to him, Martin did the same.

They didn’t speak for a few minutes. Jon didn’t remove his arm from around Martin’s.

A nice bit of stillness. Being back at Blackwood Castle was oddly pleasant, despite the horrors contained within. He liked having his arm around Martin’s own, for one thing, and Martin seemed to see him in ways that other people couldn’t. Now, he wished he could see Martin the same way.

“Jon,” Martin eventually said, and he sounded much more alert. “What are you doing here?”

“Nevermind that.” All at once, the pair of glasses in his pocket seemed very silly. No, not quite silly – it seemed desperate, like Jon couldn’t be without Martin’s presence for more than a few days without making some grand gesture.

And it wasn’t that. Jon hoped it was not that. He just … missed him. And frankly, Martin needed another pair of glasses. “How are you doing? What’s …?” Jon gestured with his free hand to the space around them. “This, this potential arson.”

“I wasn’t trying to burn down the castle.” Jon smiled. He really shouldn’t, he knew, but it sounded whiny.

And then Martin snuffled, and Jon’s smile dropped. Before he could think on it, his arm tightened around Martin’s. “I, um. I read the journal, after you left. Mum’s.”

His stomach dropped. “All of it?” Jon whispered.

“All of it that there is. It ends right before she started getting sick.”

He looked up to see Martin staring into the fog-covered farmlands. Not angry, not even particularly sad. Just … as he said, Jon figured, quite tired indeed.

Guilt snaked through his gut. Perhaps he ought to have warned Martin. He hadn’t even thought that Martin would be keen to read the journal – would he read his own grandmother’s thoughts of him, if he found it? He didn’t know. The potential of knowing frightened him, and he was very relieved his grandmother wasn’t the journaling sort.

“She hated me. I thought … but, no. She really, really hated me. Every time I defended her, every time I took care of her, every time I … “ He trailed off again. “I thought, deep down, it was okay. Because she loved me. She was my mum.”

“Even if she did love you, Martin, she shouldn’t have treated you like she did.”

Jon knew it wasn’t the right thing to say, but it was out before he could help himself. He’d been thinking it as he pawed through the pages. Martin was a little rough around the edges, certainly, but ultimately a kind man. And after learning what happened to him … lord. Martin was doing well. Martin could’ve actually, properly burned down his castle and Jon would’ve said he was doing well after all he’d been through.

“But she doesn’t. Didn’t. She didn’t love me, so.” He shrugged his shoulders. “So it makes sense, her treating me how she did. I guess she wasn’t a liar.”

“I’m sorry.” What else was there to say? The woman was dead and Martin (and a dozen-or-so other innocents) was cursed. An ocean of shit, stretching onto eternity. At least you’re not one of the people who fused with the furniture? At least you’re not dead.

Martin just nodded. The wind turned and Jon noted, with some distaste, that Martin was in desperate need of a bath. Best not to bring that up. Thinking of Martin scarcely moving from that room for a week made Jon want to hug him properly. “I hope you didn’t come back to read the journal,” he said, “Because it’s burned. Completely gone.”

Ah. Best he did take that letter, then, though he really didn’t think Martin would care much now. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t come back for the journal.”

“What’d you come back for?”

God, the glasses didn’t feel very important anymore. This was going to blow up in his face. Jon had never been any good at nice gestures. It was too much, or too fast, or not the right time. His internal clock had always been a bit off in that regard.

And still, there was only so much he could avoid the question. Jon let go of Martin’s arm to step in front of him, thrusting his hand into his pocket.

“Well,” Jon said, withdrawing a green cloth case, “I came back for you.”

Martin’s eyes flicked down to the case and then back up to Jon. Jon placed it on his paw pad and, with two delicate claws, Martin removed the glasses from within.

The gold frames glinted a little in the sun. He held them in his palm like he wasn’t quite sure what they were, his face a complete mask.

Martin’s tail, however, was not. Behind him, Jon could see it start to wag wildly. It actually made a bit of a breeze in the cold air.

Oh. Maybe this was for the best. “You like them?” Jon asked, a bit shy. “I took your broken lens in, they were able to manage the rest.”

“You had these made … for me?”

Like Jon was going to snatch them back at any moment. Really. “You put me up for a few days. Least I could do.”

More than that, Jon knew, but it seemed the most practical response. Martin slowly put them on and peered at Jon.

Martin smiled, great and wide, the sort that showed all of his jagged, pointy teeth. His tail wouldn’t stop wagging. Jon suspected there was a non-trivial amount of effort being applied not to sweep him into a hug, and Jon wished that Martin would say to hell with it and give him a hug anyway.

“You look nice.” He did. Gold suited the, ah, red eyes. “You can see alright?”

“I can see perfectly.” At the minute, it appeared that Martin didn’t have any interest in looking elsewhere. It was starting to make Jon’s face feel warm, and he looked away out of instinct. “Jon, this is … really, it’s …”

“It’s nothing, is what it is. It’s just a gesture. You needed glasses, and …” And it was more than nothing, Jon knew, but if Martin kept looking at him like he hung the moon and stars, he was going to erupt. “And I realized when I returned to the village that there’s no reason for me to stay away, is there?”

“There’s plenty reason, you get ill.”

“I’m not suggesting I move in.” He wasn’t explaining himself well. How could he, with Martin staring at him so much? Jon took a deep breath and smoothed the front of his – great. Forgot to take his bookshop apron off again. “It’s only that I enjoy your company, Martin, and it’s not very far at all. Why can’t I come and visit?”

“Visit me?”

“Oh, no. Patches. I do want to see those kittens grow up.”

Thankfully, Martin wasn’t too inside himself to catch onto the joke.

And then Jon was engulfed in a massive hug.

He’d been hugged before, of course, even hugged by people taller than him. There was very little comparison to being hugged by a seven foot pillar of fur. Martin’s body was pleasantly soft (god, he could sink right in), but he could feel the strength of him as he was gently squeezed. Jon couldn’t breathe for a second and squirmed to readjust himself, but after, it was the most pleasant protection against the winter chill that he could ever imagine.

“You can come whenever you want,” Martin promised. “You can stay as long as you want.”

The thought shot a thrill through Jon’s body. He hadn’t even shown Martin the books yet – and more than the books, he wanted to sit and talk with Martin. An entire day’s worth of work yesterday and he scarcely talked to anyone, and he’d read so many things, and yes, he would tell Martin about him delivering the letter to Elias Bouchard and hearing nothing, because if anyone would have sympathy with that, Martin would –

And Jon brought his arms up to hug Martin in return, glad to have a friend close.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks were the happiest in Martin’s life.

He had some happier memories before everything happened, of course. He remembered one of the maids teaching him how to sew, he remembered sitting in the stables and gawping at the horses. Still, he never recalled such a discrete period of sustained, almost dizzying happiness before.

Jon was never able to stay long. Twenty-four hours seemed to be the limit before his symptoms start becoming noticeable. As much as Martin liked his company, he tried to urge Jon back to the village around then.

(And yes, did it worry him that Jon’s health seemed to be tied by some enigmatic, malevolent lord? Of course. Martin neatly placed it in the box of ‘supernatural shit I can’t fix’.)

Nor could Jon come every day. He had a business to run, after all, even as Jon whinged about the business side of things. One day, he actually brought his figurebooks to Martin after he fell behind. Being halfway decent at maths, Martin went through his accounts for him and settled up the figures.

He’d pretty sure he was going to remember the grateful look Jon gave him forever. So that was good.

Jon still came around two or three times a week, pushing the limits of the twenty-four hours every time. Martin felt a pang of loneliness whenever he walked Jon back to the village, sure, but it was assuaged by the knowledge that it’d only be a day or two before Jon was walking up the path to the castle yet again. Jon joked once that his calves were getting toned and Martin choked before he could stop himself.

Yeah. He really liked those calves, as he really liked everything about Jon.

Pining was hard.

They spent their time exploring the castle, the grounds. Martin told stories of how everything used to be, of how cozy (despite the smell) the stables had been, of always being able to see somebody back then. Everything was slowly dying now, sure, but they hadn’t always. They saw a few more of the trapped staff in their travels, but they never lingered much in those spaces.

Sometimes they walked into the walked in the forest proper. Jon never said why, but Martin knew that they were looking for monsters. It put him on edge terribly – not for himself, because he’d always been the baddest thing in the forest, but Jon ran a bookshop. Still, they never ran into anything, and Martin never voiced his relief about it.

And sometimes, they didn’t do anything at all. They lounged around and discussed books. Jon soon caught on that Martin didn’t want to read romance all the time – he liked it, sure, but it not only reminded him of the curse over his head … it reminded him of the stupid pining thing.

Jon’s fault, really. He was just – he was lovely. He spoke about saving his village like it was his god-given duty and lost himself in his explanations, gushing forward like a river. Martin loved whenever he got a little are you serious? are you listening to yourself right now? eyebrow-raise whenever he voiced an, apparently, unacceptable literary opinion. He loved when Jon looked out the window, head lolling on his shoulder, and lamented the setting sun.

He loved that Jon curiously asked him how he put on a button-less shirt (very carefully). He loved that Jon couldn’t help but smile a little when Martin couldn’t stop his tail wagging or his ears drooping or his whiskers twitching. He loved that Jon remarked wish everyone had that, be much easier to tell what they’re feeling. He loved that Jon proceeded to waggle his hips a bit and twitch his nose, then promptly looked like he was about to die of embarrassment.

It was nice. Martin hadn’t had a crush (one on a real person, anyway) since he was a teenager and fancied one of the butler’s sons. While that was all well and nice in romance novels, Martin supposed, he hadn’t dared. God, looking back on it, he was so grateful he didn’t.

And now … he was gone on Jon. He really was.

Of course Jon wasn’t going to feel the same way. Jon was his friend, sure. Jon respected him, but – there were limits, Martin thought, and Jon probably had dozens of suitors in the village. Ones that weren’t monsters. Ones that didn’t indirectly kill dozens of people.

It hurt when Jon was away, but when he was there? Lovely. Utter bliss, really was.

That day, they were walking through the halls. Jon had no idea where they were going. Martin didn’t blame him. He’d told Jon all about his sleepwalking habits as a child, the way he’d come to in the middle of a pitch-black hallway and get lost on the way back to his room. Martin thought it was funny in retrospect, but Jon had reached out to touch his arm with a sad look in his eyes.

Which he liked, don’t get him wrong, but he really did want to tell a funny story about his life. It wasn’t all bad. Martin didn’t think it was, anyway.

“Is this another library?” Jon mused aloud. He had an armful of books with him. Jon liked the dusty old things, and it was utterly infuriating that he managed to make them interesting. Even the dreary old literary ones about depressed men masturbating to long lost loves, Jon somehow managed to pull out a beautiful, shining thread from them.

Or he mocked them in a way so calculatingly refined that Martin felt like they were gossiping away about someone in the village.

Martin shook his head, mood jovial. “I said it’s a surprise, quit guessing.”

“There can’t be any more libraries, anyway.”

“Well, there is one, but it’s a bit …” Homicidal. Martin waved his hand. “Another day. I’ve got something else.”

Outside, the sun had already set. It was mutually agreed that they were going to leave in the morning, which Marin was certainly not going to think about. Martin prepared Jon’s bedroom yesterday. He liked the routine, liked smoothing out the sheets and tucking them in tight. He wished he had flowers to put in Jon’s room, maybe, but he settled for putting Patches’ cat bed in there (who had taken, to Martin’s enormous relief, to staying inside the castle with her stitches full time).

Martin led him along the long hallway, excitement bursting in his chest. This room took a lot longer to clean up, with the dust and the fallen plaster, but it was shining now. He even lit the lamps.

What greeted them was an impressively tall wooden door. Martin didn’t have to duck under this one. He took the handle, gave Jon a low bow, and opened to allow Jon in.

“Oh, Martin,” Jon marveled, “This is the ballroom?”

“You’re always looking at it from the outside when you come up. Thought you might want to see what it looked like, in all its glory.” Not all its glory, but even Martin hadn’t seen all that. His mother hosted balls here once, allegedly, but they stopped when Martin was very little. Still.

Martin stepped forward onto the polished stone floor … and winced. Tip-tap-tip-tap, went the claws on his foot. Echoing in here, wasn’t it? That was going to drive him mad.

Jon’s attention was elsewhere as he walked further into the room, arms still clutched around his pile of books. The ballroom was something to behold – a vast circular room that shot up two stories. Twelve marble columns held up the balcony so that weary ball attendees could observe the whirling guests, as coordinated and small as clockwork.

All the while, massive windows stared at the front of the grounds. Twenty years ago, they would have seen a courtyard filled with dim lights, horses, a maze, topiary, statues – the very peak of opulence in this small corner of the kingdom.

Now, they looked upon the darkness. With his beastly eyes, Martin could see the moonlight glinting off the thorns.

Still something, though, and he tried. Jon looked more than thrilled, taking a few steps back to observe the balcony up ahead. “God,” he muttered, shaking his head. “God, how am I here?”

“Bad luck?”

The quip got him a pointed look, and Martin shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t think anyone would ever be here, either.”

“Didn’t ever dream of grand balls? Finding your, ah, Prince Charming somewhere?”

He’d never stood up to Jon and said not only am I a beast-man, I’m a gay beast-man!. Martin was earnestly not sure where Jon picked it up, if he was certain, if he was conjecturing and waiting for Martin to correct. It was still nice, not needing to talk about it.

Jon’s joke made him snort. That was quite a bit of mucus. Embarrassing. He rubbed his nose along his sleeve. “No, no. Mum was never really keen on pairing me off. She used to say …” There was not really any reason to say it aloud, is there? What he was worth, how miserable he’d make a young woman’s life, how monstrous he’d be. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t even know how to dance, never got around to learning.”

Jon was by the glass doors, then. There was a stone walkway out there, with stairs descending out into the courtyard. Martin was pretty sure they were made impenetrable by thorns. Jon put the books down by the door and marched over, a determined look in his face.

Did Jon know how intimidating he could be? Lovingly. Martin was pretty sure he could toss him up to the second floor and that didn’t stop the nerves that twisted and knotted his stomach whenever Jon looked at him so sternly.

Jon extended his hand out – patchwork calloused. It’d taken Martin a little while to realize how, but he realized it was every spot where a quill or fountain pen had rubbed against Jon’s skin. “I’ll show you, won’t be difficult to learn a few steps.”

“S-” Oh, no. No, no. No. For a thousand reasons. Martin looked at the hand like it might bite him. “What? How do you know?”

He got a roll of his eyes for that. “Ballroom dancing might not be popular in the village, but people have written about it. I’ve read a few etiquette books, here and there.”

The hand still extended. Jon dipped into a bow himself (and wow, okay, that was, hm) and straightened back up. “Lord Blackwood, if you would ever be so kind, if your schedule this evening isn’t full already –”

Jon couldn’t fight the smile growing at his lips. Martin couldn’t either.

“Then I do hope so ardently you’d join me for a dance.” A smile quirked Jon’s lips. “I’ve heard it encourages affection, even if you might not find your partner tolerable.”

His heart was going a mile a minute and Martin could feel every hair on his body. He thought he might sink right down into the floor. Forget romantic experience, he knew Jon didn’t love him that way (for one thing, he was still a damn wolf) – it’d been so long since Martin had been that near somebody. He was fumbling, falling, and he wanted to decline as much as he wanted to agree.

He didn’t want to be alone again. If he messed up, Martin couldn’t be alone again.

But Jon’s face was so certain, his hand so steady, that Martin found himself reaching out for it. As best he could, anyway. As soon as his paw landed on Jon’s palm, Jon redirected it to his shoulder. Jon grasped the other one for himself. “Typically, you’d put a hand on my waist. Height differences being what they are …” Jon squeezed his palm. God, compared to Martin’s own, it was unbearably soft.

Jon led. Martin was a lackluster partner at first – he tried to react to every small tug that Jon gave him, he overcompensated in a way that Martin was sure jostled Jon’s skull around. What happened after wasn’t much better; Martin was practically immovable until Jon put half his weight into the tug. Martin had a vivid image of how bad it would be if he stepped on his toes.

And through it all, Jon had patience. Martin wasn’t at all sure if they were doing it correctly. He recalled reading it in books, and there was a faint image of his mind that might as well have been a long-gone daydream … but as his nerves left him, Martin found he was enjoying himself nevertheless.

Jon was standing close – close enough that, if Martin hadn’t put on a shirt that morning, Jon would be engulfed in a small avalanche of hair. He mostly saw the top of Jon’s head, but when they did make eye contact, Jon gave him a look that said god, look at the two of us.

Between them, it got easier. They spun along the floor. Martin found if he thought of them as one unit, instead of two men trying not to step on one another, he could move easier. He found it easier to slide his hand back from Jon’s shoulder and rest on his back.

His claws tapping against the floor weren’t the same as an orchestra, but he could feel Jon’s thumb tapping out in time all the same. They swayed underneath the massive chandelier above their heads. Martin was suddenly fiercely glad that they never had any balls there, that his most vivid memory was going to involve being there with Jon.

In a particularly quick turn, Martin’s arm tightened around Jon’s shoulders. He didn’t realize until Jon jerked and clutched him that he had actually been lifted a few inches off the ground.

Damn it. Okay, right, he thought he’d gotten used to how heavy humans were – and that wasn’t a weird thing to think, not at all –

Before Martin could put him down, Jon started to laugh. His head tucked right underneath Martin’s chin. “That does make it easier,” Jon joked, and Martin’s shoulders relaxed. He hadn’t done it wrong, everything was fine, and just because he could, Martin did another little spin on the floor with Jon’s limbs flailing out in his arms.

