Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He finally carves the last name into the burial mound marker- “name” is an exaggeration, though. In reality, it just has the person’s rough age and the village they had died in. Odio never learned their name, or age, or even where they lived. They had no goods to be buried with besides what they held on their person and what was scattered near them. Things that may not even be theirs.

He does not give any prayers. He does not know them. 

Odio doesn’t remember how long it’s been. 

It could have been weeks, it could have been years. He does not bother to remember. He cannot. The only evidence of change is a kingdom wide cemetery where there were only bodies before. Ash, where his friend turned enemy lay. Nails and hair, near the still water, where the bodies were not. 

He’s still alone. 

He is the victor. 

He has nothing. 

He returns to the balcony. He thinks he was happy there once. 

He sits. 

Perhaps, when enough time passes, he will move again, but for now, he sees no point. He finished the graves, the spirits passed on. There is nothing for him. 

He can’t die, though. He still hates himself, enough so that any wounds he tries to inflict are nothing. Hatred feeds hatred, and Odio is tired. He hates everything, still, but it is distant compared to the fire it once was. 

He is alone. 

He wants to go back.

Hatred cannot do such a thing, though. It can destroy, it can create, he knows, but Odio does not want to destroy or create. 

He wants to go back. 

He wants to be Oersted again.

Oersted, though, is nothing alone, so he is Odio. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes. His own hatred sustains him, but he doesn’t have the energy to force himself to age, so he merely waits.

The world is different without humans. He misses them. 

 He doesn’t know what draws him to the place, why he gets up and walks but he does regardless. 

He walks and walks and walks, though a world that’s so very empty. The humans were killed first. Then the demons, as Odio had hated them too. And without either species to keep the various monsters in check, they had devoured the animals until they too had starved. 

There are still some creatures left, but they are few and far between that Odio wondered how long they would last. 

Finally, he reached the place. It feels… wrong. Like it never should exist. Like the chances of it appearing are next to impossible. 

Odio has lived a long time, though. Next to impossible means nothing to him.

What do you want? Everything seems to ask. 

“I want to go back.” Oersted replies.

 He doesn’t remember what happens next.

“…Open yo…”

There’s a voice. Odio hisses, as he tires to-

“I swear, if you die here and now-“

Wait. There’s a voice. 

“-of all times-“

Odio’s eyes shoot open. 

“Straybow?!” He gapes at the figure leaning over him as he sits up. It’s- It’s definitely Straybow. No matter how long passes, he would never forget that face but-

He looks so young.

The person that is almost definitely Straybow tilts his head and looks at Od- Oersted, because only Oersted is looked at with anything other than fear or hatred - with confusion. 

“Have we… met before?” Straybow asks, taking in his face, probably trying to find the familiarity.

Straybow doesn’t recognise him. 

Straybow is young and doesn’t recognise him.

Oersted looks around. He’s lying next to a road, and he honestly doesn’t remember how he and Straybow met. It was on his way to the capital…

He remembers what he wanted.

“I- no, my appologies.” Oersted replies with a shake of his head, the words already feeling odd on his tongue, “I’m called Oersted, a…” what was he at- 14? He thinks he’s 14 now. The memories are somehow there and not. Straybow looks- 16- and was never far from the Capital, so- “…Knight in training.” 

Straybow narrows his eyes and looks at Oersted. 

“Do you have a concussion?” Straybow asks, and Oersted chokes for a moment. This- isn’t how their first meeting went last time,he knows that much. It was an uneventful meeting, and the two of them had only gotten to know each other once they started going on quests.

“I am-“ Oersted starts, trying to think of the right thing to say. Of what he should say, “I should be fine.” 

He has not been around people in a long, long time.

It’s a good thing he was quiet before, and usually kept to himself despite the celebrations- just smiling and nodding when he needed to, because otherwise he would not be able to make it through this.

“Is that so?” Straybow asks, disbelief clear in his voice as he looks Oersted over, “What’s the current year?”

Oersted opens his mouth. Closes it.

“Or the name of the current ruler?”

Oersted honestly can’t remember the name of Alicia’s father. 

The confusion must show on his face because Straybow’s own softens, and sighs, taking a seat next to Oersted on the side of the road. Oersted stares. 

“I’m not needed in the capital for another day, and it’s barely an hour’s walk from here,” Straybow explains, and that sounds like him- always trying to over-prepare- “Besides, I’m more worried about you.”

Oersted gives him a questioning look, and Straybow explains, “You have a concussion, I found you unconscious on the side of the road, so I’ll stay here until you’re well enough to walk.”

Oersted blinks, and he wonders if-

“Don’t look at me like that! If I just left you here, what kind of example would that set for the future Mage-Knights?!”

Well, this tiny difference won’t be enough, but maybe, if he tries harder this time…

Would he be able to keep this?

…He doesn’t know, but he needs to try.

Chapter Text

They wait for a while, even though Oersted knows he’s fine. Still, the last thing he wants is for his relationship with Straybow to become worse then it was last time- somehow- so he thanks the m- boy, he realises, because Straybow is young, and-

-He looks so different from his last visit-

Oersted isn’t sure what to think of that.

Maybe sitting down for a while is a good idea. For now.

Still, he doesn’t want to be here for too long, so after a few minutes, he tells Straybow he’s well enough to walk, and the two of them start walking together towards the city. As they do, Oersted’s thoughts can’t help but… wonder.

Straybow seems… different, to the first time they met. Perhaps it’s just Oersted’s memory being vague from years of not thinking about it, but- No, he’s certain of it. He looks at Oersted with a concern that Oersted knows wasn’t there during their first meeting- Him staying, insisting they take their time, worrying about Oersted’s health…

For a split second, Oersted’s steps falter as he wonders if Straybow somehow came back, too, but he dismisses it immediately after. If Straybow found him unconscious, knowing what Oersted has d- could do, and will never do now, he would have ended his life then and there. Besides, the other Straybow- or well, the one that hopefully will never exist- wasn’t this… open. He never let anything slip. Not really.

Or maybe he did and Oersted just never noticed.

Oersted ignores the thought. He knows Straybow, at the very least, wasn’t honest about his thoughts, not entirely. Maybe he did let things slip- little things, that were easy to ignore, because he always seemed perfect in Oersted’s eyes. Not as a fighter, but as a friend.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? Oersted had thought him perfect, once. The best of humanity.

Oersted had placed him on a pedestal, and when that broke, well, there wasn’t anything worth saving in humanity, was there? Not when promises like faith and loyalty meant nothing.

He knows now that was just… perhaps it wasn’t completely an act, given everything, but Straybow gained that ‘perfection’ by hiding his more hideous emotions.