Martin would put Jon down after a moment, but he didn’t want to stop dancing, not for a bit.

***

“You actually found it,” Jon uttered in astonishment from over the sofa when Martin swept back into the room. In Martin’s hands was a bottle of champagne, a few glasses tucked underneath his arm. “I thought you were exaggerating.”

“No, I’m telling you, she used to hide the spirits everywhere. She barely even drank,” Martin complained, “She was just scared to bits the staff would steal it.”

“Anything but the staff,” He shot back, hand flying to his hand in mock shock.

“Joke’s on her, in the end.” Was it a morbid joke? Sure. Was Martin too knackered (real, properly knackered, not exhausted, not tired, not fatigued – knackered!) to care? Absolutely. “Right after the curse, they nicked most of the good stuff anyway. Not much else to do.”

Granted, the divide between staff and gentry had blurred considerably right after they’d, you know, been cursed. Not many keen to keep on with their duties … nor were any in a state to actually leave. Just dozens of them, trapped with one another, but Martin’s interests had never wavered from keeping his mother safe.

Yes, yes, he wasn’t going to be sad about that night. He had nice champagne. He’d just finished dancing with a ridiculously good-looking man for hours. Jon reclined on the couch, his boots off, the ribbon half-fallen from his hair, cheek pressed against his shoulder. Martin resisted the urge to whimper like a dog.

It was nice to talk about it with someone, even in the most casual of ways. Martin was less concerned about his actions during it (he was guilty, he had tried and executed himself for that already), but … it was also months. The worst months of his life, right up until the last of the corporeal staff died. Jon didn’t even know the half of it, certainly not the barricades he’d had to make in front of his mother’s room, but Jon knew more than anyone else in the world.

“D’you want a glass?”

“Well, where am I ever going to get the opportunity elsewhere?”

Martin stuck his longest claw into the champagne cork. Good to keep a few sharp for this very reason, eh? He shut down the dribbles of pride as Jon watched him, and he finessed it well. Martin considered licking the side of a bottle as a joke when the foam spilled over … but yeah, that could have been a little weird. Besides, champagne had never been his favorite.

“Are you going to have some?” Jon asked as Martin filled up the champagne flute, watching it sparkle against the fire’s glow.

Martin bunched up his eyebrows to make sure that he didn’t spill. “No.” For more reason than just the taste. Martin didn’t really want to say I was really more keen on wines and ciders instead of the fizzy stuff, true as it might have been. Wasn’t the main reason. “I, uh … I don’t want to lose control. God, no, that’s not it, that sounds dramatic.” He stopped pouring the bottle. “Just, you know. Especially around you, but also in general … I’ve got a lot of sharp things on me, and I’m a big guy. I don’t want to forget, like, where my claws are or how I’m moving.”

“Proprioception. The awareness of the body in space,” Jon mused.

He was so smart. Martin tried not to marvel. “Yeah, that. Last time I drank, I reached over for a book and tore a cushion.” A pause. “And all the pages out.” Granted, that’d not been long after he’d been cursed, where his proprioception had been shitty stone-cold sober.

“Probably an astute decision, then. Poor book.” Understanding, Jon reached out for the glass. He paused for a second – he didn’t hide the indecision on his face. Martin’s tail started to creep between his legs again, much to his dismay.

And then, whatever it is, it passed. Jon took the glass and drank from it, his nose wrinkling. “Christ.”

“Not good?”

“No, no, it’s good. I mean, it tastes like very fizzy wine,” Jon said, and he went back for another drink. Martin’s tail perked back up. “It might be very nice champagne, made with the finest breeds of grapes in a very exclusive vineyard, but … I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had champagne before.”

And damn if Martin was a suitable taste-tester. He sat on the couch next to Jon, placing the bottle on the table. It felt nice to have a sit, honestly – his legs were earnestly starting to ache from the long day. “Is champagne made in a different way than wine? I’ve never really thought about it.”

Next to him, Jon’s eyes glittered. It beat out the champagne glass by a solid mile, Martin thought. “It’s actually very interesting,” he launched in, starting to gesture with one hand. Jon gestured frequently. “In some ways, yes, in other ways, it’s practically an entirely different technique …”

***

The empty bottle rested securely against the arm of the chair, after a brief fumble knocked the champagne glass to the floor. Martin had been pretty sure he’d gotten all the glass shards, except Jon noticed a few sticking out from the tufts between his paw pads …

And now they were sitting on the sofa. Martin’s hand faced upward, cupped gently in Jon’s own. He dimly wondered if Jon could feel his racing pulse on his paw. Martin never really thought to check.

Jon might not have been in the proper state, anyway. Martin had precisely one sip of champagne (and the bubbles did not react well with his throat; he’d ended up snorting most of it out). The ribbon in Jon’s hair hung on by a wish and a prayer; Jon’s eyes were shiny. He seemed to be doing okay sitting down, but Martin noticed whenever he shifted (or excused himself to go to the bathroom, which happened twice in the past hour), he swayed a little more than he ought.

Drunk as anything. Must’ve liked the champagne; Jon refilled his glass himself over the course of the last few hours. According to the grandfather clock against the wall, it was past midnight.

Martin was certainly not going to excuse himself to go to bed. Jon left in the morning. It was hard to pull away.

“What do you call these?” Jon asked curiously, poking at the rough, skin-like flesh of his paw.

“Um, my paw pads?”

“Hm.” And then Jon moved to his claws. His touch was firm. Martin didn’t mind the questions, because, uh, a handsome man was sort of holding his hand. He flexed his claws a little to impress, but Jon didn’t seem to care. “And these ones? On your toes?”

“Oh. I, uh –“ That was significantly less dignified. “So, right, I mean, if I’ve got to think of them – I don’t think of them often – and if I’ve got to make them distinct from, like, my hand –”

Even drunk, Jon’s eyebrows knit together in academic determination. He let Martin blabber for a few minutes until Martin simply could blabber no more.

“My toe beans,” he admitted with a sigh. “Like, if I can’t just think fingers, I just – I mean, they’re kind of shaped like it.”

“Toe beans.”

“I don’t know the proper term.”

Jon answered promptly. “Metacarpal pad. Metatarsal,” he added, gesturing towards Martin’s foot, “For your rear ones.”

Well, that sounded much too clinical. Martin wiggled his toe beans.

“I don’t know if they’d be the proper term, though, because they’re not exactly … you couldn’t find a canine with this structure.” And Martin knew that, of course. They weren’t quite dog paws – not quite an ape’s hand – certainly nothing resembling a human. His fingers were too long and not long enough. He had claws, he could scrub a kitchen floor with his bare hand if he tried hard. “Toe beans and paw pads are good enough, I guess. Suppose you can’t see a doctor.”

“No. We used to have one on staff, but …” Martin shrugged. There’s no need to get into it. That one haunted his nightmares in particular.

“But you’re utterly unique. There really is nobody else around like you.” Jon didn’t seem to realize what he was saying, voice distant. He turned to face the fire, sitting leg-to-leg with Martin, but his fingers still played along Martin’s palm. The little pokes and tugs to his fur tufts there were a little ticklish. “Must be difficult to get a baseline to your health.”

Forest for the trees, seriously. Martin couldn’t help but snort hard at that. “That’s on the list of drawbacks, but it’s not cracking the top ten.”

“No. Guess it’s not.” Jon traced around the length of his palm. “There really is nobody like you,” he repeated, and there, Martin detected the faintest mush-mouth. There really ish.

He didn’t know if this was the best place to be earnest. A responsible man might urge Jon to get some rest, in bed, because he had to leave in the morning. Then again, Martin didn’t take his paw away.

“That’s half the problem.” And it was, wasn’t it? Martin didn’t like being unique. He’d rather be like everyone else, painfully unremarkable. Sure, it sounded a little better coming from Jon’s mouth. Jon never called him a monster, or a freak, or even a bad guy … but ‘unique’ made Martin’s fangs start to ache.

Jon shifted a little on the sofa, kicking his kneels up to curl against his chest. He slumped – and in so doing, his head moved to rest against Martin’s shoulder.

Martin froze, just a little, but Jon did nothing else. They both continued to stay by the fire; Jon’s hand stayed on his paw. He’s sleepy, tell him to go to bed.

“Martin,” Jon asked, and Martin felt every nerve in his body light up. “If – if people treated you decently –” Decently! Jon, you have no idea – “And you could live somewhere with people, and nobody paid the fur any mind, and … all that. Would you still want to look different?”

There was definite advantages to this form, Martin knows. He hadn’t had to use a can opener in years. Getting cold was scarcely a problem. Could hear a deer sniffing around in the courtyard. Could smell sweet, sticky champagne on Jon’s breath. Nobody would ever look at him and think that he was ever weak or timid.

And yet.

“I don’t like seeing myself this way,” Martin murmured, trying – and failing – not to sound sad. “I – I miss what I used to look like. I’d … I’d prefer to look how I was, even if everything else stayed the same.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon let Martin’s hand drop. An arm (!!!) folded around Martin’s middle, as best as he could, and Jon practically cuddled up against his side. Martin returned the favor and put his arm around Jon’s shoulders, halfway engulfing him in a thick fur coat. “I wish I could fix that. Fix all of this, for you.”

And that was the core of the issue, wasn’t it? Jon was his friend, sure, but Jon didn’t love him. Martin’s own mother didn’t even love him, especially not at the end. Maybe it wasn’t that he was the worst villain to ever exist – maybe a thin film existed over the whole of Martin Blackwood, something that prevented people from connecting with him in that way. He was always an oddity, an outsider, something curiously apart. Not something people stick around for.

Which was why he was going to die, and his mum’s curse would’ve been right, so. He tried not to think of the flower shedding petals in the greenhouse. It bothered him more, now, because …

Well, Jon.

“You make it better,” Martin told him honestly. “You know, I’ve never met anyone like you before, either.”

“Oh, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”

“Yeah?” God help him, he was grinning.

“Yes, usually in a much more negative sense, though.” At least Jon knew how he meant it. Martin figured they could sit there forever; he could smell Jon’s hair and the champagne and even the logs crackling on the fire. “But I’m glad you feel that way. You deserve better.”

Who knew about that, exactly, but Martin wasn’t going to start an argument with a drunk man against his side.

They sat in silence for some time longer. Martin figured the champagne had just taken hold of Jon’s tongue, but when he looked to the side, Jon’s eyes were shut and he was completely leaning against Martin’s shoulder.

Martin gave a half-shrug. Jon didn’t respond, didn’t even flutter his eyes. He couldn’t even call it sleeping upright, really, not when Jon’s fingers had sank into his fur and he could feel most of Jon’s weight leaning against him.

Could carry him to bed. Martin had done it before, albeit in different circumstances. Felt different, now, though – and he didn’t want to disturb Jon, not when he was sleeping so peacefully.

The truth of the matter, though? Martin liked this. He liked the fire in front of him, he liked the slight sparkle of the glass shards piled on the table. He liked this couch (as evidenced by the time he scarcely left it for a week), how soft it was. Most of all, he liked the feeling of Jon holding onto him for support, liked being able to hear him breathe.

Millimeters at a time, Martin adjusted himself so that he was leaning back against the couch, his head tilted against the side. He could sleep like this, he said internally, and then spent the next hour not being able to sleep.

Eventually, though, Martin did, still with his arm around Jon’s shoulders.

Chapter Text

Jon really, truly, desperately did not want to get up.

He woke a quarter of an hour ago (with, thankfully, the grandfather clock in his direct line of sight) with Martin splayed across him. The fire must have died out hours ago, cold and dead in its hearth. Jon imagined the room would have been quite chilly indeed, if he didn’t have a heated pile of fur on top of him.

Martin was purring.

It was faint enough for Jon to mistake it as a persistent growl. As he pressed his ear close, though, he realized exactly what he was listening to. The sound made Martin’s entire body vibrate. Jon took the opportunity to shove his face against the crook of Martin’s neck and just listen, the euphoric weight of fur and heat pressing down against his chest.

God. Martin truly was better than any blanket he ever had. Though Jon wanted to curl under him further to save his freezing toes, it didn’t escape his notice that he was locked in an accidental cuddle. Best not to push Martin’s boundaries, as much as he wanted to burrow inside Martin’s very chest.

It all helped with the persistent pounding at his temples. When was he last hungover? Years ago, had to have been. Jon didn’t drink much; it worsened his already persistent forgetfulness. He hadn’t meant to drink much last night either, except …

Except about halfway through his first champagne glass, Jon had thought to himself, you should tell Martin you’ve got feelings for him.

It was only the sought. And then Jon told himself that he would finish the glass and then tell Martin, and then he told himself he’d finish is second glass and tell him, and then everything got a little fuzzy in the back of his mind.

The feelings themselves hadn’t come as much of a surprise, really, not when he’d already been so passionately, platonically fond of Martin to begin with. A different color of an already magnificent picture. It first occurred to Jon when they’d been dancing across the ballroom, shaking the practice out of his legs. Seeing Martin so genuinely thrilled – the glamour and luster of the grand old place – and, of course, Martin quite literally sweeping him off his feet.

How could one not?

What Jon wanted to do about it was a different fish entirely. He didn’t know what he wanted from Martin. He knew what he didn’t want (and how fortuitous that was, because he didn’t imagine claws worked well for that sort of thing), but ...

A relationship? An understanding? A future?

God, Jon didn’t know.

Last night, Jon just saw Martin’s self-loathing, and his loneliness, and he wanted to shake him. I care for you and it was the easiest thing in the world. Even if Martin didn’t return the feelings (which made him feel curiously empty, but – he’d understand, of course he would), he wanted Martin to know.

Now? Things were different, with the clarity of a persistent hangover headache (and the slow, seeping supernatural one).

Perhaps he wouldn’t tell him. Jon was no fool. He was Martin’s only contact with the outside world, and to put that sort of pressure on the poor man? Unthinkable. He worried Martin might very well throw himself into things without returning his feelings, for fear of making things awkward. That thought made Jon physically recoil. No, he didn’t want that.

This was fine. Jon had a friend, and the idea of returning home was dull. He wanted to stay there, and have a nice breakfast in with Martin, and –

Jon squinted at the clock.

Hang on. The little hand was on the nine.

God damn it.

Jon lurched underneath Martin’s body, eyes momentarily bulging from their sockets. He liked to leave early in the mornings, just so people wouldn’t spot him entering the village. This wasn’t very early at all – and if he waited too much longer, he was definitely going to be spotted. Word might even get back to Elias.

He had to go? With a headache? With the forgetful, listless malaise that always struck him after he spent a few hours out of Prince Magnus’ boundaries? With a cold room and morning fog awaiting him?

This was cruelty.

Jon allowed himself a proper pout as he rested underneath Martin, reaching up to play with the fur on the back of his neck. Martin didn’t stir. Fine, Jon supposed. There was work to be done in the village. Not only bookshop work. Actually, Jon wasn’t much looking forward to the bookshop work, either, but he was trying to figure out more about this monster business.

It took some persistent wriggling, but eventually Jon slid himself out from underneath Martin’s form. Martin hadn’t moved an inch. “Martin?” Jon whispered, putting a hand on his shoulder. He gave a full shove to the beast-man. “Oi. Wake up.”

Not a word. The purring stopped (awww), replaced instead by a nasal snore (awww!).

Well, god knew the man could always use some good, restful sleep. Another glance towards the clock proved that Jon really didn’t have time to be waking him. Jon tore a flyleaf out of a book on the shelf and scribbled down a note, still groggy.

Have to get going – it’s late. Talk to you later – Jon.

He considered the note a second longer. Ought he include more affection? They were close friends, no matter the other feelings that festered in the bottom of his heart. He puzzled over it (and entertained a wild idea of writing P.S. I Want to Kiss You at the bottom) before the grandfather clock began to sound.

God damn it, 10 AM already? Jon rummaged for his bag, as desperate as Cinderella at the stroke of midnight, and started off from the castle. He wondered if he had any books on social etiquette. Maybe noble courtmanship. Maybe that had the answers his practical experience lacked.

As Jon entered the forest, he realized that his hair was clinging to the side of his face and around his shoulders. When did the ribbon fall out of his hair last night? Well, probably when he went from leaning against Martin to getting squished underneath him. More at the shop, he figured. Martin would have a nice souvenir.

The headache started to recede as he continued his walk. Jon had tried to take more scientific notes on this phenomena recently, and tried to explain it to Martin on a few occasions. He felt more alert the closer he got to the village … and yet, more like he was under someone’s watchful eye. It’s as if I’m suddenly a character in a storybook, and someone’s opened my page, Jon once remarked.

Martin, by every metric a Hans Christian Anderson character himself, tilted his head and asked: Like a prince or a knight?

More like a villager that gets eaten by a dragon.

A foolish idea, but Jon glanced up at the skies overheard regardless. It was just so de-stabilizing. He hadn’t been aware of this feeling plaguing him for his entire life until he’d been without it. Blackwood Castle was full of its own unique horrors, but he had no strings there.

The village walls rose up in front of him as Jon approached along the path. To his relief, he didn’t see much activity on the outside. No hunters, no tradesmen. Perhaps he was fortunate.

Or something to do with fortune, anyway. Jon got two steps inside the gate before he looked to the side and locked eyes with Elias Bouchard.

Jon froze.

“Mr. Sims,” Elias greeted neutrally, stepping forward. His eyes flicked over Jon, calculating, and Jon was deeply aware of his rumpled clothing, his frizzy hair. He didn’t have enough mud and stick on him to look like he slept the night in the woods, even if such an act wasn’t wildly dangerous. “Glad to have caught you. I was wondering if we might have a moment to speak.”

Jon would prefer the polar opposite of that, actually. Elias Bouchard looked at him as if nothing was wrong, while he stood as the best-dressed man in the village and Jon sorely wanted a bath.

His physical appearance itself didn’t bother him much as the hairs rising on the back of his neck. Jon stared at Elias and his controlled, pleasant, mundane little smile.

He knows.

“It’s not against the law,” Jon blurted out, forcing his lungs to expand again. “To go outside the village walls. It’s just discouraged.”

“It is.” A pause. Elias’ eyes flicked to the forest, and then back to Jon. “Do you have a moment, Jon?”

Was he mad? Was there a threat underneath Elias’ voice? Jon strained to look for any sign of duplicity, any sign of anything but calm professionalism. Elias’ eyes focused on him, but not overly so. He had not folded his hands in front or behind him, but instead let them fall to his sides. There was a few crumbs on his tie, possibly from the baker’s.

I can tell him no, Jon thought with a steadily increasing terror, I can go home. He’s not got any reason to talk to me. I haven’t done anything wrong.

And, in the same mental breath –

He knows about the letter from Peter Lukas. Maybe he wants to speak about it to me. Maybe that’s enough proof. Maybe he realizes something’s wrong. Maybe he wants to help the village. He lives here, too, surely …

There, caught between an act of pure self-preservation and a desire to save his village, Jon made a decision.

***

To his frustration, the tea was fantastic. Some of Jon’s headache peeled away as he steadily sipped at the steaming mug, and a portion of his brain was devoted to planning brunch when he got home. You’re in danger, Jon tried to convince himself, Please act like it.

He supposed it was just hard to make himself believe it, not when he always felt like the true danger lurked in the forest. The village’s dangers were more covert. Besides, this office might have been the least intimidating place he had ever been in. There was a map of the world posted to the wall and paper scattered across the desk.

If there was any danger to be found, Jon figured, it was the man sitting across the desk. Elias hadn’t grown horns in the past five minutes (and, in Jon’s estimation, horned people were actually quite nice), but there was something about him that gave Jon pause.

“I really did underestimate you, Jon,” Elias returned with a smile. “I genuinely thought that would be the end of it. But, no. I tell you to leave it, and you run into the forest. And find Blackwood Castle, no less.”

“I …” He wanted to refute it. Christ, he wished he were better at lying.

The smile only grew. “Come now, Jon. Where else would the letter from Prince Lukas have come from?”

Couldn’t argue that. Jon cleared his throat and tried his best. “It’s Prince Magnus, Elias,” he said. “All the monsters in the forest, and … and us, too. We’re tied to him. I don’t know why, but it prevents us from leaving the village.”

“Clearly not.”

“I can go for a bit, but not long. Not without …” His fingers went to gesture at his head. “Doesn’t this alarm you at all?”

Elias’ head cocked to the side in thought, both hands pressing together on his desk. “It wasn’t something I ever intended you to know.”

The penny dropped. “You knew?”

“I know. You don’t.” Elias sighed. “I really wish you had stayed in the village, Jon. You place your trust in the most peculiar of places. A letter from Prince Lukas could have been altered, faked – you trust a document you found in a witch’s castle?”

“There wasn’t any reason not to. She could hardly have expected me to go rummaging.”

“Perhaps, but she must have, because that letter is a forgery. Prince Lukas is not in the habit of writing to his lords and ladies. No, Jon, the villagers and the forest creatures are not tied to Prince Magnus,” he added with a teasing laugh.

No. Jon refused to be led like a dog on a lead. They were not going back to square one. “The monsters are still alive, Elias – “

“And they aren’t tied to Prince Magnus.” He unleashed a put-upon sigh. “Fine. I thought the answer was obvious, but you appear to be … somewhat addled. The monsters in the forest and the monsters in Blackwood Castle are one in the same, Jonathan. They will die when the last of the Blackwood line dies. I imagine it will also release the villagers from their hold."

That was enough to knock the breath out of him. Jon found he couldn’t summon another word.

“Lady Blackwood was an evil woman, Jon. A witch. She made mockery of the very rules of existence to create her own monsters – and tied their lives to whoever was closest to her, damning her son in the process. If you’d like my theory, I imagine the villagers were collateral damage.” He looked at Jon over the top of his own glasses. “Not the first collateral, I’ve heard. A castle full of ghosts.”

Jon blinked. The only question that occurred to him, in that moment, was not for anyone’s safety but Martin Blackwood’s. “Does he know?”

“Of course he does,” Elias said with a hint of impatience. “Was he a charismatic host, Jon? I imagine he was. It must have taken some amount of hospitality for you to trust a monster in a witch’s castle.”

“He’s not –”

“He killed most of his staff.” The words came out of Elias easily. “Has he ever said? The entire Blackwood line is rotted through. I thought you’d have more sense than that, with your rampant paranoia over feeling watched. Don’t tell me … oh, Jon. You really ought to read less. Far too many ideas in your head about noble beasts. ”

If it hadn’t been for the quip about books towards the end, Jon knew that he’d have leapt to Martin’s defense – possibly for his own detriment. There were no cracks in Elias’ armor here; he was not proving a point, he was providing information. But …

But Jon didn’t want to seem like a twitterpated idiot in front of Elias, not again, not if the village already believed he was one. He tried to compose his face again.

“And what if all that is true? What’s Mar--” No. “What’s Lord Blackwood meant to do about it?”

“Kill himself, if he were honourable. Free the villagers from their hold and ensure none of the monsters in the forest ever eat their fill again.”

The very thought. His eyes felt about as wide as dinnerplates. Jon wondered if they’re bulging as much.

“You see why I try and keep this quiet, don’t you? If the villagers knew … well, I daresay we’d have a hunt on our hands. A mob. Wouldn’t you, against your jailer?”

He didn’t know how to answer that. His head was spinning. “He’s kind to me,” Jon muttered, and he didn’t know why he said it, it just felt – he wanted to banish the picture from his head.

“Perhaps bored. Wouldn’t you be? Perhaps he’s trying to break the curse for himself.”

His head shot up. “Break the curse?”

“Ah, I shouldn’t say.”

“How would you know?”

Elias’ smile grew a little wider. “When I was appointed here, Lord Magnus was very thorough in his documentation. He wanted me to know as much as he did about the … unfortunate aberration we have living in the west.

Aberration.

Jon didn’t know what to say to that. An aberration. No, Martin was not an aberration. Martin was his friend, wasn’t he? But – but why would Elias lie –?

“It’s best that I caught you when I did,” Elias continued. “The amount of bodice-ripping faff you read? No doubt that you’d convince yourself in love, and then that would be it. The only benefit to this Blackwood situation is that he’s more-or-less contained to his castle.”

He was scarcely listening. One word leapt out at Jon, and he latched onto it. “In love?”

“I suppose he wouldn’t have trusted you with this, no. If someone were to love a beast,” he repeated with an air of dramatique, “Then the curse would be broken. For Blackwood, at least. Pity about the rest of the people tied to his life.”

Love a beast, love a beast, love –

Jon needed to be out of this office. Jon needed to be out of this office right now. He didn’t know what else was going on in his brain, but it hurt, and he couldn’t continue this conversation. Feeling his fingers start to shake, Jon shoved them in his pockets.

“Don’t return to Blackwood Castle, no matter where your curiosity pulls you.” Far from his lightly teasing demeanor, there was nothing but disciplinarian in Elias Bouchard right then. He might as well have been wagging a finger at him. “For your own safety – and that of the village. Do you think they wouldn’t catch on, eventually? And I certainly couldn’t stop them from heading out to the castle of their own volition – how much danger they’d be in.”

His tongue had frozen in his mouth. Jon could imagine it, actually, and he didn’t want to – either for the villagers or Martin.

“Go on, then. Think on this. And be grateful that you escaped the castle from your life.” Elias turned from the desk, then, gathering a few papers in his grasp. So swamped with work, his posture said, terrible much to be doing. “I’ve heard the castle dungeons are something to be feared.”

He didn’t worry about his own dignity, and he certainly didn’t worry about returning the farewell. Instead, Jon stood up from his chair and bolted back to the comfort and dignity of his empty bookshop.

***

Two days passed before Jon came to a decision, but five days passed before he could leave the village again.

At first, Jon could scarcely wrap his mind around it. He knew Elias might have been lying – but as soon as he latched on to that thought, Jon’s brain whipped around to bite itself. Why did he think Elias was be lying? In many ways, Elias was one of the few who had been straightforwardly truthful. He had confirmed Jon’s lifelong suspicion that everyone in the village thought he was a freak, didn’t he?

But – to think that Martin might have been aware of his life force being tied to the monsters, the villagers … people had died. Surely Martin couldn’t know. Surely that was jut not true.

Then again, Jon figured, how easy would it be? To just sit in one’s castle, unawares.

And this falling in love breaks the curse business. Jon tried not to focus too much on that, but it swooped in on him nevertheless.

He wasn’t in love with Martin. He didn’t think.

If I can just make myself –

Things would be a lot easier if –

It’ll just be speeding things along, really –

Each thought was snipped short with a pair of pruning shears. That wouldn’t help anyone. Well, it would help Martin, but he couldn’t do anything about it, and the more Jon thought of love, the farther it eluded him.

… Even if Elias was telling the truth, and Martin was the reason he was trapped here and people had gone missing and monsters roamed the land …

Jon couldn’t bring himself to feel angry about that, not really. What a truly horrific situation to be in, but he didn’t blame Martin for it – nor did he blame Martin for any of the staff death, either. He couldn’t even blame Martin for the dead roses.

If there was any anger to be had, it was in the idea that Martin might not have been truthful with him. He just wanted to know.

Which is how he came to the conclusion that he’d confront Martin himself and get his answers. Perhaps it was foolish, perhaps it was sense, but he trusted Martin more than he did Elias. He wanted to believe that if he came with an armload of suspicion, Martin would answer him.

(Besides, Jon thought guiltily at about four in the morning, if he wanted to hurt me, or lock me up, or kill me … he probably would’ve done it before I talked to him for six hours about moat design.)

With that out of the way, Jon tried for his usual. He got up before the sunrise, packed his bag, and went to the village gates.

I see you.

The thought came unbidden to his head, so quickly that it was gone before Jon could seize it. Its aftereffect remained. Christ, he always felt watched in the village, but this – Jon turned around to look around him, certain that Elias Bouchard’s eyes were locked on the back of his neck.

Nobody was there. In the pre-dawn hours, nobody was wandering outside the village. He saw the bridge cross over the river, he saw closed doors, he saw …

A window with the blinds open. Against the pane, he saw someone. A man. Jon couldn’t recognize him at that distance, nor did he know whose house it belonged to. The man wore a long sleeping gown and a neutral expression. What Jon could tell, though, were his eyes. Even from this impossible distance, they glinted at him.

How? Who?

He stood at the front of the gate, breath puffing out in front of him. In that moment, he was certain of one thing – no matter who that figure at the window was, they were going to inform Elias Bouchard at the soonest opportunity.

It was hard to pick at that certainty, discover what lied underneath, but nevertheless Jon couldn’t not believe it.

Jon waited ten minutes, self-consciousness prickling at the back of his neck, but the figure at the window didn’t move. Eventually, Jon lost the staring contest.

He left.

Five days passed and Jon hadn’t been so frustrated in an age.

It was never the same person. At least, Jon didn’t think. Someone was always staring at him just as he planned his escape from one of the several gates (or, on one intrepid night, planned on scaling the wall). Different homes, different alleyways. Once, Jon thought he had finally managed it, only to look at the church belltower and see a dark figure staring down at him, framed against the sunrise-streaked sky.

The quiet fear gave way to pissy frustration. Jesus. Couldn’t a man find his not-quite-a-friend-not-quite-a-lover in peace?

He knew he could confront them, and the thought occurred to him more than once. Jon just didn’t know what to say. Something was just wrong here. One person dogging his movements, he could understand. Ten different people, watching him at sunrise and sunset?

That was … something else. That was something that made the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

On the fifth day, Jon stomped back to his bookshop at sunset to sulk. This strange imprisonment only made him want to return to Castle Blackwood more – the knowledge that someone really, really didn’t want him to speak to Martin.

The idea came to Jon an hour or so after sunset, a full week after he’d last seen Martin. It was not one that really filled him with much confidence.

He always tried to leave at sunrise or sunset to have light to mark his path. In the dead of night, Jon could scarcely see anything in the village, much less in the forest. The darkness always seemed thicker than he expected. Even the moonlight glinting off Father Rayner’s churchbell didn’t shine as it should have.

And if he couldn’t see anything, nobody could see him.

The villagers … or what lied in the forest.

God.

He was going to find Martin, and he was going to embrace him, and it was all going to be very lovely, and the idea gave him enough strength to start packing his bag for a night journey.

A knife. A lantern, to be lit well outside the village gates. The usual assortment. Jon tied his bag tight, put on his sturdiest hiking gear, and tried to ignore the feeling of spiders crawling up his neck. Feeling Ill, Jon wrote on his front door, and it was certainly not a lie.

Jon stumbled his way to the gate in the darkness, seeing nobody in the shadows. No eyes were on him now.

The forest seemed so much larger – the trees spanning stories above his head in jagged, unfriendly branches. He stocked a few maps of the forest, before. There was caves, valleys, mountains, the odd swamp bog or two … enough to support a wide variety of wildlife, mundane and supernatural. To think, he might very well meet his end at the jaws of a wolf.

Another wolf on his mind, though, as Jon reached the gate. He looked behind him. Even the hulking shadows of the village were dim. No eyes.

Jon took a deep breath, moved out of the gate, and strode out of the forest.

He didn’t last long before he’s diving to open his lantern and set it ablaze. Much less light than he was expecting … and he hadn’t expected the shadows at all. They danced all around him, taunting him as they flickered around the thick wood.

At least he could see the river, and it was much easier to move forward than to turn back. If I can just make it – a few hours, at most -

He wasn’t the praying sort, but Jon knew his rationales weren’t strictly mundane, either. Instead, he found himself quietly bartering – if the next two hours of my life can be perfectly safe and mundane, you can throw whatever horrors at me after. Just don’t let me die in the woods. Who was he begging? What was he offering? He didn’t know.

The river provided some sound, at least, and Jon grew accustomed to the globe of light emanating from his lantern. He pulled his cloak a little tighter around him. Maybe they’ll think you’re just a very small bear, Jon. No, something sleeker. A walking otter. A seal. Damn, why are you the one at the center of all this?

It was only as Jon threatened to fall back into his thoughts that he felt someone’s eyes on him.

Jon reflexively gasped. All the way from the village? He raised the lantern, and …

A pair of eyes loomed at him from the darkness, between the trees.

Oh no. Oh no, oh no – “H-hello?” Jon blurted, raising the lantern a little higher, showing his face. I’m no threat, I’m no threat, look at me, I’ve got my knife stowed under my cloak, please –

The figure continued to stare. The eyes were green, shining like emeralds in the darkness. He saw it step forward, rest its hand on the bark of the nearest tree, and …

And its figure grew no lighter, even when illuminated by the lantern. A man made of shadow, staring at him so intently with green eyes. Jon looked down to see that its feet made no impressions on the ground … actually, its feet seeed to hover an inch or two above the dirt.

Behind it, another pair of eyes open. Green. Identical.

He was off.

Fighting didn’t even blip in Jon’s mind – and why would it? Monsters made of shadow – if Martin was a monster, and Jon would take severe umbrage with the term, then at least he was made out of flesh and fur. A passing terrified thought flit through him: it was deeply unfair that those shadow beings could draw blood, but couldn’t have blood drawn on themselves.

Hardly matters, what did Jon know of using a knife? He was sprinting as fast as he could along the river. Behind him, he heared the splash of those creatures in the water. He didn’t look behind him. Even as he sprinted, he saw more eyes open up in the shadows. His lantern spun wildly in his hand, throwing all sorts of shadows in his face.

Jon didn’t know how far along he was. Too hard to tell in the dark. But for his sake, he hoped he was close.

He sprinted as fast as he could, muscles protesting in his legs. Those figures made sounds behind him. It was a persistent buzz, a hundred bees at once, and it was enough to obliterate any logical chain of thought in his head. He had never felt closer to a rabbit.

Jon almost missed the dirt path leading away from the river, practically having to jump and turn on one foot to make it. He shoved down the spurt of blind fear – don’t run into the forest! Don’t run between the trees!

Really, he had no choice. The bzzzzz persisted (was the wind ruffling his hair, or the vibrations?) as he sprinted along the path, no longer bothering to mind his pace. Jon just moved forward with aching limbs as Castle Blackwood rose in front of him, all dark metal and stone. It was home, it was love, but most importantly, it was the place where buzzing shadowmen were not.

Jon had never been more grateful to see the gate open. It felt like beetles were crawling up his back, felt like the buzzing was infecting his very lungs, and –

A thundering roar greeted him.

Oh, I love you.

He didn’t know whether Martin had simply been lingering by the front door or had seen him through one of the windows. It scarcely mattered. As Jon made for the front door, he saw Martin make a mighty leap over the portico, over his head, and land with a soft, cat-like thump in the courtyard.

On all fours, Martin sprinted for the front gate.

The only other time Jon had seen Martin run like that was during their first meeting, and frankly, fear clouded over that memory. He was fast, and big, and if Jon hadn’t seen him carefully slow-blink at a cat before, Jon supposed he might even be scared of him.