Once, those thoughts would have made him rage, but now- now, he has spent too long alone not to miss the company of real, living people.

Oersted takes a breath, and pretends it distracts him from the thoughts. Straybow, the one next to him, is probably acting differently because he didn’t find a capable knight-in-training here, he found an unconscious maybe-fourteen year old in armour.

Oersted lets out a sigh of frustration.

He doesn’t know if this is real, not completely. Maybe his last shreds of sanity vanished, but…

Straybow doesn’t usually look like this when he ‘visits’ him. He never looks this young, and Oersted-

Oersted has never felt-

He feels human, Oersted realises, and the force of that emotion nearly causes him to fall over. Straybow gives him a concerned glance, and Oersted forces a smile through his grimace- he was never good at hiding his emotions- and just asks that they hurry to the capital. 

Straybow nods, and Oersted’s grateful for the quiet as he closes his eyes and tries to think. The… weight? Pressure? Freedom? Focus? that comes from being a demon isn’t there anymore- not completely- he can feel the type of pain that comes with being a person, but he can still feel a fragment of something other within him, small and weak, but…

The shard of… that, small as it is, is probably the reason Oersted hasn’t completely broken down yet.

Still, he’s not a demon the way he was before, and he doesn’t need to be. Not now. Now, he can just live as a human, and never touch that need for hatred again, that desire to fulfil something that could never be complete in that way.

Revenge didn’t get him anything but more emptiness, and after triumph…

As time passed filled with nothing, it had shifted targets. The first time, when all the humans were gone, and his hatred turned against the demons, and then…

Then the ghosts came. Odio had never known if they were real. Oersted still doesn’t. After so long alone, shadows of the people he slaughtered visited him. Some merely watched him, quietly with judgement in their eyes, but that was rare. Most were…

Most were not silent.

They didn’t hold back- they had no reason to- as they brought up his actions, his sins, and they counters each and every argument he made to defend himself, a fury that Oersted had never seen on many of them, until he was no longer able to direct his hatred outwards, towards them.

Digging the graves had quieted them, mostly. Perhaps it was because he was able to do something besides wonder. He wasn’t certain of anything during that time. It doesn’t matter, anyway. That’s done and undone, and now here’s here.

As they arrive at the capital, Oersted closes his eyes and takes a breath, trying to avoid the shock of fear that travels down his spine.

It’s not silent, though. The guards are quiet, but they welcome the two of them in, and the people are chattering in the city.

Oersted releases the breath he held.

Still, the sheer amount of people here…

Something’s caught in his throat.

“It’s okay,” Straybow says, voice surprisingly soft, and Oersted knows he’s misinterpreting whatever expression is on his face, “We’re almost there- The west wing, yes?”

 Right. Right now, he’s an apprentice studying the blade, and until he can properly distinguish himself anymore then he has, he’ll stay with the others- those who don't have a place to stay within the city. Oersted nods, suddenly grateful that Straybow’s here to guide him, because while he knows every path in the palace, he’s long since forgotten the purposes of them, and what the rooms they lead to are for.

He walks next to Straybow, only occasionally avoiding looking at the guards or anyone else that happens to cross their path,  and they reach the room- Oersted thanks whatever deity is listening that there’s only two other people in it, and they both seem more than happy to ignore the guests in favour of talking to each other.

It doesn’t make hearing a conversation any less strange.

“My thanks.” Is all Oersted can think to say as he enters the barracks. He doubts it will somehow fix everything that’s going to go wrong, but he should probably start somewhere. If Straybow still betrays him after everything… Oersted would rather not thinks about it.

Straybow blinks in surprise, “You thanked me.”

There’s an expression close to shock on his face, and Oersted has to wonder just when Straybow’s… insecurities, he’ll call it for now, started. He knows he wasn’t the most observant person, which was why Straybow was usually the one who planned and watched his back during missions, but this is…

“Yes,” Oersted states, “I did.”

“Ah,” Is all Straybow says, “Rest well.”

With that, he turns and leaves. 

Oersted stares as he goes. He has a feeling he's missing something, but...

Sleep first, then he’ll process everything.

Chapter Text

Oersted wakes up fighting. He can’t remember who he was fighting, but he can remember phantom hands around him, nails carving into his flesh-

There is no question of what he was fighting. 

It’s cold, and that’s what he notices before the rope- blanket, wrapped around him, the sounds of other- other people breathing, and he forces himself to breathe with them.

People. Breathing.

Because he’s-

The shard that was once his entire spirit pulses steadily, and he relaxes, sitting and allowing the blacket to fall away. The air isn’t cold compared to what he’s used to, but it's sharp in a way he hasn’t felt in years, so he pulls the blanket back up and around his too-small fraim. 

Perhaps the spirits were willing to give him peace in return for theirs. 

The sounds of breathing continue, louder and softer than anything Oersteds heard in a while, and it makes him feel like the room is swaying. 

He remains where he is, listening to the signs of life. Even outside, he can hear the occasional cry of a horse, or goat, or bird in the night- and- the night itself exists, he realises with a jolt. It is night, which will lead to morning, and day, and not simply the haze that he cursed the world with. Time will- move and continue in a way it didn’t before, and-

Oersted stops thinking after that. 

He stops thinking for a while. He doesn’t need to, when everyone wakes- because they were breathing and they are alive and- he follows them, his body working in a way his mind can barely remember, yet does all the same. He is- not 14, he realises, but 13. His sword is plain iron, and not yet decorated with the scars of battle. He watches the knights fight, and copies their moves, as he never needed a teacher, and when the hours are up, he begins doing chores around the training grounds. 

He isn’t allowed in the stables, he remembers distantly. 

He watches, and he realises that he doesn’t know the names of most here- but he does remember their spirits, remembers them far too well, but - and they don’t know him either, he remembers. He never needed to work in a group, he never needed anyone but Straybow, and he was perfectly fine with it. 

He didn’t know their name, and they didn’t know his, not until later, but he never thought anything bad about it. 

Even now, the thought of speaking to them makes him feel sick, even if the thought of not knowing anything about them makes him feel just as bad-  

The thoughts snap back away as he continues his routine, and the fog in his mind returns, and he repeats the pattern until one day he sees a servant who looks like all the others did when he killed them, and- 

He watches, and that’s all he can think to do. He removes his glove and holds out his hand, and the not-illusion-not-memory doesn’t fade or twist. His hand meets the person’s shoulder, and he feels the fabric, the small knots and stitches, and-

He jerks back when the person turns around. He recognises them, but can’t even remember-

This was someone he killed, he knows without knowing, and everything starts to feel distant again. 

He runs.

He runs through a city he’s long since memorised, through the streets he’s seen from above many times, and he can suddenly hear the sounds of his heart in his chest, the blood in his veins and air in his lungs, every step sending another shock through his body as it hits the stone, every touch as he bumps into someone- 

And suddenly there aren’t any jolts of cobblestone, any burns from the feeling of touching something alive. His boots- he doesn’t remember putting them on, he realises, nor does he remember putting on his chestplate, his blade, or his glove- he lost one, didn’t he?- 

His clothes are soaked, and he realises he must have run through a stream at one point. As he slows down, the ground goes from soft to stony again, and he feels a strange sense of calm dread as he realises where he’s run. 

The demonic shard in his soul beats like a steady heart, calming his lungs and pulse. 

Where else would it have led him?

He doesn’t know if it’s relief he feels when he sees the entrance is still sealed away. 

Brion would burn him, he knows, if he tries to use it to enter, and what’s left of his hatred isn’t enough- oh, it's still there, he knows, but the shock of being around living beings again is more than enough to leave it- almost gone, and- 

It’s a good thing. It’s a good thing. It’s a good thing that Devil’s Peak is sealed, that he can’t enter, that he can’t-

It doesn’t feel like a good thing. 

All it means is that anything could be happening behind that sealed gateway, and Oersted will never repe- will never do anything like that. It has not happened, and it will not happen again. 

Oersted will never become- 

He stops for half a moment as his thoughts catch up to him. The statues were gateways to othe- those who became incarnations of hatred. They were for empowering each other. 

There is absolutely nothing stopping any of the incarnations of hatred from giving eachother power and wiping away life. 

Again.

The thought doesn’t even finish before he starts running to where Brion is buried. 

Chapter Text

Oersted can’t carry Brion. 

He can’t even touch Brion before he throws up, his senses muddled from the nausea and dizziness, the steady pulsing of the shard becoming rapid, a screaming sound in his ears that he can’t tell if he’s making or hearing- 

Taking a deep breath- several deep breaths, he kneels before the grave, and removes his cloak, letting the frozen air begin to sting. He holds the cloak in his non-gloved hand, and uses the two to pull Brion from the remaining stone. It’s heavy- far heavier than he remembers- and he wraps the remains of the cloak around it before strapping it to his back. 

Just brushing it with his un-gloved hand had caused him to feel ill when he was digging it up. 

He has no desire to find out what would happen if he tries to hold it. 

What it would ask-

With another heavy breath, he begins to walk down the mountain, his feet digging into the snow, making him skid. Each step up feels like climbing the mountain itself, and each skid down is relief. 

He can feel The Peak in the distance, and he reaches for it, if only to make it easier to walk. The snow and ice become gravel and grass, but his feet still sink into it regardless. All he can do is grit his teeth and continue, keeping his head down and focusing on just one foot after the other, follow the calling, ignore the pull at your back, ignore the famili- 

Keep walking. 

He breaths. Walks. Ignores the weight and pulling on his back. Breaths. Walks. Follows the reaching in his chest. Breathes. Walks. Ignores. Breathes. Walks. Follows. Breathes. Walks. Ignores. Breathes. Walks. Follows. Breathes. Walks. Ignores. Breathes. Walks. Follows. Breathes. Walks. Ignores. Breathes. Walks. Follows. Walks- 

-It’s only when the land becomes firm again and his boots are stained with mud that he realises that he must have travelled through the stream once again. It feels right- better, at least, than taking the paths. 

Walking across the stone is better and worse than walking through the snow, dirt, and mud. His feet don’t sink into the ground, but the sharpness of them hitting the ground is by no means soft- it feels more like he’s leaping on the cobble of the square than simply walking to the entrance-

It doesn’t feel real when he real when he stands before the maw that is the entrance. It feels- so wrong to see it closed for hi- at all- Regardless, it should be closed. It will remain closed, once Oersted is done with it. 

Making sure his cloak still covers the handle, Oersted grabs Brion with both his hands, and drags it to the entrance. Using his knee, he balances it so the tip is facing The Peak, and pulls the cloth on the blade away. 

It shines as he lunges forward and forces it into the carving’s mouth, because even with his hands drenched in human blood, none can deny he's slain more demons than any other.

The entrance opens for him, and he allows Brion to clatter to the ground, the weight that it brings falling away with it. 

By the time the noise echoes through the room, Oersted is already through the first tunnel, then the next cavern, room, hall-

He doesn’t need a map to know where he needs to go, nor does he need to even remember the right route. He needs to find the statue room, so he will find the statue room. 

It’s only when he enters the latter room that a demon tries to attack him, and Oersted’s lip curls in ha- disgust as he draws his blade and tears it apart. It feels weightless, compared to Brion. Oersted knows he could crush them with a blunt piece of iron, so using something as sharp as a training sword? Now that he’s free of the burden on his back?

He doesn’t even need to think. All he needs to do is see a target and a-

-Wait for the first attack , then retalia- strike back.

Wait, dodge, strike. 

It’s so simple. It feels like it should have always been that way. 

The demon crumbles to dust, and Oersted winces as he leaves the room. The strike to his chest must have hurt worse than he thought. It doesn’t matter, though. The demon is dead- gone, before Oersted could even think to remember it. 

He just needs to reach the statues. 

The second demon to attack him has four arms. Oersted barely needs to think as he strikes between them, again and again and again-

He just needs to reach the statues. 

He’s alone alone alone he can’t do this alone he needs people but they could fall too but he could go back to that -

The third has no lower half, so Oersted leaps and strikes the head. It tries to move, but Oersted does not, pinning it until its struggles cease.

He just needs to reach the statues. 

The fourth is one and many, so Oersted keeps striking them down until only the maker is left, then he cuts it in two. 

He just needs to reach the statues.

The fifth shifts like water, trying to strike and weave away from Oersted’s attacks. It should have known that nowhere would be safe from him. 

He just needs to-

The statues are here. Inactive. Nothing but stone and potential that will never be reached. Each one he touches the plaque of and commands crumble instead of strengthen and revitalise and take what I have and Oersted feels ill, like his insides are being torn out, like his soul is being torn out and crushed and placed into someonesomethingelse-

The statues crumble. His entire body hurts. 

There’s still one left.

Oersted reaches the final statue. The statue of the King of Demons. The most important. The least. The one that it began with but didn’t. His touch forces it aside, but he doesn’t stop striking until it cracks and breaks. He only notices the room was shaking when it steadies. 

For less than a moment, he thinks Hash, Uranus, Straybow, where are you-? Because while his demonic side has bathed in loneliness, his humanity didn’t last more than a day without them .

For less than a moment, his body moves forward, to take a step towards The Peak.

But it is only for less than a moment, so he turns and leaves.