Quite the opposite now, actually. Jon was scared for him.

He turned on his heel.

Martin stopped on the threshold of the gate. Beyond the gate was much too far to see, and it wasn’t as if the monsters actually stood out. He watched Martin stand back up on two legs, claws outstretched in front of him, and howl.

A few winged creatures (owls? Bats? With Jon’s fortune, tiny mothmen) flew out from the forest at the sound.

“Get out!” Martin snarled. “Stay away!” Jon could barely understand the words, forced through his growling muzzle, but the intent was well clear.

A second passed, two. Martin didn’t move from his spot, and no creatures came to attack him.

Something clicked into place in Jon’s mind.

As soon as Martin took a step forward outside of the gate, Jon’s hand shot out in front of him. He was still twenty feet behind Martin. “Martin!” Jon bellowed out. “Don’t!”

Martin didn’t take another step. At Jon’s voice, he turned around to face him. His shoulders were still hunched up near his ears; even in the dim light, Jon could see the glint of his claws against the moonlight. Smoldering red eyes dug into him.

It didn’t take Jon much longer to approach. Here, he could see the battlefield. No shadow creatures approached the gate, or even the clearing in front of the gate. Green eyes stared at him from the treeline.

A dozen. No, more than a dozen. He could see a few more glittering behind. They didn’t venture further. Jon didn’t know if these things could feel fear, exactly, but … he doubted it.

“This isn’t their territory,” Jon muttered with a start of realization. “This isn’t Prince Magnus’ territory, your castle. They can’t come here.”

His existing suspicion of Bouchard grew. Why would a man on Lukas’ land have power over creatures on Magnus’? Blackwood Castle seemed, now more than ever, an island adrift from the chaos and terror of his own village and surrounding forest.

Lying, perhaps, to make him blame Martin? To keep him away from Blackwood Castle? To prevent him from telling the village that it was Prince Magnus’ fault that they’re watched, stalked, and killed?

But – lord. To go up against a prince ...

Martin stared at the forest for a few moments longer. Some of the fur on his shoulders settled back down.

“Martin, I –“

It was not so much that Martin interrupted him.

It was just that he was getting sniffed, and Jon didn’t know how to react to that. Martin snuffled along his head and then his neck, paws gripping his shoulders. When Martin pulled away, Jon was aware that part of his hair was sticking up.

“What did you smell?’ Jon asked, genuinely curious.

Martin’s mind was somewhere else. “What were you thinking –” His voice was tight, high, shrill. There was no real anger in there – if anything, Martin sounded close to tears. “Middle of the night, those things were following you, and – and what if you – I mean – Jon –“

God, he missed him. As Martin cut himself off (with a worried, harumphy sigh), Jon just reached up to take his shoulders.

“I’m okay,” he reassured, and he was. That hike might’ve taken a few years off his life, sure, but he felt safer here than he’d ever felt in the village. “We have to talk.”

Martin practically vibrated under his hands.

Something’s wrong.

“I don’t think you’re safe here,” Martin confessed.

Chapter Text

Martin waited for it. For close to a week, he waited for the wave to come in. He waited to feel like Jon had abandoned him for good, waited to hyper-analyze every past word, every interaction from their previous night. He waited to feel like he had finally lost a friend and, for that matter, a man he was besotted with.

It didn’t come. Not as much as he expected, anyway. Sometimes he felt it creeping in, just before he fell asleep, little whispering thoughts of what if you made him uncomfortable or what if he finally had enough of everything.

Except –

Leaving all at once wasn’t Jon’s style, was it? Certainly not with a note that said he’d be back soon. Jon was the bravest man he’d ever met, no contest, and definitely one of the kindest. If Jon had a problem with him, he’d say as much.

He’d at least say goodbye, for good.

So, no. Martin didn’t think it was his fault that Jon was gone for a week. What filled in his brain was arguably a bit worse.

Something’s wrong thumped against Martin’s skull for days. Something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s wrong.

He’d gotten eaten by a monster. He’d gotten eaten by a wolf. He’d fallen into the river and drowned. He’d developed a violent, sudden, fatal disease. He’d gotten hurt in the village. Someone hurt him. Someone hurt Jon to get to him.

Martin didn’t know how rational any of these are, but they still kept him from thinking of anything else. It was still a few days before he ventured into the wood, looking for answers.

He didn’t do anything rash, like go into the village. Proper way to get an arrow sent through his chest, Martin thought. Still, he ventured out, far past from where he usually left Jon, looking for answers. Signs. Anything. After all, Jon told him stories of people getting snatched up by creatures of the forest. Who said Jon wasn’t the next one in line?

Martin got closer than he ought.

“Someone saw me,” he finally confessed when they left the courtyard and headed back into the castle. He held a tea cup ever-so-gently between his claws. Jon’s jaw dropped at the admission. “I don’t know. A trading caravan, I think. They started to panic, I ran.”

“Did they try and go after you?” Jon put his own mug to the side, reaching for Martin’s knee. “Hurt you?”

“They had a bow.” Martin remembered the whizz of an arrow, but it went far. “And I think they chased me for a bit, not long. But they might go looking for me, they might …”

Mob. Martin didn’t like to think of it. He didn’t know how likely it was. Some part of him, some awful little part, said that people could be marching towards the castle right now with pitchforks and torches.

“They don’t know where you live, that Blackwood Castle is here. It’s dangerous.”

“You figured it out.”

Jon bit the inside of his cheek. “There was a story around the village growing up about a witch in a castle, but it was – it was an old urban legend, Martin. I might be the only person who took it seriously.”

A witch in a castle. Well, none of those words were wrong. “Well …” he considered, and then added with nothing less than genuine earnestness, “You are brilliant. Maybe they won’t figure it out.”

Coughing, Jon broke eye contact to look at the fire.

Right, okay. Martin tried to shove it to the back of his head. After all, Jon just ran here in the dark and nearly got eaten. It was not hard to keep his worry internal, but it still festered there. Jon could’ve died. Martin spent the past week worried about Jon being dead and Jon could’ve died on the way over here, smelling like fear.

All that told him Jon had a very good reason to be here. “What happened?” Martin asked finally.

“Got back to the village. Elias Bouchard drew me into … a meeting.” Despite the danger being over, there was still a tightness to Jon’s features. He was fiddling with his bookshop apron. “He knows I’ve been coming here. He’s not keen. Warned me against coming here again. Lied to me about you, said that you were the one who held control over the monsters and the villagers.”

“I don’t –”

“I know.” Martin wondered how Jon could be so confident, but there was no denying the look on his face. Hell, even Martin had to consider whether his mother would put that kind of burden on him without telling anyone. She would, sure, but Martin also didn’t think she’d go to that kind of effort on him. The live-as-a-beast-forever thing was sort of enough. “I still believe that Prince Magnus has that control. But he knows a lot about you, Martin, and your situation. I don’t know …”

“What does he know?” Martin asked, surprising himself at his own urgency. His situation. Surely he didn’t know the ‘exit clause’ in his curse. He hadn’t breathed that aloud to anyone. The mortification.

“He knows more than he has reason to.”

Ah! Great. Good. Reassuring. Martin’s tail curled around him, he felt his ears go flat against his head. Did Jon know? Surely Jon didn’t know. Jon would bring it up. Martin would die of shame if Jon brought it up.

Martin had to bite his tongue to not utter the phrase you don’t have to feel obligated to love me, I know you don’t, it’s okay, I like you anyway.

Not a conversation he really wanted to have.

“And people were watching me at the gates, at dawn and dusk. I don’t know if they were working for him, or if this was another bloody spell …” Jon heaved a sigh, shoulders practically flopping back into place. “Hence me coming at night.”

“Why did you come?” Martin didn’t want to sound ungrateful. “I’m glad you’re here, but you still can’t stay. You’ll get sick.”

Jon didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze traveled to the fire, and Martin saw how exhausted Jon was with all of this. The dim glow was reflecting off all the wrinkles in his face, the bags underneath his eyes. I wish you could just run your bookshop. No monsters, no magic.

“You lived with a witch.” Jon turned to him. “And all of this, your curse and the curse on the village – it’s magic. And, I’m not, I haven’t got any … I haven’t got any magic ability. But I can at least try to understand, can’t I?”

Oh.

The smile Jon gave him was exhausted and hopeful. “I’m really hoping you’ve got some books of that sort lying around.”

Well. “We do, but …” A pause. “It’s dangerous.”

Jon snorted so violently that he had to clap his hands over his face. Something cracked in the dam, and then Jon was giggling at him, shaking his head at himself as he tried to stop. He couldn’t.

Martin didn’t quite feel up to laughing. He was mostly just worried, and he wanted to hug Jon. He had the smallest primal urge to start grooming Jon’s hair with his tongue, but he didn’t think that was very polite.

“I’m afraid that I’ll have to take the risk. I’m not flush with options, exactly.”

No, Martin supposed that they weren’t. And as options went … he’d protect Jon from his own bloody castle. Yes, he felt bad for the ghosts, but if any of them hurt Jon (and they hadn’t, not so far, but these ones were real goddamn cantankerous), he’d burn the castle down and go hibernate in the woods.

Probably not. But he would be quite upset, actually.

“We’ll take the risk. At least they’re more predictable than whatever the fuck was out there,” Martin grumbled, gesturing out towards the courtyard. He wasn’t even sure what was coming after Jon, exactly. They buzzed in a way that hurt his ears.

When he looked back towards Jon, though, Jon was looking at him with such fondness. His ears drooped – this time in self-consciousness. “What?”

“I missed you.”

Oh. Christ, he had a furnace going in his chest, and – oh fuck, oh no, he was purring. That was so embarrassing. He tried to hold his breath to no avail.

“I think I’d stay here forever if I could,” Jon admitted, almost as an afterthought. “Seriously, you don’t know how tempting it is. Just to consign the whole mess to hell and stay here, out in the woods, with you.”

Martin wanted that. The idea of Jon puttering around made this whole great bloody castle seem a lot less lonely. You’d like it here, Martin wanted to insist. There’s so many books, and plenty of ghosts to talk to, and nobody will ever think you’re mad.

Useless point, because Jon couldn’t stay here – and for that matter, Martin suspected that he wouldn’t, even if he could. He might not have been the most beloved man in the village, but he cared about them.

“If you’d have me, of course.” There was that beautiful crinkling of the nose. “Bit rude, isn’t it? A house guest offering to make themselves permanent.”

“You’re more than a house guest.” How could he even begin to explain what Jon meant to him? Jon might not have been the guy to break the curse, sure, but that curse was rigged against him from the start. Jon was still the man who changed everything for him. “I’d want you to stay, too. I –”

I love you.

But the curse wasn’t about who he loved, was it? He could love people all bloody day, didn’t make him any more lovable.

“I hope everything turns out. Maybe we’ll figure out a way to make this easier on you after,” he suggested. It felt so far off as to be practically intangible, but it was nice to imagine. Martin remembered (pretty much hourly) falling asleep on Jon, the way Jon’s arms wrapped around him so tightly, the way the world shrank to a tiny little warm cocoon.

Jon chuckled. “Yes, maybe. Come on, then. Let’s go learn about magic, shall we?”

Ah. Right. Fuck. They had to go to the place that hated him the worst.

Martin reached for one of the plump pillows on the couch and pressed it against Jon’s chest. “Put this over your head,” he said. When Jon’s face twisted, like he was expecting some sort of joke, Martin doubled down. “I’m serious, you’ll thank me later.”

***

Of course it was the best library that got haunted. Martin tried not to be miffed about that. Made sense, really. This was the only library in the castle that had assistants attached to it, to keep the books tidy and find books that mum wanted.

His mum always warned him out by saying that the books would eat him, or that he’d crack one open and turn into a chicken.

That was enough to keep Martin away from the books, sure, but it hadn’t been enough to keep him away from the library. Martin recalled sneaking into the grand old place in the middle of the night, marveling at the bookshelves. They stretched from floor to ceiling, two stories tall. Comfortable couches and chairs littered the carpet, a fireplace, a little kitchenette in the back to make tea.

It was also where the family portrait was kept. Martin was never too keen on that. Because of family trauma reasons, sure, but he also looked like Little Fucking Lord Fauntleroy in it.

The assistants were a little blurry in his mind. A mum and her son, he thought. He remembered talking with the son a fair bit, he never snitched to Martin’s mother about Martin sneaking in.

Always made Martin feel a little guilty, knowing they never left. Even if he thought they were a bit much about it, he couldn’t blame them. He’d be frustrated, too.

Jon trailed behind him, clutching the pillow on top of his head. He still had a look on his face like he wasn’t quite sure if Martin was teasing him. Martin wasn’t. “Just let me go first, okay?” At Jon’s look, Martin sighed. “This isn’t, like, a bravado thing or whatever.”

“I didn’t think it was a bravado thing,” Jon protested from below the pillow. Oh. “I’m just concerned that you don’t have a pillow.”

“I’ve got horns.” Pointy ones!

As Martin turned to face the door, he heard Jon mimic from below the pillow in a high-pitched voice, “I’ve got horns.”

Wank. He put both hands on the sturdy door and pushed through. The library stretched before him. Martin suspected it was the most opulent one in the entire kingdom. Or used to be.

The bookshelves were half-empty at this point, with windows that once looked onto a pleasant garden (now a cemetery filled with thick, pointed vines). A sweeping grand staircase led visitors onto the second floor, where they would find –

A book flew through the air. The stiff edge of the spine struck him in the nose. Something crunched.

“Ow!” Martin’s paw went to his nose, pressing against it. He didn’t think it was broken (he wasn’t actually sure of his anatomy anymore, but it didn’t feel broken), but blood immediately started to flow out. Great. Fantastic. This was why he insisted on the pillow. “Motherf –”

“Now, look here!”

To his horror, Jon threw the pillow to the ground. He stomped forward in front of Martin, fierce determination in his eyes. Fierce determination was nice and all, of course, but Martin wasn’t sure how much that could stop a leatherbound almanac of magical treatises.

In front of Jon, books floated in the air. There was no rhyme or reason to it. Books slid off shelves. Some floated to other gaps, others were tossed helplessly through the air to land on the floor. Piles of books, half-ruined, collected in large piles. Something dripped from the ceiling. It was a terribly sad sight, Martin thought.

“Jon –” He tried to get out thickly, taking a step forward, but Jon was already going off.

“I understand you’re angry. You have every reason to be. Your employer cursed you into a life of torment, and you weren’t even her primary target. It’s despicable, and I can understand why you might want to make yourself known.” Jon waved his hand towards Martin. “And I can understand why you’d be angry at him, but you’ve got to realize that he’s cursed, too.”

A heavy book slid off the shelf. It meandered its way over, as if the carrier was having a hard time with the weight. Martin fought down the call of alarm in the back of his throat.

“Yes, yes, yes, I know he can walk around. Whether he has an easier time of things is irrelevant. He didn’t ask for this.”

I killed the roses.

“Furthermore,” Jon went on, staring the book dead in the spine. “If you continue to harass him, then I’ll be leaving. And I’m trying to fix things.” He waved his hand in a theatrical flourish, indicating – Martin knew – the entire world. “The forest. My village. And here, too, if I can. If I can …” He looked over his shoulder at Martin, and –

He knows.

No. No, that was silly. He couldn’t assume that from a look.

Jon puffed out his chest a little and turned back around to face the book. “I want to help you. If you’re not going to assist me here, then please refrain from hurting Martin.”

Everything stilled for a second. The book stilled in the air. Jon didn’t break eye contact.

The book lunged forward.

It was only stopped by a collision by another volume – smaller, but thrown at such high velocity that it completely knocked the leatherbound book from its path. Both books tumbled to the floor, their covers half-ripped off.

In front of him, he saw Jon finally exhale. He was trying not to hyperventilate, himself. Jesus fuck. What does that mean?

And then, from somewhere else in the library, he heared another book slide off the shelf. It hovered between the bookshelves in the center of the room, gliding almost elegantly towards the pair. When it finally stopped in front of Jon, both men could read the title clearly.

A COMPENDIUM OF CURSES

The cover lifted open and the pages ruffled in front of Jon. Jon took this as a hint and pulled the book out of the air, taking it between his hands.

No more books shifted from the shelves.

“Well,” Jon considered, “Thank you.”

Martin didn’t think it was possible to be any more in love. He had blood pouring out of his nose (wow, he got a lot of it) and he just watched Jon talk down a ghost. Possibly two ghosts. Jon examined the book carefully and ran a hand along the green cloth surface, almost tender.

When Jon turned to look at him, he winced. “I – ah, right,” he said, tucking the book underneath his arm. “Let’s get that taken care of, why don’t we?”

***

The bleeding stopped eventually. Martin didn’t pitch the blood-stained towel in his hands just yet. Instead, he curled up with Jon on the couch as Jon paged through the compendium. Martin caught a glance of it, here and there, but none of it made much sense to him.

Magic was a bit of an odd thing. Even with his mother’s talent in it, Martin didn’t actually know loads about magic. He had a very vivid memory of asking his mother as a young child whether he could do magic someday. His mother had replied that only very clever boys could do magic, and Martin didn’t have any sense in him.

So what could you do.

It never bothered him much, maybe because he never really saw his mother use it. Everyone’s parents had odd hobbies, Martin supposed, and he always remembered being much more keen on learning to sew than he was learning to grow pretty roses.

Hindsight was 20/20.

Jon leaned against his side as he paged through, Martin’s arm curled around him. He first told himself that it was to keep Jon safe in case the book ghosts changed their minds … but now, he knew he just liked having it there. Jon seemed just as keen to lean against his chest as Martin relaxed for the first time that night.