It’s only as he leaves the mountain that he notices the weather, the sun, the clouds. They cover the sun, but only partly. Oersted can see the greenery of the forest, the yellow, purple, red- so many colours of the spring- or summer- flowers, because it could be- no, it must be spring, because the lower snow on the western mountain hasn’t melted. 

He walks down the slope, and he can hear the pebbles fall under his feet, the way the stone seems brown instead of grey. He-

He’s tired, and injured. He’ll need rest soon.

It’s time to go-

Home

To Straybow

-back to the capital. 

Chapter Text

Nine steps away from the maw of the mountain, the adrenaline fades and the pain hits. 

Oersted grimaces and lets out a hiss, but doesn’t yell. The last thing he wants is for anyone to know about what happened. Brion is damning, the open mouth to Devil’s Peak is damning, him walking out alive is damning. 

He takes one breath, then another. 

South. He needs to go south. There’s a field, he remembers, full of herbs. 

He makes his body move, ignoring the pain that screams for him to stop. It doesn’t matter, and never did. A part of him doesn’t want to leave The Peak, but it’s the same part of him that wants to run away from Brion, and the pain of leaving it near the entrance is nothing compared to the weight that came from entering. 

There’s noise as he walks. The distant sound of the stream, the rustling of the leaves, the humming of insects he cannot remember the name of. Somewhere, several birds call before falling silent as they hear him. Even his own footsteps make sounds as he crushes the twigs and plants below. 

It’s almost enough to distract him from the pain. 

When he reaches the clearing, its light is gentle, and the bushes that would usually make it difficult to walk there have been cleared. Oersted can still see patches of dirt from where people have dug them up, and the torn remnants of some of the larger flowers and grasses. It makes the place smell of both sweet and tangy herbs.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can remember being told that the herbs that grow along the ground need a certain mix of sunlight and shade. It is why they cannot be grown in the open, but also cannot be grown in forests. 

He only takes two this time. One for now, and one for later. It only takes a few handful of moments after grinding and applying the herb for the pain to become a mixture of stinging and itching, and a few more for the worst of the wounds to close, the feeling lessened but still there. It should fade entirely by the time he returns to the capital. 

Perhaps he should take more, just in case. A third if there’s someone else injured, a fourth if he needs it again, a fifth if-

Oersted stops himself before he follows through. 

He’s stronger than most. Others will need it more than him. 

Taking all of them for himself, leaving none for the others was what happened before and will never be. 

He straightens, and walks out at a steady pace before he can change his mind. It wouldn’t take more than a day to reach the city from here, and he needs to return as soon as possible.

Oersted knows that not everyone within the city is looking at him. A quick glance reveals most are going about their lives, with only one or two occasionally staring before looking away. 

That doesn’t change the feeling of being watched.

Oersted lowers his eyes, and hurries through the streets, covering his ears to block out the noises. 

It’s lively. 

It’s wrong. 

It’s how it’s always been. 

His walk breaks into a run. Someone’s yelling for him, and it only makes him speed up. He bumps into statues and structures and people until his body remembers to weave and he can find somewhere-

Distantly, his mind notes that the person calling his name has stopped.

His name. Oersted. OerstedOerstedOerstedOersred-

He’s climbing up familiar stairs before he remembers he’s not meant to go up there. That’s where-

He runs back down, somewhere else, anywhere else, somewhere he-

A knight’s talking to him, and he backs away, again. 

Not here, either.

Nowhere is safe- for him from him-

An unarmoured hand pushes him through a pair of doors, and-

- He runs, because the path is dark, and stone, and too tight too cramped-

The wood his hand reaches for moves under his weight, and he slumps when his feet hit dirt instead of rock. 

It’s not dark. It’s not stone. It’s a small, inconvenient entrance to a corner of a garden. Left behind and forgotten. 

Oersted slumps to the floor, and allows himself to curl up, alone. It’s only when his knees dig into his chest plate that he realises the edges of it are damaged and fractured.

At least the knights know he’s back.

Light footsteps on the dirt. A sigh.

“You could get cold if you remain there.” 

A voice. Calm- no. That voice has never been calm in the entire time he’s known it. There’s always been an edge of something.

He almost wants to bury his head, and break . He wants to cry with frustration and relief. He wants to demand to know what the spectre is doing here, now of all times, when it is day, when he made him a resting place-

Except the voice echoes, but not in the way it’s meant to. The pitch is wrong, the tone is wrong. 

Slowly, he looks up at Straybow’s face. He looks refreshingly young, wary, but not vengeful. He stands with an air of power and grace that makes Oersted want to vomit. 

Oersted’s thoughts must be written across his face, since Straybow lowers himself until he is kneeling in the dirt next to Oersted. 

Somehow, it still feels refined. 

“I meant no offence by pushing you through there,” Straybow states, and- oh, that makes sense, he supposes. It would surprise him more if it were anyone other than Straybow who pushed him. 

“It-“ Oersted shakes his head, trying to find right the words, “It was relief.”

Straybow looks at his gloved hand, then his bare one. Straybow hums, leaning slightly closer, removing a black glove from his pack as he does. 

“It is for you,” Straybow looks down as he speaks, holding the glove for Oersted, “Do not worry, the material used is soft, but it will protect your hand.”

It’s only then that Oersted realised the burn Brion left is clear for all to see. The wound may have healed, but he can still feel a faint numbness from where the sword touched his hand.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Oersted says as he takes the glove. His words are less proper, he knows, but… he doesn’t want that distance between himself and Straybow. He doesn’t need that distance. He’s strong enough to-

“I never said it did,” Straybow replies easily, not taking a step out or pulling his hand away, “Does the glove fit?”

“Yes,” Oersted notes as he pulls the glove onto his hand. It fits perfectly, and the material it’s made from is clearly good quality. It feels- important. Far more important than any of the ones Oersted himself would be able to buy, “…Thank you.” 

Straybow seems to relax, and tilts his head in acknowledgement, “Take care not to lose it. Being burned like that is dangerous, especially with your position.”

Straybow’s voice is gentle, and Oersted finds himself smiling slightly as he nods and agrees. The sounds of people echo and overlap, but they don’t overwhelm him. 

They remind him of bees, he realises abruptly. A pleasant and annoying buzzing, and-

He had missed it. He-

He wants-

He doesn’t know what he wants, he doesn’t know how- what he feels about this. It’s- not too much-… but not too little, either. He- is he human at this point? A demon? Both? Neither? 

He wanted to go back.

He wanted to be Oersted.

He doesn’t remember how-

Is he part of this, or just-

He shakes his head, trying to get thoughts of the wasp in the bees’ hive out of it. 

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because he won’t allow himself to become wreathed in loneliness. It has never happened now, and never will. 

Chapter Text

In the morning, Straybow sits across from him, and pushes a small plate of butter forward. 

Oersted stares at it, then at Straybow. He’s… Oersted won’t say he’s not glad to see Straybow- this Straybow, especially after his nightmare. He looks whole, and uninjured, and whole and not-

“It’s for the porridge,” Straybow mutters, clearing his throat, looking at his glove on Oersted’s hand and then back to the meal, “You’ve been eating nothing but that every day, and it’s to help with the flavour. I mean no offence, of course- if you don’t want it, you don’t have to accept.”

Why was Straybow the one approaching him?

Why has Straybow been the one approaching him?

Straybow doesn’t remember know. Straybow cannot know, because if he did, he wouldn’t be- doing any of this. Not looking at Straybow’s face, Oersted nods in acceptance as he takes the dish, and continues his meal. It tastes... more right, more familiar, but it's missing something that Oersted was once familiar with, that he never bothered to remember the name of. From the edge of his sight, he sees Straybow’s hands relax. 

“They say you’ve mastered most of the techniques- ones they can teach you, and ones they can’t,” Straybow begins, and Oersted nods, because it’s true. He’s already learned everything there is to, and anything else he gained just by watching, even if it is- difficult, to watch, “They also say you want to leave, that you left without telling anyone and returned the following night. You gave no explanation.”

Oersted nods again. Also true, though he is starting to wonder which ‘they’ Straybow is talking about.

“You don’t want to remain here?” Straybow asks, though Oersted isn’t completely sure it’s a question. He’s almost certain his expression has already spoken for him. Still, he nods once more, because being here hurts in a way he doesn’t want to think about, “Then why do you stay?”

Oersted opens his mouth, and stops, considering. He wants to help people, to have something again, but he can do that without staying. Staying is painful for him, and yet-

“You’re here,” Is all Oersted can answer with. Straybow’s death wasn’t the beginning of the end, not truely, but his death was the final tie that Oersted- will never- cut. Straybow is… proof, in a way, proof the same way the chatter around him or the animals in the stable are, that Oersted is here. 

“You-“ The word almost doesn’t sound like it’s meant to be spoken, with how Straybow says it, and in that moment, Oersted realises just how strange his own response was, “You are staying… for me?” 

Oersted can’t tell whether Straybow sounds anxious or relaxed. He can’t even tell if Straybow sounds interested or wary. 

He must sound wary, because- 

No, he needs to stop assuming- 

“I am,” Oersted has never been a good liar, nor has he been good at being anything but blunt. Straybow looks relaxed as he speaks honestly, so why should he mask it? 

He was honest last time, but -

The wrong kind. Honest, but not true -

Oersted hates the lull in their conversation that follows. It almost never means anything good. To distract himself, he looks at the people in the hall. They look happy. Nervous. Sad. Longing. Excited. Tired. The faces don’t blur together. He looks away.

“Would you be happier…” Straybow begins, the words said slowly but the suddenness of them makes Oersted almost startle, “...If I arranged it so we travel and work outside the city?”

That was something Oersted never expected Straybow to offer, but he speaks before he can think- before any of them can reconsider, “Yes.”

There’s a brief moment of silence before Oersted remembers that he should probably say more. 

“Is there anything you need in return?” He winces at the phrasing, but he needs Straybow to know this isn’t- will never be- a one-sided relationship. That Straybow’s efforts on their quests will be seen, and appreciated, and repaid. 

That Oersted won’t just take and take and- 

At least this way if when if Straybow betrays him, it won’t be Oersted’s-

A huff that might be laughter, or relief, or- 

“Just make sure you have everything you need, and… take the first watch?” Straybow’s voice pitches up at the end, and he can see Straybow’s hands forming a fist, muscles tensing. 

Oersted can agree to that. 

Oersted doesn’t say farewell to anyone when he leaves. It feels… different. Right. There’s no one to wish him off, no offerings of supplies, herbs, information, clothes, or armour. No stares besides a few curious glances that he can brush off. Their curiosity makes sense, of course- himself and Straybow are leaving before dawn, and the cold would sting Oersted if it could. There’s sharpness, but no pain from it, only a sense of focus.

He simply walks through the gates, right next to Straybow. 

“The place that needs help is near the south-western base of Hero’s Mountain, a forest or so off,” Straybow speaks as he walks, voice sounding far too propper and far too young, “It seems there have been strange occurrences for a while, such as unusual sounds coming from the caves, and nearby buildings rotting.” 

Oersted hums, signalling Straybow to continue, keeping his footsteps even with the mage’s, so they’re at the same pace. 

“This… isn’t much to go off. It doesn’t say what the strange sounds are, or how the buildings have collapsed, or even if anyone’s seen anything,” Straybow sighs, putting his map away, “I suppose it can’t be helped with my request, but…” 

“Request?” Oersted asks, running his hands across the hem of his tunic. The patterns in the stitches aren’t there yet, and the stitching feels as rough as a horse’s mane, but not woolly or completely unpleasant, with the glove separating his hand from the trim. 

“I did ask for something away from the city under short notice,” Straybow points out. He hesitates for a moment, before continuing in a slightly strained voice, “I also don’t know what creatures you can or are willing to fight.” 

Oersted blinks for a moment, startled. He can fight everything, but willing- “Anything that harms others.” 

It feels like the best way to put it, but, well- anything is capable of harming others, and it’s not like Oersted can say ‘Anything that fights back,’ considering- 

-Small hands, small teeth- 

-everything can fight back. 

“I see,” Straybow just hums, “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

A silence settles over them, and Oersted only spends a few moments glancing back to the capital. It still feels far too close, but the sounds of the forest- Oersted knows that it must be quieter than usual, since neither he nor Straybow are trying to be quiet, but there’s already enough noise for him to know it’s full of life. 

Then a monster attacks, and it takes roughly five seconds for Oersted to rip it apart after Straybow yells at him where to strike. 

Straybow looks at the monster’s remains, then at Oersted. Oersted looks at Straybow. Straybow doesn’t move to do anything, and Oersted gives him another glace to make sure he wasn’t struck during the attack. 

“Oersted…” Straybow begins, voice dangerously careful, before he shakes himself, “I see.” 

Oersted gives Straybow a strange look, “Is something wrong?” His throat already feels dry. If- 

“No, no, nothing’s wrong,” Straybow sighs again, “I just n- want to ask- Why did you listen to me so easily when I asked you to attack it?” 

That’s what Straybow found odd? That Oersted would listen to him? That Oersted, his companion… except, in Straybow’s eyes, Oersted was a complete stranger. An ally, but nothing more. He didn’t know that Oersted knew- 

“You know how best to fight,” Oersted replies, trying to think of the right way to explain, a way that doesn’t contain lies like I trust you, “You’re skilled. What you say makes sense, so I listen.” 