“Ah,” Jon breathed next to him, and Martin looked down.

Picture infographics. That was more Martin’s style. The page before him read ‘The Power of Curses’, along with a series of pictures beneath. Blurry. Good, his glasses were in another part of the castle.

“Anything interesting?”

“Um, well,” Jon considered. “It’s to discuss where curses draw their powers from. Basically …” The gears ticked away. He liked hearing Jon think. “Unlike other spells, that draw upon a variety of sources – innate skill, components, divine right by gods, whatever – curses come from a place of strong emotion. Whether you experience it yourself or whether it occurs in your area of power. Unfortunately, strong emotion also makes magic quite unpredictable. That’s why it causes collateral damage.”

“Hm.”

“Martin, might want to take a look at this.”

In front of him, Jon held the book up an appropriate distance from his face. He squinted as the pictures came into (admittedly blurry) focus.

His eyes were first drawn to an illustration of a spider. Awful, nasty hairy thing. Why it had a silly little smiley face on the head of it, Martin didn’t know. Underneath, a single word was written in elegant script.

FEAR

Okay. Okay, he could understand that. He had done plenty of dumb things when he’d been scared. He’d bitten people when scared.

Next to the spider was a picture of a rose.

It was a beautiful illustration, Martin had to admit, even if the sight of roses made him a bit ill – especially these days. The rose was visibly wilted in the greenhouse, once vibrant petals drooping as if wet. Martin tried not to think about it, he really did, because … because what could he do?

Now, Martin drooped himself, practically melting against Jon’s side.

LOVE was written underneath the rose.

Martin knew it didn’t mean anything concrete. It was just a picture in a book, one his mother might not have even read. And yet ...

Well. There was proof, wasn’t it? His mum loved her roses, and she’d been the angriest he’d ever seen her when she came across the dead ones.

Did he really need a book to tell him that his mother loved her flowers more than she loved him?

Love made the curse, and love was the only thing that could get him out.

Great.

He felt an arm wrap around his back as Jon settled close. Martin appreciated the touch. He squinted to look at the rest of the images. Greed (accompanied by a fistful of jewels), hatred (accompanied by a knife), sadness (accompanied by a single teardrop) …

“Not a comprehensive list,” Jon finally said. His voice was delicate, like he was afraid his words might shatter Martin. “But I’m inclined to believe it’s fear, for the curse on the village. Hard to put it into words, but that’s – when I wake up every morning, you can feel it in the air. Fear about what lurks outside, fear about who’s going to go next. It must be very powerful.”

“Okay.” He didn’t know enough to refute that, and it sounded right. Helped to keep him from thinking of the rose, anyway. “Does it say anything about how to stop it?”

“Only the bearer of the curse can stop it.” Jon seemed confident in that regard. He tilted his head against Martin’s chest. Thump-thump-thump-thump. “And it takes an equal amount of emotion to put an end to the curse. Beyond that, it seems to be a matter of volition.” He paused. “Free will.”

Uh.

At the very least, it did shake Martin out of rose-related thoughts. He blinked, certain he was misunderstanding. “What does that mean?”

“It means Prince Magnus can stop the curse whenever he likes, given appropriate emotion.”

Jon’s eyes were cast down at the floor, blank.

Of course he wasn’t understanding. He was an idiot, he had always been, there was something that made sense here. “Maybe he doesn’t know how?” Martin suggested. “I mean, if you told me I had to end a curse –” Hah. Very funny. He loved Jon well enough, and the curse hadn’t ended, is it? Maybe he wouldn’t ever love Jon like his mother did her roses. “Like, do I snap my fingers, or …?”

“Even if he doesn’t know,” Jon’s voice was careful, guarded. “He’s the most powerful figure in the kingdom. If he wanted to stop it, he would find a way.”

“So –” Martin didn’t want to come to the end conclusion. He struggled. “So –”

“So he doesn’t want to.”

Okay. That was a lot. He breathed out. “So …”

“So I don’t know.”

“So I go to the castle and bite his head off.”

That made Jon chuckle, at least, even if it was thoroughly forlorn.

(He was pretty sure that he would, if Jon wanted him to. Not necessarily because he was besotted, but because … well, if he could count the rest of his life in falling petals, then what the hell? Might as well go out trying to bite the head off a king.)

“I don’t know. I … I think I need some time to think about it. I was hoping for some easy fix, some button,” Jon practically spat out the word, “But if it were that easy, I suppose someone else would have done it.”

Oh, god damn it. Martin couldn’t help the whimper that escapes his snout. He wanted to help, but Jon didn’t need a nap or a cup of tea or a a hug – and Martin doubted Jon would appreciate him bringing in a dead deer, so that was about the end for what he knows how to do.

“I’ll think on it,” Jon repeated firmly, and his eyes traveled from the book up the grand staircase. “Is – foolish question, Martin, but … is that you?”

Martin looked up at the grand staircase at that massive old grand painting.

He never liked it. It’s embarrassing.

The painting on the wall showcased three individuals. Martin’s eyes were drawn to the littlest one. It showed a pudgy boy, maybe eight or nine, with curly brown hair. He was dressed in noble attire and stared out with grey eyes, lips drawn in a stiff frown.

Martin destroyed all the actual portraits of him a few months after the curse. Smashed most of the mirrors, too (though there are still a few, hiding here and there. Martin wasn’t exactly systematic). Still, he hadn’t forgotten what he looked like.

He had brown hair and gray eyes in the first year of his life, according to the staff, before things changed. For that matter, Martin couldn’t ever remember posing for a portrait.

A hand rested on Martin’s shoulder. The hand (as was typical) was attached to the rest of a human arm, which was attached to a human body, but the human body had no face. It might have, at one point, but a series of deep gouges marred where the face would have been.

Martin couldn’t tell anything about his father’s face, what he might’ve been like. He was tall, sure, and slender, but Martin always wanted to know what sort of expression the painter gave him. Jovial and outgoing? Shy and calm? A glimmer of evil, a glow of altruism? The child looked as most painted children did – innocent and vapid.

Next to Martin was his mother. She hadn’t physically changed for most of Martin’s life, not until she started getting really ill. Also tall, hair drawn back into a bun. Even with his father’s face missing, it was clear who commanded the attention in the portrait. Her lips were pressed together, and even then, she stared down at her ruined library. The little ghostly circus.

The Blackwoods.

“Sort of. It’s meant to be me, but it was painted right after I was born. Hair colour and eyes changed.” Martin swallowed. Had all the air gone out of the room, or was it just him? “W-when I was little, I used to sneak in here and look at it. I made-believe that it was actually my big brother, you know, and he was hiding somewhere in the castle. Made a name for him and a backstory and everything.”

He’d been hoping to lighten the tone, but he realized how pitiful that was as he spoke. Great. Good. Jon was going to give him a sad pat on the shoulder.

“Imaginative,” Jon quipped instead. “I imagine ten boys could hide in this castle and you’d be none the wiser. What’s the name of your fake brother?”

Martin snortsedat Jon’s response, some of the weight rising from his shoulders. Okay. “Nemo.”

“Oh! Jules Verne?”

“Yeah. Not like, the Captain Nemo, but … I don’t know, it’s just a name. Never ended up finding him. And after a while, you know …”

“Children grow up, and playing make-believe gets less fun.” The sigh Jon made was heavy, and Martin had to resist the urge to ask what made Jon stop playing make-believe. “Tale as old as time.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Martin realized how tired he felt, himself. Not the sort he’d take a nap for, but the weight of everything. A few months ago, he only had himself to worry about. He didn’t even have to walk upright if he wanted to.

And now … well, beyond the man he was in love with, the village in danger, the forest full of monsters, and the trapped staff? His rose was wilting. Martin didn’t know how much longer it’d take.

“I’m going to put the kettle on,” he rumbled, shifting away from Jon.

“Could …” Jon hesitated as Martin stood. When he looked up again, a deep V had formed between his eyebrows. “I’m sorry to ask. Would you mind giving me some space? I need to think about things. It’s not, I’m not,” he fumbled, and Martin understood exactly what he meant.

As much as he was fond of Jon, he liked his space, too. And he always felt like a proper berk trying to verbalize it.

“I completely understand.”

“Great.” Wetting his lips, Jon flashed him a relieved smile. “And – please don’t feel pressured, of course, but … do you have any tobacco?”

Chapter Text

Jon didn’t know if he had a favorite place in the castle. It was gorgeous, of course. Ornate, beautiful, rich in a way that he’d never experienced before. He liked the libraries, and dancing with Martin in the ballroom was something he’d always cherish. However …

Still a haunted, hateful old place, wasn’t it? If Martin wasn’t here, Jon couldn’t imagine he’d be inclined to come back. Maybe he would filch some books if necessary.

This was okay, though. Very okay.

They stood on the upper floor’s landing, staring across the courtyard. Jon noticed that the thorny vines had grown thicker in his absence, curling around the base of the castle like they were trying to suffocate the stone. And the thorns themselves! God, they might have been as long as his forearm.

He stood with a rolled cigarette between his fingers. Martin, bless him, had returned with wrapping papers and a pipe. Jon never smoked a pipe in his life and he was certainly not going to start now. Frankly, he’d been trying to ween himself off of cigarettes as it stood.

The sun was rising over the horizon. Jon could see the tops of trees in the forest. It was still cold. Martin, ever the caretaker, had thrown his own cloak around Jon’s shoulders, Jon’s own being somewhere in the library. Jon wasn’t sure if the material or the copious amounts of fur stuck in the lining is what made it warm, but he was grateful for it nevertheless.

Martin stood silently next to him. Anxiously quiet. Jon’s mind had been going a thousand miles a minute for the past few hours. It was slowing down; Jon figured that the utter exhaustion would hit him soon. He was already thinking fondly of the four poster bed. Was that what being rich was like?

“What’s the plan?” Martin finally asked like he’d been drawing up the courage in the past fifteen minutes.

Jon blew out a puff of smoke. Not bad tobacco. Er, quite old, though. “Well. As far as I can see, there’s only one option.” Hours of thinking hadn’t been enough to change his mind. “Go convince Prince Magnus to break the curse and hope for the best.”

Yes, that was about what he expected. Martin seemed to choke on his own tongue for a second before spluttering, “You’re sure?”

There was that exhaustion! Jon took another inhale of the cigarette and pulled the cloak tighter to him. “Prince Magnus is the only one who can end the curse,” he uttered bluntly. “If there’s some exit clause, like – like - “ He stumbled over his own words. “Like yours, then perhaps, yes, maybe. But we’ve got no way of discovering what it is. So I just have to go and discover it for myself.”

“Do you even know where his castle is? I mean, that’s got to be days travel away –”

“I know.”

“You’re going to get sick.”

“I know.” Jon was especially not pleased about that. He didn’t know how bad it would get. Enough to kill him? Possibly. Perhaps he would be fortunate, and Prince Magnus’ protection would extent to his castle. Somehow, he doubted it. “What other option is there, Martin? You certainly can’t go, they’ll use you as an arrow pincushion if you get within firing distance.”

Ah. Too vivid. Jon saw Martin wince. “You could stay here,” Martin insisted. “Not, like, here here, but we could keep doing what you’ve been doing. Damn what Elias says, you’re not breaking any laws by going into the forest. This isn’t your job.”

It was an oddly selfish thing to say. Throw everything to the wind, curl himself up in his bookshop, only to come out and see his love every now and then.

Jon couldn’t bring himself to be offended by the suggestion, though, not when Jon wanted to do that so badly. Christ, he was nobody’s knight in shining armor, and he certainly couldn’t save an entire village.

“Just sit in my shop,” Jon answered in a quiet, enunciated voice. “And watch people slowly die, taken by the forest. For the rest of my life.” A pause. “With you.”

Martin unconsciously growled. Jon thought he might’ve insulted him for a second, but – no, no. That was something deeper, almost like grief. He couldn’t pick at it right now. Instead, Jon lightly tapped his cigarette on the banister. “I’ve got to at least try, Martin. It’s lives at stake.”

His friend took a step closer to him. As many talents as Martin had, stealth wasn’t exactly one of them. His claws tip-tapped on the stone; Martin put a paw on his shoulder.

For god’s sake. He wasn’t used to this. If he’d made the plan on his own, he’d simply put everything in a bag and be done with it. Write a note on his front door, all would be well. Off to yell at a prince.

This, though? Jon couldn’t force himself to turn around and look at Martin, see his worried, caring eyes, and –

And he did it anyway. Hell. Jon looked at Martin and felt something inside him snap, because it was not a good plan and he knew it was not a good plan and he had to try something, even if that something might get him killed.

The tears came unbidden, crawling out of his eyes like they’d been hiding there. Jon mumbled a curse and used his free hand to smear across his sockets. It wasn’t even like he was worried about himself. He didn’t want to die, certainly not, and even if he did, there was plenty easier ways than going to confront a prince.

“Oh, Jon,” Martin murmured between pursed lips.

Jon made a noise.

That’s not taking a breath, Jon begged his brain, that sounds like you choked on your own trachea. Please. He looked away from Martin and tapped the rest of his cigarette out on the banister. An overwhelmed chuckle-sob escaped him. “All comes down to my, my persuasive abilities?” He scoffed. “Can’t imagine worse hands this could be in. I can hardly get people to listen to me.” And it felt pathetic, but really, the core of it was: “Like me, either.”

Sometimes Jon thought it was because of the giant spider he saw in the forest in his childhood. Sometimes he thought it was earlier than that. Sometimes he thought it was his own fault, locking himself away with books rather than learning to talk with people. Sometimes he tossed his hands in the air and said it didn’t matter why, it just was.

“I like you,” the beast rumbled by his side. Jon turned to face him again, tension rushing over him like a wave. Yes, of course you do, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intend – “I love you,” Martin corrected. He had taken his paw back from Jon’s shoulder and wrung both of his in front of his chest.

Oh.

Jon’s breath caught in his throat. He still had tears in the corner of his eyes, and it wasn’t like Martin’s confession was going to make them go away.

Unfortunately, Martin’s confession didn’t change anything in his plan. He still had to go confront Prince Magnus, and no amount of love in the world would fix it.

Then why did it feel like those words changed everything? Why did it make him so happy? Even up here, even in this situation, Jon was smiling. Christ. It was a brilliant feeling to be loved, to hear that he was loved, and by someone like Martin? Someone kind-hearted, someone that made him feel safe?

“I love you, too,” he returned, and –

And he hoped. Because that was the way these things went, wasn’t it? In all the stories. The confession of love, the big magical moment, et cetera et cetera. Jon scarcely saw a happily ever after in his future, but didn’t Martin deserve one? Didn’t Martin deserve more when Jon had to leave him behind?

Nothing happened, either way. Martin was still covered in fur, and fangs, and horns. Jon was not so optimistic as to think the curse was resolved by Martin learning to love his beastly self. This form was a reminder, more than anything else, of a hateful mother.

The seconds ticked into a minute. Why isn’t it working? Jon internally pleaded. Had he done something wrong? Did he not love Martin the right way? Was there something wrong with him? Christ, he thought he loved Martin, but if love was the key out of this, then was he – one time, Jon wanted to beg. Can it come easily to me one time?

Martin’s face made it worse. He looked heartbroken.

Jon wanted to apologize, but he certainly didn’t want Martin to know that he knew about the exit clause of his curse. Instead, they just stared at one another with the sun coming over the horizon.

“I should get some sleep,” he finally said, breaking eye contact. “I’ll head back to the village tomorrow. Pack properly, get my maps.”

He was grateful for an escape. Jon walked past Martin, sliding his hand across his shoulder. Martin didn’t move, didn’t even flinch at his touch. Jon didn’t quite know how long Martin waited out there on the landing, but by the time Jon vanished into the labyrinth hallways, Martin certainly hadn’t moved.

***

It was not the warmest departure they’d ever had.

Not cold, exactly, and Jon figured he had himself to blame as much as Martin. Martin insisted on accompanying him as close to the village as he could, especially with their leaving near sunset. Jon knew that Elias Bouchard might’ve had someone out there, watching for his return, but he found that he cared little. By the time the sun rose the next day, he intended to be gone.

They didn’t talk much. Jon’s boots kicked through the fallen leaves; the brook flowed lazily next to them. Martin followed along behind.

Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything at all.

But – he wanted Martin to know. Even if he didn’t love Martin the right way, even if he was not enough to break the curse, even if he was an erroneous hero –

He did love him.

In what seemed like an infuriatingly long walk, they finally came across the walls to the village. Martin’s steps had been more careful. Jon was keeping an eye out, too. That’d be just his luck, for someone to catch sight of Martin again.

He hoped they would leave him well enough alone. Let Martin spend his days in his castle. Maybe someone from the village would have an ounce of sense or decency and decide to befriend him like Jon did.

Christ, he hoped so. The idea of Martin puttering around the castle on his own again, without anyone in the world …

“I don’t think I should go any farther.”

“Yes. Best not.” Jon turned on his heel and faced Martin.

It didn’t look like Martin got much sleep last night, eyebags nearly purple against his fur. He looked down at the ground between them, lips pulled into a frown. His ears, tails, and whiskers all drooped, giving the appearance of a man ready to melt into the ground.

“I’ll probably spend the night in the village, leave at daybreak. Alone if I can’t find any caravans ready to head out, see if I can’t find anyone else along the trail.” It was much easier to talk about plans, wasn’t it?

“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good.” Martin turned to rummage in one of his pockets, withdrawing a large leather pouch. “Take this. It’s for you.”

God, rations! Had Martin packed him rations? He hadn’t even considered rations. Jon took the pouch from him and peered inside, only to see something glittering.

Oh. Oh, god. It was shiny relics, and jewelry, and what looked to be a large amount of gold coins. More than he’d ever seen in one place. Heart pounding, he looked up at Martin wordlessly.

“Look.” There was something impatient in his voice. “Please keep it, okay? It’s not like I need it, and you’re going to need some gold to get there, to stay in an inn, for medicine. It’s all I could think of to help.”

Jon couldn’t argue with any of that. He still felt awkward about taking it. Self-conscious, he cinched the bag shut. “Ah – thank you, Martin;.” It was not like the bookshop had made him flush with coin. He’d originally been planning to take his rarer books and pawning them when he got there.

“It’s seriously nothing. Glad someone’s using it. I – I’d give you anything else, if I thought it would help.”

Yes, Jon believed he would. He wished so fiercely in that moment for Martin to go with him. How nice would it be to travel with Martin, to face down Prince Magnus with company. Unfortunately, life hadn’t gone that way. He wasn’t sure how many people he’d encounter on the trail, but even one person would be a risk.

Still. He considered it, nevertheless.

“And – and I think you’re going to do it,” Martin went on. Jon’s attention snapped to him. “You’re an incredible man, Jon. That you’re even willing to do something like this …”

Please. Anyone would. People are in danger.

“I meant everything I said last night,” he finished, simply. “I always will.”

And Jon wanted to say that he meant everything, too. That he loved Martin, that he thought Martin truly was like nobody else …

But god, something was clearly wrong, wasn’t there? And it must have hurt Martin to hear it. Jon didn’t say a word.

Instead, he launched himself up to throw both arms around Martin’s neck.

It was almost comical, a little less than a two foot difference. Still, he managed. He wrapped his arms around Martin’s neck and Martin’s arms wrapped around his back in return. Jon was affectionately crushed against his chest. Most cozy hug he’d ever received, no competition, and the one he least wanted to pull away from.

And yet, Jon had things to be doing, and they were risking enough just by standing out here. Jon wiggled his way out of Martin’s grasp and landed with both feet on the ground. He realized with a start that Martin’s eyes were wet.

“Good luck, Jon,” Martin told him, brushing the tears away with the back of his paw. “Please be careful.”

“I will,” Jon promised, and Christ, if there was any chance of him coming back, he would. He would. “I will.”

***

Foolish to think he’d be getting any sleep that night. Jon had tried, but a few hours of tossing and turning had yielded little results. Should have expected as much.

Upon entering the village, he’d seen a pair of eyes watching him, but Elias hadn’t come knocking on his door. The watched sensation was still bitingly uncomfortable, even in the comfort of his own home. So, Jon got up, and Jon made a plan.

He marked up his maps as best as he could. He pulled together his satchel, folded up his best formalwear, and packed few books. Martin’s pouch was carefully stitched on the inner lining. Jon hadn’t exactly counted what was in it. He tried once, but all the glittering filled him with so much anxiety he couldn’t finish. It was a lot, and it was enough, and that was all he needed to know. Perhaps he could hire a coach to take him back to the village, when all was said and done.

He did end up packing some rations, dried bits of meat and cheese and bread. It was a few days’ walk to Prince Magnus’ castle, and he hoped it would be enough. Hunting had never been his cup of tea. After careful consideration, he packed along a book on foraging.

Jon didn’t worry that he’d be homesick for the village, really. Certainly, he might spare a few fond thoughts for his bookshop, but the person and place he missed most was already gone.

Finally, Jon decided that he had all he needed, and the satchel didn’t weigh him down overmuch.

He should get some sleep. He should at least try to get some sleep. Perhaps the couch in the front room of the shop would do. Jon had slept on it before. More than once, he used a book as a pillow. Surely …

Nope. What followed was another hour or so of fitful tossing and turning, twisted like a pretzel on the sofa. What he wouldn’t give to be curled up on a plush velvet sofa with Martin stretched out across him, purring rumbling in his ears.

By the time that Jon finally threw in the towel, he was certain that it must have been time to leave. It had to be dawn. He’d been on this couch for hours – resting his body at the very least, if not his mind.

The clock on the wall read a quarter before three in the morning.

Fantastic. Jon wondered if he ought to just brew coffee. He changed into his travel gear and found himself in the back of the shop, in the kitchen. There, a window looked over the forest, and …

And he could see a glow?

He wasn’t sure if it was faint or if the window just looked out at a bad angle, but he could definitely see a light outside somewhere. Jon blinked. Someone out at this hour? Someone else out at this hour?

Eyebrows furrowing together, Jon took his pack and headed outside. Certainly none of the hunters would be in the forest, not after hours. He crossed down the familiar cobblestone roads, towards the exterior gates, whereupon he heard …

Noise. People.

It was the great murmuring and grumbling of a few dozen voices, decently far-off in the forest. He only saw the shadowy silhouettes of them, framed by a few torches held aloft. Through the torches’ illumination, he could see other items: shortswords, clubs, even a pitchfork from one of the farmers.

He froze.

No. No, it couldn’t be. How?

Towards the gate, Jon watched the last of them disappear into the woods. Footprints had stomped the dirt on the inside of the gate flat, like they gathered there for some time before heading out.

He tried to convince himself that it was not Martin. That they could have been going out to confront anyone in the forest, any of the monsters that had taken their fellow villagers. Certainly, they hadn’t had shown any initiative before, but …

A face flashed through Jon’s mind. The curl of Elias’ lips, everything he should not have known.

Shit.

Perhaps he could be faster than a mob, if only just.

Jon tightened the straps of his satchel and broke off into a sprint.

Chapter Text

Martin sat in the greenhouse with a few books and an oil lamp, reading.

He wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like he could do anything out there beyond keeping the wilted rose company. For that matter, the rose was a terrible conversationalist. Martin had lost his temper at it earlier. He told me he loved me, you know, that ought to count, you’re really being incredibly stubborn about this entire thing –

It wasn’t an earnest tantrum, not really. Martin was not frustrated at it, not any more than usual. He knew Jon didn’t love him.

Martin hadn’t been expecting a response in kind when he confessed his love. All that had been going through his mind was Jon being far, far too hard on himself. Martin was of the opinion that Jon could convince a river to ignite if he put his mind to it. He didn’t have any doubts there.

But of course, because Jon was a nice and sweet person, he felt obligated to return the favor. That was fine. Well – not fine, but he could understand it.

He was a monster. Kind of a clingy one, besides, and he really wasn’t all that great as a human, either. Either way, certainly not someone a man like Jon could love. Martin tried not to wonder about the sort of person Jon would love, because he tended to get depressed thinking of kind, goodly noblepeople.

Christ, he hoped he’d be okay. Martin tried to convince himself that tagging along would just prove to be more trouble for Jon, but … hell.

Nothing to be done about it. He’d given Jon information, he’d given Jon gold. All that was to be done was sit with the rose and hope it didn’t wilt totally before Jon got back.

Martin spared a glance to it. Much smaller than it used to be, and more purple than red, now. The thorns looked like they were growing bigger. The thorns were growing bigger everywhere; he was barely able to wrench open the doors of the greenhouse from all the vines. Martin felt a little … suffocated, really, and he half-wondered if that was how it was going to happen. At the end.

He was trying not to think about it, really. He was not a stranger to death; he buried all the staff and put his mother in the tomb. What was left of them. Dying, though? Martin was not very keen.

Christ, this was thinking about it, wasn’t it? Martin snuffled and blustered and returned to his book, using his filed-down claws to turn the pages carefully.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he heard noise outside the greenhouse. Sounds like it was happening down towards the gates. Immediately, Martin thought of the shadowpeople that had been pursuing Jon. Perhaps they came back to perform an ambush?

Oh, yeah.

Martin didn’t relish violence, not really. He didn’t even destroy stuff much anymore – that was towards the beginning of the curse, when the sight of everything practically made him see red. Now, though? The love of his life was gone, he was going to die choked by thorns, and he was kind of pissy about it, actually!

Tossing his book to the side, Martin went to the door – and a quick glance outside the cracked glass pane proved that it was certainly not the shadowpeople.

It was a mob.

Trudging through the open gate in the middle of the night, Martin could see them. Christ, it must have been close to thirty or forty people. Not exactly a welcoming committee, either. They were carrying weapons, or things that might as well have been. He could see the anger etched onto their faces. They were furious, ready for blood, and at the front …

Ah.

Martin had never seen a photo of Elias Bouchard. Jon hadn’t ever described the man’s physical attributes. And yet, Martin immediately clocked the fancy-dressed tool at the front of the mob as Elias Bouchard. The man who never answered his requests for medicine. The man who threatened Jon.

His lips curled back in a quiet snarl.

He was not fond of the villagepeople either. Not for the mob thing, really, though he thought it was a little much. He just hated how they made Jon feel, all alone in a place full of people. He didn’t hate them enough to kill them, and if he went out there …

His eyes flicked over to the castle.

In one of the windows, Martin caught sight of a light. Just a flicker of it, and then it was out so fast Martin wondered if he even saw it in the first place. The castle was dark again.

Martin looked towards the mob approaching the castle and decided to pretend like nobody was home.

He withdrew back into the greenhouse, carefully sidestepping the curling vines. The rose still emitted a small glow – not enough to be seen from the outside, but better safe than sorry, wasn’t it?

Though Martin wasn’t thrilled with the idea of the mob going through the castle … there was really only one object that he earnestly wanted to protect. He might not have had a lot of time left, but Martin scarcely wanted to hasten it.

Well, two objects, but he was wearing his glasses already.

Martin took the rose container and clutched it against his chest, moving to sit besides the stone altar.

Not good, not good, not good, not good. He felt how heavy his breathing was, how the greenhouse smelled of rot. What happened when they couldn’t find him? Did they just leave? Come back later?

Cosmic slap in the face, Martin thought. Not alone anymore, because I’ve got a mob that wants me dead. He wasn’t even yearning for a nice, quiet castle anymore.

He was still yearning for the same thing he always was. Jon’s arms around his neck, sleeping peacefully underneath him. Or maybe walking around the castle grounds with Jon and listening to him talk about architecture. Hard to pick.

After a few minutes, Martin got up from the floor to peek through the windows.

They made it inside. He could see the glow of lights on the first few floors, and towards the back, he saw ---

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Smoke billowed out from one of the windows. Not much, not right now, and it was hardly like the stone exterior walls would take light. He wondered if the rest of the mob had even noticed? With all of them in the castle, Martin felt safe enough to ease the greenhouse door open.

He wanted to warn them – and the immediate, caustic thought was fuck them, they’re here to kill me!

Martin still wasn’t sure what he was going to do. He didn’t get to make the decision, because as he slid through the front door of the greenhouse, he heard the noise.

His ears were much more sensitive now. That was the hardest sense to get used to, right after the shift. Everything else he could manage, though he did wrap a shirt around his snout for the first few weeks to get used to all the smells. But noise? He could hear deer stumbling through the underbrush outside, he could hear rats scurrying through the cellar. That was to say nothing of what the staff murmured between themselves in their rooms, or his mother muttered to herself late at night.

His ears twitched.

People stumbling along the stone floors of the castle. Things smashing, voices going up. Fabric tearing, something jingling. Not the sound of anything burning, not yet. Martin tried to listen to what people were saying, but the overlap of voices was so intense that he couldn’t make anything out.

Except – no, he did hear something. Far above. Christ, had someone made it to the roof already? There was plenty of walkways above the uppermost floor, made so that the keepers of the castle could look upon their estate in awe and rapture. Or something. Martin was not keen on going up there, it always made him dizzy. There was little stone half-walls, sure, but they had gaps (a relic of an ancient time, for archers to peek through). Martin recalled, as a little child, feeling terrified that someone could push him right through.

“MARTIN!” A voice bellowed, stories above. “Martin, for god’s sake, where are you!?”

Jon. Jon came back. Jon came back – for him.

And he stood there, in the castle, with a mob of angry people at his feet … led by a man who certainly didn’t wish Jon any good will.

What comes next wasn’t a plan. Martin didn’t have a plan there, and he was not going to sit around to think of one. All he knows was that, at a minimum, he was a big furry body in between Jon and all the sharp, pointy things in the world that meant him harm.

He couldn’t see Jon hurt. Not on his behalf.

Martin left the rose container on the floor. The movement jostled a few more dying petals to the base. Damn the fucking thing.

He raced towards the rear of the castle. This was the castle he’d grown up in all of his life. He knew every hallway, because he walked them alone for years. Martin hoped that would help him there.

It was mad chaos. He burst in to a sitting room where someone had set the drapes alight. The fire crept slowly up the fabric, producing more smoke than flame, but at least the room was clear. Martin made for the closest stairwell, but there was none in the castle that went from the ground floor to the top (Jon might have been able to explain why, but Martin was no architect).

Not a clean pursuit, by any means. Martin had tunnel vision. He’d burst through a room only to hear a call of alarm – (kill the beast!) - and continue sprinting forward, zig-zagging his way through rooms and hallways until they’d properly lost him. Twice, he felt a lucky hit tear through his skin. Once, he slammed into a wall hard enough to feel his bones rattle.

Martin fell on all fours soon enough to go faster, scrabbling up the stairs as quickly as he could. Though the upper floors were much more deserted than the lower ones, Martin didn’t slow. He was hurt, he was panicking, and if those people found Jon here – if they hurt him –

There.

He practically burst through the door outside. The stars shone above on a perfect moonless night, like they’d all gathered to watch the horrific show.

Jon was there. He was in a state of distress, still holding an oil lamp, looking over at the courtyard below. When he heard the door open, he wheeled around – and visibly slumped in relief. “Martin, hell –”

At least Martin stood up fully before he swooped in to hug him. He picked Jon up off the ground as he did so. Jon didn’t even flinch, instead pressing his hands on either side of Martin’s face. Jon seemed to analyze him. Martin wasn’t sure what Jon found, but whatever he did, it made Jon tilt their foreheads together and take a deep, measured breath.

Martin wanted to ask what he was doing here, but he knew what he was doing here, and what Martin really wanted to ask was – why have you risked your life for me twice in the last twenty-four hours? First the shadow creatures, now a mob --

“Plans have changed,” Jon muttered, eyes shut. Martin flinched and lowered Jon to the ground. “We have to get out of here, now.”

“W-we?”

“Of course we!” Jon took a few toddling steps back. This close, Martin really could see the terror in his face, the way he was holding himself, soaked in sweat and breathing hard. He ran here, Martin realized with a start. All of his senses were tuned to Jon. Maybe he’d be able to start mind-reading if he could just smell Jon well enough. “God, you’re – hnuh – you’re bleeding.”

Martin looked down to see a trickle of blood lazily collecting on the cobblestone. “I’m fine,” he reassured. More things to worry about, apparently. “Where are we going?”

Jon let out a scoff. He swung his hand on his hip and looked over the cobblestone, out at the forest. They were well above the treeline here, but even if it hadn’t been pitch-black outside – Martin had seen this view a thousand times. It was just forest. He couldn’t even see Jon’s village from here.

“Who knows.” There was a grim certainty to it. “But – together?”

Running off into forest with Jon, future unknown, danger at every corner? Martin had never been keen on danger and this certainly hadn’t given him a taste for it, but … if Jon was there, Martin looked forward to the future. He grinned. “Yeah. Together.”

Something.

His ears flicked to the side. The smallest, tiniest creak of the door swinging open. Martin got a whiff of overbearing cologne.

Elias Bouchard stepped out onto the walkway. Martin hadn’t even noticed that it had started to rain, ever-so-lightly, but it already splattered the man’s hair close to his head. Elias breathed heavily, shoulders heaving with it, and in his hands –

The crossbow fired just as Martin stepped in front of Jon. In retrospect, a useless measure – given the height of the bolt, he figured that he was the main target anyway.

His first instinct wasn’t one of pain. He felt the impact, of course, and even heard the wet, splitting noise of something passing through his throat – but his first instinct was that he couldn’t breathe, that he was choking.

The bolt passed clean through and sailed over the boundary, taking some of Martin with it.

Dumbly, Martin’s paw went to his throat. There was a hole. He pressed his paw over the hole. That helped some with breathing, but not much, and then he tasted the blood, and oh god, he was choking on his own blood ….

“Causing a lot of trouble,” Elias hissed at the two of them. Too much charisma, really. A bit of gel was all well and good, but too much just made you look greasy. “Look at all the trouble I’ve had to go through on your behalf. If you’d just stayed in the village, and been quiet about things …”

Yes, this was all fine, but Martin couldn’t breathe. His knees started to shake, practically clacking together. He fell, landing hard on his arse and leaning against the wall.

Jon was next to him in an instant. His hands were at Martin’s throat, too – though Martin really wasn’t sure whether it was doing any good. Martin coughed suddenly, but it didn’t come out as the great hacking wheeze he felt it ought to be. It was whistly.

“He isn’t hurting anybody!” Jon accused, hands still on him. “What is the goddamn point of this, Elias?”

“Of course he’s not hurting anybody. He’s pathetic. An ounce of wherewithal and he might’ve picked this all apart.” Martin, through watering eyes, saw Elias’ smile. “An ounce of self-awareness and he would’ve had the curse ended in a flash, too.”

“Then why?” The demand sounded like Jon was chewing gravel. He was practically plastered against Martin’s side as the rain intensified, cold and unyielding against Martin’s fur.

His lungs started to burn. Is the blood going up? Marin wondered dimly, in shock. Or down? I hope it goes down. I hate vomiting.