You’ll go further than any other. Oersted almost adds, and he doesn’t try to hide the expression from his face. It’s not as if Straybow can read him that easily, not yet, at least.

Straybow is silent for several moments, before he gives a jerky nod, “Then I hope I continue to meet those expectations.” 

You will, Oersted doesn’t say, but a hint of a smile forms on Straybow’s face as he turns and walks. 

Oersted remains silent as they continue into the forest. While not a used path, together they do manage to lead each other south-west through the thinner areas of the forest. It’s… nice. Strange. Oersted would call it familiar, but he’s never…

It feels new.

Chapter Text

The sun is still in the sky, but no longer visible through the trees when Straybow announces, “We should begin looking for shelter.”

Oersted stops, and gives Straybow a confused glance, tilting his head as he looks at how the shadows have begun to stretch. 

Oersted likes to think they’ve made good time travelling. The only monsters that attacked them were those too weak or too foolish not to notice what Oersted was, and while they are still in the thick of the forest, a soft carpet of needles overing the ground, Oersted estimates that they’re halfway to the town. 

“Oersted, soon it will be dark, and we need to rest and eat. When we stop, we will be vulnerable,” Staybow’s voice almost sounds amused- but tiredness seems to seep through and consume it. At Oersted’s gesture to the trees, Straybow adds,”While the trees here give us shelter, it’s nowhere near enough to hide us from the monsters lurking during the night.”

Oersted freezes.

He had forgotten. 

He had forgotten. 

How had he forgotten?! 

Straybow was officially introduced to him because he was a prodigy in magic, because he had managed to learn a support spell that made it so monsters would only know of their presence while they moved. If they stood still, they were practically invisible to the creatures, and that was only one of the support spells Straybow used-

Straybow could keep food fresh, stop the rain or mud from dulling their equipment, he-

-and Oersted was grateful, he was. He loved that Straybow could do that, he thanked him-

-And then he became used to it, took it for granted.

Was that why-

The spirit never-

Was he even-

Unless he didn’t want to spell it out

Straybow and Oersted were introduced to each other because they were prodigies, because together, they could already form a small party. Oersted was fast, and strong, and while he hadn’t learned many techniques, he was skilled, and Straybow-

Wanted to see how long it took to realise-

Oersted covered Straybow’s weaknesses.

Straybow covered Oersted’s weaknesses, but because he was usually the one supporting Oersted, it slowly became unnoticeable.  

“Oersted?” 

It’s Straybow’s prompting that causes him to speak.

“If you learn supportive magic, I’ll make sure you’re known.” Oersted blurts before his mind can catch up with his mouth.

He glances at the- shock?- on Straybow’s face before he looks away as Straybow mutters, “When it rains on the Seer, it drizzles on the priestess, then?”

There’s a familiar sharpness in his tone.

“No,” Oersted keeps his voice firm, taking care to make his point clear, “If you want, you can be behind me, and I will accept that, but I’m offering this: If you manage to gain supportive magic to the point you can use it on another person, and you use it to help us succeed, I’ll make sure everyone knows I couldn’t have done this without you, I’ll make sure that whatever I gain, you gain too.” 

Straybow is silent for a moment, before he asks, “And you think I would be skilled at such magic?”

Oersted doesn’t even need to think before he replies, “I know you would be.”

Straybow doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t disagree, either. He simply hums and says “I will consider,” before he glances around the area and points in a seemingly random direction, “Further that way looks like a good area to set up to rest. Do you know how to set up camp when trevelling with another?”

Oersted shakes his head as the two begin to walk over. 

Straybow hesitates for another moment, “…Do you want me to teach you?”

“…Yes,” Oersted tries not to look embarrassed. He knows Straybow can clearly see it on his face. 

“Very well, the first thing you need to think about when setting up camp for- for travellers is what is close…” Oersted focuses as Straybow explains how the surrounding landmarks can affect people who camp there, the slopes, if there’s rain, things nearby that might attract monsters or hungry animals, which is why they’ll take turns to keep watch- Oersted had thought Straybow ment taking first watch while he set up the spells before they left, but he doesn’t say that. 

By the time Straybow shows Oersted how to properly set up a fire without smouldering the ground, the sun is already below the horizon, only faint reds dotting the sky. 

In truth, Oersted would be offended by how much detail Straybow explained everything in if Oersted didn’t need that explanation. When Straybow’s done, the camp is set, and there’s nothing left to do but keep watch, and cook.

“I can find food,” Oersted offers, realising how late it is, and when he speaks, he remembers he’s young, he remembers that Straybow sees him as young, which is probably why Straybow went into so much detail about setting up camp. 

Regardless, they’ve been travelling all day, and Straybow must be starving. Even though they did stop to eat while they travelled, nothing they had was large enough to ensure Straybow wouldn’t be hungry by now. 

“No!” It’s said so suddenly that Oersted doesn’t realise how quickly Straybow stiffened until after Straybow had spoken, “No, you don’t need to find food for me. You can find it for yourself, and I can cook it, but I will find my own food, ” Straybow takes a short, deep breath, “I appreciate the offer.”

Oersted hesitates before nodding, deciding to give Straybow some space, “I apologise for taking your time.”

With that, he hurries into the woods. It will be easy enough to find camp. The place has a distinct smell, and once the fire begins, it will only be stronger. 

He considers what to eat. Anything too large would be a waste- Straybow isn’t going to eat it, and Oersted can’t fight while carrying around an entire buck. Then again, it’s spring, killing them now would be asking for a curse… 

Oersted returns with three rabbits. He hesitantly hands them to Straybow, who looks at their slit throats before he hangs them over the fire to cook. 

“How raw do you want them?” He asks, his tone almost refined, as he takes his own meal off the fire- some sort of thick soup that Oersted knows he only eats during travels. 

“Cooked enough to eat while we travel,” Oersted replies with, and Straybow nods, and adds a some sort of liquid and more salt to them, ignoring the fire while he rubs it into the meat. 

Oersted stares. He knows being that close to the fire can leave burns, but Straybow is unbothered, likely because the flames came from his own magic. Straybow freezes for a moment as he notices Oersted. 

“The salt-“ Straybow states, sounding far too formal as he pales, “Does it bother you? I meant no offence-”

“It does not bother me,” Oersted assures, watching. The salt will be- well, the taste will be strong, but even he knows that it makes the meat last. 

Straybow just nods, and when the food is well-cooked, he simply hands it to Oersted. With the first bite comes a wave of familiarity that was not there for  his previous meals, and it it takes every part of Oersted’s will not to let his expression crumble away until Straybow’s gaze is anywhere but him. Then, he packs the other two rabbits away. The two sit in silence, until Straybow dulls the fire. 