“Oh, because.” Elias had loaded the crossbow again. Alarmed (as much as he could be, given the situation), Martin shifted a little to block his view of Jon. “I give it about two weeks before the resident village freak and his pet dog would’ve figured out the last of it.”

Was it possible to feel emotions in another person? Because it felt like there was thorns pricking out of Jon’s skin. “That you’re behind all of this? I don’t know how, Elias, but mark it –“

Oh. Hnh. That made sense, actually. Jon was very intelligent. He didn’t know who Elias was talking about, this village freak and his pet dog, but they didn’t sound very pleasant. Maybe Jon knew them, Jon lived in the village. Martin felt his cheek start to press against his shoulder.

“Martin, no, no, no, no –” Jon murmured, giving him light little slaps. It woke him up enough – as did the sound of Elias tittering, like Jon told a very funny joke.

“Maybe I overestimated it. Stand up, Jonathan.”

Jon did not.

He heard the tink! of the crossbow bolt fire, and an impact on his calf. The pain came soon after, a blinding starburst of it. Martin didn’t like doing anything too beastly in front of Jon, he really didn’t, above all things, it was embarrassing –

But he roared, because it hurt.

A few droplets of blood splattered against the cobblestone. Next to him, Jon scrabbled to his feet, hands thrust defensively in front of him. “H-h-h – “ Oh, sweetheart, Jon was stuttering in fear, practically tripping over himself as he stepped over Martin’s fallen form. “P-prince Magnus will find out. A-all this. Above all else, you drug most of the village through the forest, a-at night …”

Even as he fretted over his words, Martin saw the way Jon’s chin jut up, saw his shoulders square firmly. He’s so brave, Martin thought to himself with some drowsy affection.

His eyelids were starting to droop. One second, he swore he saw Jon facing Elias. The next, he saw Elias’ hand on Jon’s back, urging him to face a gap between the cobblestone walls. Not very safe, Martin wondered, and he tried to raise his arm to warn Jon as much, because Jon didn’t live here, Jon wouldn’t know, and his arm was heavy. So, so heavy.

And what, exactly, was so damn funny? Elias kept on laughing. Martin’s eyelids fluttered again, and Elias had lowered the crossbow. “You haven’t figured it out yet,” he recalled, more of an observation than a question. “I’m surprised that Lady Blackwood never mentioned me to him. Then again, I never could much stand her company. Pity I needed so many of her treatises on witchcraft.”

Hm. That meant something, Martin was sure. That meant something.

The black half-moons peeled back from his vision and he saw Elias’ face sneering in the rain, hunching his shoulders to bare all of his teeth at Jon. No, not good, not at all. “There never was any Prince Magnus,” he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “What do I need for a kingdom? I get all the power I need right here.”

Silly. Of course there was a Prince Magnus, there had to be. Villages needed princes, living far away in a lonely castle, watching from a distance. Or something like that. Wasn’t it? Martin read books …

He heard Jon gasp, nevertheless, and Elias moved on. “Over you go, Jon. Can’t have them finding a crossbow bolt in you, but – well, I’d make do.”

Over the roof? No, no. That won’t do. There were pointy things at the bottom, massive great thorns, and they all led to that … that silly, sad little rose … all flowers died eventually, didn’t they? Martin supposed he never really had a chance. That was fine. He’d enjoyed himself more in the past few months than he had for years.

Hearing Jon growl alerted some instinct in the back of his mind, and he looked up again. One blink, and Jon had put his hands on Elias’ shoulders. The crossbolt fired, missed, and fumbled from Elias’ grasp. The wooden contraption busted against the wet cobblestone of the castle; overhead, Martin could see a perfect stripe of lightning arc across the sky.

“You bastard – !” Jon practically bellowed at him, struggling against Elias’ strength. You’re all awfully close to the wall, mind yourself. Martin tried to stand, but his paws slipped painfully against the cobblestone. Another blink, and Jon had spun them around (dancing, remember that time we danced, Jon) so that it was Elias who had his back to the edge. “All those people!”

Elias didn’t respond except to grunt. A scent wafted over to Martin. He knew hat one, still! That one was fear. Nasty thing.

Another blink, and he saw Jon’s knee bend to take a step forward. Martin still couldn’t quite grasp what he was seeing. “How long have we been alone out here in the woods, chased by monsters that are all your fault!?” Jon asked again, and then – then – he saw one of Elias’ shoes, nice ones, leather ones, scrape against the edge.

“Careful,” Martin muttered, the words getting caught in his teeth, “That you don’t fall.”

After all, Elias was gripping the front of Jon’s apron tight, wasn’t he? He took another hacking cough. “Get away from our village,” Jon practically hissed, right in Elias’ face, and then –

And then another blink, and Jon shoved Elias hard. Elias fell, his grip tightening on Jon’s apron, and –

And then another blink, and he heard Jon choke with the strain of the cords on his neck, his arms going off to the sides to brace himself against the wall, and –

And then another blink, and he saw the apron come apart around Jon’s neck, and Jon caught himself, and Jon stumbled backward, and Elias did not.

Elias didn’t scream as he fell off the edge. Granted, Martin wasn’t sure whether he could hear it if he did. More lightning streaked over the sky, accompanied in a millisecond by thunder. He tasted electric energy in the air – well, he always imagined blood tasted like electricity, anyway. There was no thump at the bottom, either, and Martin had a sudden image of the thorny scars across Jon’s body.

Uhhh. Did Jon just teleport next to him?

He felt Jon’s hands before he saw the man again, his vision going hazy. Worse than when he wasn’t wearing his glasses. That was not good. “Stay awake, stay awake,” Jon muttered, voice ragged. Even in the cold rain, Jon’s hands were still beautifully warm. “Come on, Martin, stay awake for me …”

Well, if Jon wanted it. Jon seemed like he was having a bad time. Martin grunted softly.

“There you are. I’m going to fix this, Martin, do you –” His eyelids were so heavy! When they closed again, he heard Jon choke out a sob. No, he didn’t like that. Martin forced them open and saw only a blurry man kneeling next to him, hands pressed against the wound at his neck.

He let out a soft, keening noise. It wasn’t human, he knew that, but he hoped Jon understood the gist anyway.

“Christ,” Jon muttered against his shoulder. The rain was finally starting to soak through Martin’s fur, but he hadn’t got the strength to shiver against it. He could only imagine how Jon was feeling in the bad weather.

Martin tried to make another sound. He couldn’t, not really, other than the click of his teeth tapping against one another. Really couldn’t say what he wanted to say, which was something along the lines of, that’s okay, my rose was about to die anyway, so maybe it was all for the best.

“Don’t leave me.” He could scarcely make out the words, and Martin couldn’t even be sure that Jon was trying to directly entreat him. “Please, Martin, I – I c-can’t …” Jon’s hands had fallen from his neck, now, instead resting on Martin’s chest. Oh – oh, that was the sound of Jon sobbing, wasn’t it? His eyes had shut fully, he couldn’t see Jon cry, but he could hear it. He could hear the sounds of chaos downstairs, too. “I love you, please don’t leave me alone, please …”

Martin felt something click in his brain, almost audibly. He wondered for a half-second whether someone finally flicked the great mortal switch in his brain, but he was not quite dead yet.

Maybe … maybe … maybe it was that he didn’t have the strength for his usual mental gymnastics. Maybe it was because Jon didn’t have much reason to lie to him – all the trouble I’ve caused him, Martin thought sorrowfully. Maybe it was because, out of all the fairytales he read, out of all the next-to-death confessions, they always meant it. Maybe it didn’t work out after the last page, sure, but they gave it a try.

He loves me, Martin realized. He actually really loves me.

His limbs had gone numb. He was only aware of a pressure, a heat, against every square inch of his body. It was not at all uncomfortable. In fact, Martin was reminded of his childhood days when he used to dive under as many duvets as he could with a stack of books and warm tea. The warmth felt a bit like being loved, even when Martin had to do the loving himself.

Eventually, Martin regained the strength to open his eyes. He didn’t see the castle rooftop or the sky. All he could see was a warm gold glow, glittering and twinkling. His eyes crossed to look down at his nose, whereupon he realized that the gold glow was coming from him.

Oh my god. This is it, I’m dead. I’m properly dead, this is what death is, do we turn into stars after we die? Oh god, that’s a lot of pressure –

No, no. He was not dead. He could feel his heart beat in his chest, for one thing, and for another … his limbs were starting to feel cold. Not lack-of-blood cold, but he could feel the wet, cold stone beneath his heels. There was rain falling on his fingertips.

And – he felt soft. Not the kind of soft like he’d just taken a bath and let the fur air dry. He could feel his skin, and … oh. Oh.

His eyes flew open at the realization. Though Martin’s cloak was now cartoonishly overlarge on him, he shifted it aside to look over himself – pale legs, an ample middle, freckled arms, a mess of damp curls at the top of his head. He touched his face and almost yelped at the sensation of his smooth lips, no fangs to speak of, and Christ! No ears! No ears at all!

While the last of the glow faded away, Martin turned to the side and saw Jon. Jon scrabbled backward – Martin couldn’t begin to imagine what it must’ve looked like from his perspective. He was breathing heavily, nostrils flaring as he stared right back at him.

Martin took his first breath as a human again. It tasted cold, but it whooshed easily down his throat. Well, good. It’d be piss-poor to transform and just die right away, he thought, half-numb.

“Martin?” Jon whispered in awe. “Is that …”

“Y-yeah,” Martin uttered. Wow. Was that his voice? There was no growl or purr to it at all. In fact, he scarcely recognized himself. “Yeah, Jon. It’s … it’s me.”

Jon stared. Martin couldn’t blame him. If he could, he’d stare himself.

A different kind of noise rose from below them, different from the raucous eagerness of the mob. This one erupted from the core of the construction itself – splinters sprayed out from a beam, a statue crashed onto the marble floor, a wall split open and gave way. The entire castle shuddered underneath Martin’s feet, and he caught a strong whiff of plant rot.

Their eyes met again, sharing one thought: the staff.

While he was relieved (or rather, would be, when he was capable of feeling anything) that the staff was free of their curse … Martin couldn’t imagine they’d be overly pleased to see him. And if Elias had stirred up the mob against Jon at all …

Jon strode forward, taking up his hand.

Whoa. Jon’s hand felt massive. It was still smaller than his, but not by much, and Jon’s fingers didn’t seem as fragile as they used to be. Martin, still coming out of the strangest thing he’d ever felt (having had the luxury of passing out the first go around), stared at their intertwined hands. They were interlacing fingers. Like, properly.

“We need to go,” Jon told him. Though he could still see the shine of tears on his face, and he looked like he was about to pass out on his feet, Jon’s eyes themselves were urgent. “Follow me. I’ll get you out of here.”

And, ready to follow Jon anywhere he was led, Martin nodded.

Chapter Text

Jon had been awake for some time, lying in bed, but he was still too tired to move a single muscle.

His legs ached the worst. How long had they walked last night? Stumbling through the forest in the dark. Jon only had dim memory of maps in the surrounding area, but given Elias’ deception, he really couldn’t be sure what to trust anymore. Jon didn’t much trust the direction they’d decided to go in, but they needed to go somewhere. Even with Martin’s transformation, Jon hadn’t considered his own village as an option.

And so, they walked. They didn’t talk. Jon couldn’t imagine what was going through Martin’s mind, but on his own end, he was so overwhelmed, so exhausted, that he couldn’t form thoughts – much less verbalize anything.

Eventually, they’d come upon a smaller village. It looked like it existed mostly to host travelers, no more than a handful of buildings tucked into a valley, but Jon had started to tear up at the sight of it nevertheless.

They’d staggered into the inn, a singular warm glow in the darkness of the village. Jon had uttered two words only (‘A room?’) before reaching into his bag and thrusting a fistful of coins at her. In retrospect, he had severely overpaid – but it was worth it, really, because the innkeeper had bustled off without another word and Jon suspected they wouldn’t be bothered for a few days.

Good. Jon didn’t particularly want to be bothered. The sight of the singular bed in the room hadn’t bothered him in the slightest. Instead, he’d practically toppled over on it, and was asleep before he felt Martin fall next to him.

He didn’t know what time it was now. Daylight, at least. Sun streamed in through the windows of the inn; Jon heard the braying of donkeys and the sound of horseshoes on cobblestone. The sun had rose another day, and they were alive. They were on a thin mattress with a threadbare blanket, but they were both alive.

Alive and … changed. Jon looked back over to Martin.

Jon thought he would feel much more at ease when Martin started to talk.

The fact of the matter was, he couldn’t see anything of Martin in this man in front of him. More than a foot shorter, wispy body hair, a pinkish body, no fangs or ears or tail to speak of. That wasn’t to say Jon disliked the man before him in bed. He was handsome, though, rounded with a mop of ginger curls and cupid’s bow lips. Jon thought his heart might race if he saw the man coming into his shop, or – even more fairytale – caught eyes with this man across a crowded ballroom.

As it was, he didn’t look like Martin.

Absurd, Jon knew. He was still wearing his cloak, tied tightly around his neck. This was Martin. He was sharing a bed with Martin.

If he could convince every part of his brain, that’d be lovely.

Not only was he sore, he was stiff. Jon rolled his shoulders back and brushed against his bag – good to know that he hadn’t even bothered putting it on the ground last night. He turned to put his back towards Martin, reaching for it.

Plenty of gold, still. And books. Jon tried to remember if he’d seen a general store in the village – surely one place here could offer a map, and likely they could eat in the inn downstairs, and then … after …?

A tight pressure around his body.

Jon squeaked when he felt Martin’s arm wrap around his chest, curling just underneath his armpits. For god’s sake, don’t flinch, don’t flinch, don’t flinch, this is Martin, for the love of god, it’s just –

“Oh!” Martin mumbled behind him. His voice was higher than Jon had gotten used to, but not unrecognizably so. Strip away the growls and grumbles, that was all. “Sorry.”

Well, he thought he’d been doing a good job not flinching. Damn. Jon dropped the bag and turned around to face Martin, eyes open and looking at him.

Such pretty brown eyes. Warmer than the red ones, somehow, but a nicer kind of warmth – and Jon struggled not to stare at the way Martin was pouting a bit. His facial expressions seemed exaggerated, like he hadn’t quite gotten used to his musculature without all the bits and fur in the way.

“It’s fine. Just … not used to you, yet,” Jon croaked out, voice raspy from sleep. He needed water, they needed food. Hell, they needed a plan. But all of that required getting out of bed, and he ached. “You’ve shaved,” he added with a bit of a lilt.

Martin smiled shyly at that, a blush going over his face. Hm. “Y-yeah. I mean, it’s … what happened was …” He couldn’t find his words. Instead, Martin tried in a new direction. “Are you okay?”

Hell of a question. Nobody ever asked Jon that when things were going well, did they? While things were looking up …

Shit.

He half-closed his eyes. “I-I think I am. As okay as I can process, anyway.”

Ought he feel guilt for shoving Elias over the ledge? Jon supposed that he would. He thought decent people might – he thought back to storybooks. True 50/50 whether the heroes were dashing shining knights who never felt bad for killing, because they killed monsters, or whether they were the tortured artistic soul sort who felt bad for stepping on grass.

What he felt, right then, was tired. And, as previously stated, achey.

“I should be asking you that, Martin.”

Murder aside, Martin had been shot – twice, and the once was his fault, stupid – and had a shimmering transformation.

He opened his eyes again to see Martin taking the question earnestly. “I … a lot happened yesterday,” he admitted. “I don’t even know what to – I don’t know. But I’m okay.” And then he smiled, a little sheepish.

Very nice smile, Jon had to admit.

“A little cold. I think it’s the lack of fur. I’ve got so much space in my mouth, now, and I haven’t --- “ He watched Martin make a claw with his hands, rubbing his fingernails along the rough bedsheets. “Look! No holes. Completely blunted.”

Oh. Christ, yes, this was Martin, wasn’t it? Jon warmed just watching him. There was still exhaustion written all over his face. To Jon’s slight relief, he didn’t have the face of a cursed twenty-year-old, but rather someone more approaching Jon’s age.

Maybe it was safe, here. Maybe it was all over. Jon didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but – if he sorted out the next few weeks, Jon felt comfortable that his life wouldn’t be chaos and darkness again. A bit of awkwardness was manageable, given all that.

He reached over and put his hand on Martin’s shoulder, thumb rolling over the freckles on his skin. Hm! Martin’s skin had pleasant give to it, whereas Martin-the-beast’s skin always felt so thick, and brilliant, yes, right, he was starting to sound like a medical diagramist.

This was alright, though. This was Martin in a different skin. A skin he was more comfortable in. Martin kept on smiling.

To hell with it. Martin didn’t look like a stranger to him anymore.

He wrapped one arm around Martin’s torso, the other slinging around his neck. It gave Jon the position necessary to curl his head just underneath Martin’s chin, cheek resting against his chest. He could faintly hear the thump-thump-thump of Martin’s heartbeat.

At first, Martin didn’t respond. Jon had a brief flash of concern – had he pushed too far? Had he made some assumptions – before Martin almost shyly put his hands on Jon’s waist, resting them there, hesitating.

Alright.

“You’re so big,” Martin marveled, and Jon had to laugh at him. “I mean, like, comparatively. It doesn’t feel like I’ve gotten any smaller. Just feels like everything’s gotten a lot bigger.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yeah.” The relief in Martin’s voice was palpable. “Yeah, god, Jon, I … I’d almost forgotten what my face looked like, and …”

“It’s a nice face.” Jon shut his eyes. Martin smelled like sweat and the woods. Jon supposed he smelled the same. “A very nice face. Can’t complain about that.”