“I will rest now,” Straybow hums, preparing his sleeping skin, “You will take first watch?” 

Oersted nods. He knows Straybow- Straybow cannot trust him yet, because Straybow is Straybow and he cannot possibly trust Oersted now after he-

Oersted takes a deep breath as Straybow turns away from him, plaiting his hair and changing his outer cloak to one more fitting for sleep- but still practical, still keeping his weapons close, and then relaxes into his skin. 

Still, it is an arrangement that both of them can agree on, and that is all that matters.

The sun is well below the horizon now. In truth, he doesn’t yet know if that means it’s early or late. By summer, the sun will be rising when Oersted is meant to change watch, but for now- 

For now, he can hear the owls, calling and warning eachother. He can hear the rats, scurrying along the forest floor. He can hear the sounds of hooves, hitting the roots and the stone where there are no trees. 

He can hear different creatures, with sharper fangs, beginning the hunt. Larger creatures, ending their rest. All dangerous, but none close. 

It seems Straybow really did know the best place to rest, or perhaps the smell of fire or surrounding ash keeps them away. 

Yet none of them are important as the one Oersted hears right next to him. 

In… out… in… out…

For half a second, he wants to get closer- to hold Straybow until the memory of loneliness is so far that it’s more a dream than a memory. To lean against him and prove the terrors that haunt him in his sleep are just dreams. His own memories tell him he and Straybow have huddled close many times, when the winter came. 

In… out… in… out…

His sense tells him that here and now, he has not done so even once. 

In… out… in… out…

Has never been patient, but he must wait. He will wait. 

For what, he doesn’t know yet.

In… out… in… out…

For now, Oersted must be content to simply hear Straybow breathe. 

In… out… in… out…

Beneath the sounds of Straybow’s breath, there is his heartbeat, just his heartbeat, just the slight shifts he makes while breathing, but no voice. No humming or muttering. No questions, words, or glances to draw Oersted away from his own mind and back to the world. 

In… out… in… out…

He’s missed this. Missed him. 

Even when the world was slaughtered, he clung to Straybow’s ghost.

Oersted has no plan, he realises as he lies with his own animals’ skin wrapped around himself. Plans have always been Straybow’s domain, and even when Oersted tries one, it was always, always with Straybow’s nudging or hints. 

Even when he became a demon king-

In… out… in… out… in… out… in… out…

Straybow still breathes. Straybow’s heart still beats. He tries to focus on that. Oersted doesn’t know how to keep everything. He had Straybow, and that was enough. He lost Straybow, and then he lost everything. Alicia would have been enough, but she-

He had hated her, he had loved her, he had wanted her, but he didn’t know her, doesn't know her. 

He doesn’t know her. He longs for her- for something. For her to look at him with something he can’t name, but he doesn’t know her. 

He didn’t miss her, not like he missed Straybow.

In… out… in… out… in… out…

There’s a twisting in his stomach, one that comes whenever he thinks of- everything. Except it’s more than what had happened, because he-

He doesn’t know her, and he never did. 

For some reason, that makes him feel even less, but makes the longing deeper. He would be fine if Straybow spat in his eye and cured his name, so long as Straybow was alive, real, and within reach.

Because a world without Straybow was-

In… out… in… out…

If Alicia did the same, he…

Well, he doesn’t know what he would do, but he wouldn’t care about her. He would mourn, then curse, and then she would be nothing, because she was just an image he built off of announcements and formalities. She wasn’t the one who always watched his back, who sighed when reading his plans but still helped with them, who took the longer watches and cooked so he could sleep off exhaustion, who-

Who never stopped looking at him, with eyes filled with something. 

Because more than he needed to be a hero, he needed to be acknowledged. Being looked passed, ignored, alone-

Well, he had made his own hell, only for the spirits to make another one. 

He jolts as he realises he had been using her highness’s name.

A look of pure disgust-
‘You lost that right long ago-‘  

That he had referred to her with familiarity that never was given back after being taken away when cold, hardened eyes looked down at him, from the edge of the balcony where- 

Oersted focuses on Straybow’s breathing, and lets it ground him. He is tired, and his mind is wandering. It is allowing thoughts of things that have never been and will never be. Thoughts that are better ignored.

Still, he does not sleep, for now he shall listen to his companion’s breathing, perhaps try to hear Straybow’s heart beneath it all, and avoid the terrors that come with rest.

He allows himself to move slightly closer, only so he can see the signs of life clearly across Straybow’s face. This close, he can easily breathe in the smell of smoke and human that lingers in the camp, even if the pine is almost enough to cover some of it.

He hasn’t been this comfortable in a long, long time

M̶̶҉̳͈̺͟͢͠͠ͅa҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡n̸͐̈́͟͟͝k҉̴̶̬͈̫̹͖̾̎ͭ́̍̐͜͜͝͠i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠n̸͐̈́͟͟͝d҉̴̷̧̢̛̖͔̤ͯ̔̑̄͢͟͡͠ t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞d҉̴̷̧̢̛̖͔̤ͯ̔̑̄͢͟͡͠ o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝f҉̴̥͎̰̰̒͌͛͐ͧ̕͜͝͡͞ r҉̵҉̛̠̩̥̋ͦ̆͆͟͞͡͞͠i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠g̷̵̸̡̼̱͎͎̞ͤͬ̅͢͟͞h̷̶̘̘̬ͭ̏͞͡t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝u̶͖̖͆̊̈́͡͡s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡ r҉̵҉̛̠̩̥̋ͦ̆͆͟͞͡͞͠a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡g̷̵̸̡̼̱͎͎̞ͤͬ̅͢͟͞e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞, o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝f҉̴̥͎̰̰̒͌͛͐ͧ̕͜͝͡͞ r҉̵҉̛̠̩̥̋ͦ̆͆͟͞͡͞͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ǰ̸̶̭͓͓̀̈́͜͟ͅe̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞c̷̶҉̵̢͚̣̻̲̬͑̑͛͐̀͜͜͜͝͡͝͠t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝n̸͐̈́͟͟͝, a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡n̸͐̈́͟͟͝d҉̴̷̧̢̛̖͔̤ͯ̔̑̄͢͟͡͠ s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡w҉̢̡̹̮͌̄ͦ͜͟͟͞͠͞e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡ v҉̨̊͢͠͠i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠c̷̶҉̵̢͚̣̻̲̬͑̑͛͐̀͜͜͜͝͡͝͠t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝r҉̵҉̛̠̩̥̋ͦ̆͆͟͞͡͞͠ȳ̸̵̩̜͔͍̔́͟͟͢͡.