Though Martin took a pause, it clearly wasn’t enough time to compose himself. He spoke in nothing short of a high squeak: “You think so?”

Oh, that was very adorable indeed. Jon smiled widely against Martin’s neck, feeling something in his lips split. Not great, that. “I do. I’ll have to take some time to study it, of course, but I think we might have some time in our future.”

“I guess we do.” Martin shifted in his arms, moving to rest his head on a pillow. “What happens now, then?”

“You think I know?” No real exasperation in it, nor did Jon really hope that Martin had managed to drum up a serviceable plan in his sleep. “It’s lucky that we even managed to find this place.”

“I thought you knew where we were going.”

“Never traveled that far from the village, no.”

“Ah.” A few muscles stiffened underneath Jon’s arms. While it was a little flattering that Martin thought he always had a plan … well. His plan last night had consisted of find Martin, get him to safety. Which he had accomplished, but there had been more than a few complications. “Do you want to go back to the village? Not, like, right now. But – eventually, I mean. With Elias gone ...”

“Monsters in the forest are probably gone, too.” Still, Jon had to sigh. “I – I don’t know. Is it selfish of me to say that I have no particular attachment there? And suffice to say that most of them aren’t fond of me, either, and wouldn’t overly mourn my absence. Besides.” And this was an important bit, manipulated by Elias or not. “They tried to kill you.”

“Oh, I don’t, I mean – come on. I was a monster who lived in a castle.”

“You weren’t a monster.”

“It’s not like they’d recognize me anymore.”

“That’s not the point. I’d still have to wake up every morning and think, oh, these are the people who tried to kill my –”

Uh. Right, if he hadn’t paid any thought to his first murder in self defense, he definitely hadn’t paid any thought to Martin’s status in his life. He cut himself off and didn’t continue.

“Okay, okay, okay …” Martin muttered. “And you’re dead-set on, um, whatever happens next, to include … me?”

Oh. Jon hadn’t considered otherwise.

In a practical sense, Jon knew he didn’t have to. He had enough coin and wealth to get him wherever he wanted to go, and probably set up a decent enough bookshop besides. He could leave this entire forest behind, castle and village alike, try his luck being liked somewhere else.

And yet ...

The idea of being separated from the only man who ever made him feel seen was appalling.

His arms tightened a little more around Martin. “I’d like to,” he breathed out weakly, “But if you don’t, Martin, really, you’ve done more than enough …”

“If I don’t –!” Martin could scarcely contain his disbelief. “Sorry, you just saved my life and you’re the man I love, I thought … “ Quieter, shyer, again. Jon wondered how it was, without all that fur to hide behind. “I hoped, I mean.”

Good. They were on the same page, there. “ I love you, too,” Jon affirmed. “I presume going back to the castle is out of the question, then?”

“Y-yeah. I mean, god only knows the state of it, if it’s even standing.”

“Part of it did fall.” The memory came to Jon unbidden. That entire long walk was a goddamn blur, but in that moment, he could feel stone stairs giving way underneath his feet. A terrifying sprint down a flight of stairs. “Entire bloody thing was shaking.”

“Even if it didn’t, I don’t think I’d go back there. I liked spending time with you there, I mean, but – “ Martin sighed. “I don’t know.”

“No, no, I get it. Of course we don’t have to go back.” Not something he was going to pick at, right now. Jon might have felt alone in the village, but even he knew there was a world’s difference between his experience and Martin’s own.

Why Martin’s curse had fallen apart when it did, Jon wouldn’t know. All he knew was that he urgently hated the woman who convinced Martin he would never be loved, as he hated the man who convinced him that the village was the safest place to be.

“So the world is our oyster,” Jon remarked casually. Perhaps this would be a fun jaunt, and not a considerably daunting endeavor.

“Yeah, it is.” How dare Martin sound genuinely enthused about it. Honestly.

Jon was certainly not going to imagine hiking with Martin through the forest, or – god above, maybe on a horse? Martin’s estate had once held stables, once upon a time, and one would think he was trained ...That would certainly be a way to enter their next home, atop a horse with a bag full of gold. Martin did look like a prince, Jon idly fancied.

Jesus.

“We probably ought to spend a day or two here.” Jon kept his voice gruff. This was not the time to get caught up in idle fancies. “Checking out the maps, planning our route. Resting. I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel great.”

“No. No, I mean, I feel … better than how I was.” What a strange euphemism for actively dying. “But I am really knackered.”

Then a few days here, curled up with Martin. Perhaps he’d ask later on, see if anyone had heard anything from the village or Blackwood Castle …

But in its own way, it really was nice to wash one’s hands of things. They could take care of themselves from here, or they couldn’t, but Jon doubted he could help anymore either way.

The hands on his waist slowly moved upward, until Martin was loosely holding him by the small of his back. God, that was warm. The room wasn’t cold by any means, but this felt particularly cozy. “Look, I’ve just got to say this, or else I’m going to be thinking about it forever.”

Uh-oh.

“You literally broke into my house to save your village and ended up saving not only your village, but all the staff and me. You’re just, you’re – “ Martin spluttered a bit above him. If Jon was capable of producing any noise, he figured he’d be making a similar one. “God, Jon, I don’t even know. You’re amazing, is what you are. I can’t ever thank you enough.”

“You don’t need to thank me.” Nor would he allow any thanks from the staff (though, Jon thought with some bitterness, I’d take a few apologies on Martin’s behalf) or the members of his village.

He pulled away, just enough to look Martin in the eyes.

Ah. Tears. Jon thought he might need to cry, eventually, at some point – but he was never any good at predicting that sort of thing. The tears had come as a surprise yesterday, too, with all the chaos. He’d just been so desperate.

“All I did was fall in love with you,” Jon stated simply, their noses a few millimeters apart. “Rather involuntary on my apart, I’d think. Standing there, being kind, being funny, being patient … anyone would, I think.”

Maybe not anybody, certainly, that wasn’t how people worked. A great many people. Jon was just grateful that it ended up being him.

Martin just stared. The tears gathered in the corners of his eyes hadn’t fallen yet, but his grip had tightened on Jon. “I love you,” he muttered again. “I love you so much.”

Not the first time he had the urge, but normally, the absurdity of worrying about jaw positioning and Martin’s fangs was enough to put a stop to it. He had no such scruples now.

Jon tilted his head forward. At first, he just brushed his lips against Martin’s own. Soft, in a way that made Jon highly aware he had a healing cut on his lip. Martin inhaled sharply; a breath of cold air raced across his lips and a chill shivered up his spine.

Yes.

He leaned into the kiss and put his hands on Martin’s neck. Right, well, good, he didn’t have to worry about slicing his tongue open on one of Martin’s razor-sharp teeth, either. Instead, his teeth were delightfully human – flat, some a bit crooked, some with little ridges along the bottom, and Jon was never going to tell Martin how fond he was of his teeth. Until it didn’t feel weird to remark upon, anyway.

The hands around him tightened even further, until Martin had pulled him flush against his chest. After the initial shock wore off, Martin returned the kiss with gusto, kissing Jon like he might not see him again.

Very storybook, Jon thought, except they’d gotten some bits mixed up. True love’s first kiss was meant to turn the frog back into a prince, except Jon really couldn’t imagine getting any better. Perhaps he was the frog, but it really did feel like Martin had already made encouraged him to be a better person, long before.

Still, kissing for the sake of it? Beyond pleasant. Jon could get used to this.

Martin pulled away first; Jon had the idle thought that that little gasp was a bit too dramatic. “Haven’t got used to the lungs yet,” he muttered apologetically. Ah. Probably not, then. “They’re a lot smaller than what I’m used to – that’s probably horrifying, sorry.”

“It’s not,” Jon encouraged, a little light-headed himself. That didn’t do anything to help the exhaustion, and …

As tempting as it was to kiss Martin until the sun started to set again, Jon supposed they both had plenty of time. Besides, sleeping with Martin’s warmth pressed up against him had been something he missed.

He rested his head on Martin’s chest. “I’m going to go back to sleep. Wake me if you need anything?”

Casually, Martin readjusted his arms into a more comfortable position. “I’m not waking you up unless the inn’s caught fire.”

“Very kind,” Jon purred, feeling his eyes droop shut again. Already, he could feel himself drifting off – and thinking of the kiss that had happened no more than fifteen seconds ago. God, he was a mess. Still, he had a smile on his face, and Jon squeezed Martin in return.

Chapter Text

EPILOGUE

Jon was usually up alongside him in the mornings, but they’d had a late night. Jon (okay, both of them) had been far too excited for a new shipment of books to properly sleep. Usually, they’d take advantage of their shop being closed to sort out the organization of everything … but he’d been too keen to get his hands on one. One of the romances, not as tawdry as he had wanted, but that was fine. And then, of course, Jon was telling him all about the illustrations in a book of fairytales ...

Suffice to say they’d both stayed up far too late. Martin’s body still forced him up at his usual hour, but when he peeled himself away from Jon’s arms, Jon didn’t stir.

In fact, that bag of fur had taken over his spot. Martin furrowed his brow and stared at the white-footed tabby that stretched over his partner. Jon slept like the dead, he really did, and Socks knew it. Practically used him as a heating pad.

They’d gotten Socks when they first moved in here. Pretty literally, because right after Jon had gotten the key from the landlord, they’d come across Socks sleeping in a ray of light through the window. This is really Socks’ bookshop, Martin, we just live here.

Socks didn’t seem to mind the company.

Martin went to get ready for the day – splashing water over his face, brushing his teeth, combing out his hair. Jon liked to tease him about how long he took in the mornings, getting ready, but Martin liked to relish in it.

His partner still hadn’t stirred by the time he got dressed, but Socks had vanished to places unknown. Actually – Martin knew exactly where he went, and it was to flop by his food bowl – or have a quick morning snack of mice.

Maybe he’d go ahead and make breakfast for the both of them. A nice, relaxing day ahead, organizing the new books they’d gotten. Yeah, that was pleasant.

He caught sight of his own reflection in the bedroom mirror, and he stopped.

It’d taken about six months to really, truly stop jumping every time he caught a glimpse of himself. Martin reckoned it’d taken about four before Jon stopped waking up and flinching before things clicked into place. That wasn’t to say Martin ever really disliked being himself again, it was just … a shock.

Now, though?

… He was a bit handsome, wasn’t he? Martin pushed his chin up in the mirror a little, peering at himself over his own nose. Martin liked to let his curls flop over his ears, kept his fingernails neatly trimmed. Maybe something commanding to him, wasn’t it? When he chatted with people in the town square or in another shop, they listened. They stopped to listen, in fact! And he had on a nice shirt, all billowy white fabric and trousers that he hadn’t had to sew himself, and –

Two thin arms wrapped around him from behind, making him jump. “Jesus!” Martin barked out.

Jon’s mischievous face appeared over his shoulder. Ooph. Poor guy still looked tired. “Boo,” Jon told him warmly. His face buried in the crook of his neck, warm from the bed. Martin could’ve melted.

“How are you so quiet? Honestly.” Maybe that would’ve sounded cooler if he had managed to sound a bit less soppy about it, but there it was. Martin turned around, despite the grumblings of groggy frustration from Jon, and wrapped his arms around his middle.

They hadn’t found this village and immediately opened a bookshop.

It’d taken five days.

Jon was kind of terrifying in that way.

Though it’d taken them both some time to build up the stock and actually run the place, Jon had somehow found out about a recently vacated shop within hours of their coming into the village. What was worse, he seemed to treat it like it was no big deal, that opening a bookshop again was only inevitable, and Martin still didn’t think he’d managed to press into Jon how madly impressive that all was.

Maybe someday.

As it was, the bookshop had been chugging along for a little more than a year. Doing well (so much as Martin had any sense for business, anyway).

“I’m going to make breakfast,” he informed the man in his arms. Jon had already shifted to rest his head in the hollow of his throat. “Eat in bed? Be a bit lazy?”

“We’ll have to find out a place for the books …” Jon yawned, cracking his jaw like wood. “Later.”

“Yeah, later.”

“Need to stop by the baker’s, too.”

“I can do that,” Martin insisted gently. “You can rest.”

“I’d like to go. I like …” A pause. “Trevor.”

“Well, he might take a bit of offense to that, ‘cause his name’s Oliver, but …” But Jon wasn’t great with names, especially not when he’d just woken. “We’ll go out and run some errands later, sure. I’d like you with me.”

Not that he would be killed without Jon there, and maybe that was the biggest surprise of it all.

Martin had expected that they wouldn’t be liked. They’d wandered into this new village in the dead of night atop a horse they’d bought from the innkeeper. Not only that, but they’d properly bungled it when people asked them where they were from and what they did. Martin had vehemently and far-too-obviously denied having any noble heritage; meanwhile, Jon had accidentally upgraded his title to prince.

Wonder they had any friends at all, recently. It took time – days and weeks and months of trying to pull together a shop, having to chat with people about this new village. Jon had remarked that it was so odd to see so many people freely coming and going at once, with no apparent fear of the forest surrounding them. Maybe curselessness made people a bit more chipper.

People started to like them. They made friends. They thought Martin was a stableboy who’d run off with a bookshop’s assistant (Martin, Jon had fondly complained when Martin had brought up the cover-story, we’re in our thirties, please), but they often had people around and were brought around in turn.

Martin had been so scared of living out the rest of his days in Blackwood Castle. Now, the idea of not spending the rest of his life with Jon, in this village, in this shop? Unimaginable. He was getting scones and a hat next week. Had to be around for that.

“Mm,” Jon agreed sleepily. “Where’s Socks?”

“On your feet.”

“Mm.” That one was thoroughly more displeased. Jon brought his head up and pinched Martin’s cheeks with one hand, causing his lips to pucker awfully. “Too early for you to be cute, Blackwood. Knock it off.”

He looked so stern, squinting without his glasses on like that. Martin grinned when Jon drew his hand away. “Yes, my lord, right away. Get to bed and I’ll bring breakfast in.”

“Thank you.” Pushing himself up to the tips of his toes, Jon gave him a peck. He peeled himself away to go wrap himself back in the piles of blankets. Martin was pretty sure he’d fallen back asleep before Martin left the room.

Out in the kitchen, Socks languished by his food bowl and Martin sighed. Socks was the king of this castle, and he’d acquired his own staff, hadn’t he? He had scraps around here somewhere.

The sun shone through the window in the kitchen. The village slowly woke to life outside. Smoke poured from chimneys, a few horses and oxen rumbled by with carts, people sent up stalls in the market. All a very familiar sight, by now.

They’d made inquiries, a few months ago. Martin wasn’t sure for whose sake they’d done it. The paranoia got to Jon terribly some nights, gripped by some certainty that a member of the village or a member of Martin’s staff would track them down. For what it was worth, Martin didn’t think they’d get to that effort, but …

Well, Jon was one of the most sensible people he knew. And if Jon believed it, Martin got a bit scared over the whole thing.

As far as they could tell, Jon’s old village was still standing. They’d sent out a few traders, here and there, but they still stayed - for the most part – to themselves. A few of the shopkeepers around this village were reluctant on going there. The darkness of night was getting worse there, they complained, making it hard to see between the trees, much less the path in front of you.

Could’ve been nothing. Martin was disinclined to pick at it.

What happened to Martin’s castle was far more interesting. The staff (those that had survived) had taken up residence in there. Their own village, of sorts. It wasn’t like the castle, dilapidated as it was, couldn’t support it. They traded and cleaned up the place and lived the lives that had been taken from them for years. Odd buggers, people told Martin. But nice enough, if a little stiff.

If Martin was curious about anything in this whole business, he was curious about that. He’d known those people – grown up with most of them, been friends with some before the curse hit. Martin wanted to stop by himself, see how they were doing, but …

Well. Maybe in a few years. Martin still couldn’t be sure how they’d feel about him. He couldn’t even be sure how he wanted them to feel about him.

They were doing fine. That was all he needed to know.

Socks munched away happily at what meat was left from last night’s supper, and Martin reached for one of the pans.

He mostly slept soundly through the night. When he didn’t, it was usually some variation of that last night – the thunder and lightning and Elias’ grinning face and the crossbow. Or … there was a reoccurring one, where he found himself a beast again, and ran through miles and miles of hallways, looking for Jon, unable to find him, find anyone …

Jon’s nightmares were similar. Not a beast, but running through the forest, unable to rescue anyone in time. Jon’s nightmares were also a lot more frequent.

His poor love.

But it was behind him. He’d managed to prove everyone wrong, even his mother. He was loved – and he felt that, every morning. Even on his bad days, when he wasn’t quite certain if he loved himself, Jon loved him, and Socks loved him, and the village loved him. And on good days – well. He had all that and more.

Die a beast. No, Martin thought he’d live, actually, thanks.

To hell with anyone that tried to say otherwise.

With breakfast finished and smelling fantastic, Martin shifted it onto a plate. He held it in his hand, took a look down at Socks (cleaning off his own breakfast from his whiskers), and smiled.

Outside, he could see their garden was blooming. Tulips, daffodils, daisies, carnations … no roses, of course. He’d tried that once. Wasn’t going to be doing that again. This was their first good bloom. Previous seasons had died, and Martin had been shocked by his dread over it, but … no curses. Not even any anger from Jon. Sometimes flowers died, and it wasn’t anybody’s fault.

God, Jon really was a beauty, wasn’t he?

Plate in hand, Martin went back to his bedroom, humming a little tune to himself.