Oersted does not move until the morning sun begins to paint the sky. 

Chapter Text

When Straybow wakes, the shadows are still long, but the sunlight is visible across the sky. He does nothing, simply starting upwards for several moments. Straybow closes his eyes, sighs, and turns. 

The moment he sees Oersted, Straybow’s visible eye widens a fraction, and Oersted fights the urge to look away. It’s not difficult, once he sees dark instead of intense blue within it’s colour.

Straybow opens his mouth, focuses on Oersted’s face, and then winces. 

He looks at Oersted, then around the camp. 

“The sun is up,” He states, slowly, as if Oersted does not realise. 

Oersted nods, he is aware the sun is up. The sky is too light for it to be nighttime. He gives Straybow a concerned look, since that should be obvious. 

“I slept the entire night,” Straybow continues, and that does nothing to clear Oersted’s confusion at Straybow’s words, “When you had first watch.” 

Oersted makes the gesture to continue, but the silence stretches for a few moments, and he remembers that Straybow is not used to travelling with Oersted, “Yes, and…?” 

Straybow stares, then seems to realise something, sighing, “Oersted, why did you not wake me up for my own watch?” 

Oersted freezes. 

“I…” The words feel thick in his throat, and he tries to think of a reason, any reason, why he wouldn’t wake Straybow up and rest for himself, “...Wasted your time last night,” At Straybow’s look, he clarifies, “When you were meant to be setting up camp. You needed to explain everything to me. It took up your time, time you could have spent resting. I just repaid it.” 

Straybow closes his eyes for several seconds, and Oersted wonders if he should clarify more- that this is going to be fair, and that Oersted won’t just throw everything into the quest- he’ll still focus on Straybow, make sure he isn’t too distracted- 

“You didn’t need to,” Straybow interrupts, “Keep watch all night, that is.” 

“I’m not just going to take,” Oersted stresses. What if he’s just making it worse trying to show off full of lies and broken-  

“I know,” Straybow almost seems to snap for a moment, his eyes narrowing, “I know you won’t, but… I still needed to wake. Sunrise has passed, and we haven’t eaten, or gathered the food, prepared to leave. I appreciate what you did, but next time you think of returning a favour, just… explain what it is beforehand. The last thing we need is to fall behind.” 

Oersted nods, looking down. The feeling curling in his gut is uncomfortably familiar, but strangely grounding. 

Oersted remains still as Straybow leaves his sleeping skin and begins preparing the camp for the morning meals. He tries to focus on the sound of Straybow breathing, but the footsteps and other sounds- cloth, metal, wood- interrupt it. 

A sigh. 

“How about this: To make it fair, and to get us back on schedule, you clean up the camp while I gather some food a-?” Straybow’s voice is slightly tight as he offers, and Oersted knows he was going to say something more before he cuts himself off, but Oersted nods regardless. 

“Don’t you have enough food in your supplies?” Oersted asks, since he knows Straybow has always, always been prepared when they travel. This is only a two day journey, and Straybow should have more than enough. 

“I did not give you permission to go through my things,” Straybow’s hand is immediately on his own pack, holding it protectively-

“I did not!” Oersted jolts back as he stands, taking a few steps away for good measure, “I swear, I have not touched anything of yours! I did not move from where I sat while you rested!” 

He waits, but he isn’t sure what for yet. Straybow isn’t- isn’t Straybow the way Oersted knows him, or Straybow in the way that haunted Oersted, or- or- 

Oersted’s never known Straybow at this point, and Straybow doesn’t know what Oersted knows- 

“I… accept that,” Straybow’s grip relaxes slightly, and he sighs, “Just put everything in the shared pack, except for the pot and grinder. I’ll be back with more food… as the food in my own pack is not to be eaten when we still have other safe options.” 

Oersted nods as he stands, and begins cleaning up, recalling how Straybow explained it last night. Obviously, things like the ash and the fire weren’t to be placed in the pack, but they weren’t from the pack, so Oersted doubts he would have tried, but Straybow had been very specific on how to handle everything… 

Straybow must have left at some point, because he’s gone by the time Oersted is done. He returns with a bucket of water and some leaves, roots, and stems that Oersted doesn’t know the origin of. 

Oersted watches as Straybow prepares the food. The human doesn’t bother with cutting any of them. Instead, he simply pours them into the pot above the fire and begins grinding them. Oersted already knows that the resulting soup will have only one taste, no matter how much Straybow adds. 

Straybow’s foods have always been like that, at least when travelling- when they had time, Straybow could cook decently. 

He remembers, once telling Straybow that. Straybow hadn’t been too happy with it. 

Once the food’s been ground up into an almost paste, Straybow sits back, and begins to sort through his own pack, pulling out an old bone- antler, Oersted corrects himself- comb that he’s seen many times and begins to un-braid and brush his hair- Oersted’s never seen Straybow look anything but elegant, even when busy. 

Even while mad- 

Once Straybow’s done, he looks at Oersted and then the meal. Oersted looks at the meal, and then at Straybow. 

The food continues to boil. 

“You said you didn’t move,” Straybow’s voice sounds… not sad, yet nowhere near accusing, either, “While I rested.”

Oersted blinks, “I did not move from where I sat. I still moved my head to look around the camp and make sure nothing took anything.” 

Straybow stares at Oersted. There’s an expression on his face that he doesn’t recognise, “You didn’t have to stay so still,” He sighs, and Oersted feels like he’s been doing that a lot more this time around- Or maybe Oersted’s just more used to listening to him breathe, “During my watch, I would have read, or practised magic. Staying focused keeps people awake.” 

“I was focused,” Oersted assures, words beginning to feel like frogs. 

“The whole night?” Straybow replies with. Strangely, it doesn't sound doubting- it almost sounds conversational. 

“I focused on your breathing,” Oersted admits quickly, only to realise how strange that sounds. He forces an assurance out before the words can get caught, “I like the sound of your breathing.” 

The words were meant to be something akin to soothing.

He has a feeling they were anything but. 

The silence remains as Straybow hands Oersted a bowl of the broth, still bubbling. It has a comforting sting as he eats it, although the heat does not bother him. The spike of pain and then numbness distracts his throat from its reaction to the fall in conversation. 

Staybow is still cooling his own meal. A quick glance at him- well, his face reveals nothing- he simply looks lost in thought, nothing more. 

“...Let us continue our conversation when we arrive at the village,” Straybow mutters, holding his spoon with the cooling broth, staring at it and not Oersted, and Oersted hides his wince. 

It should feel silent, and perhaps heavy, but Oersted can hear birds beginning to sound, their chicks begging for food. He can hear the gentle scraps of the wood in the bowl as he gathers more food, almost drowned out by the hiss of the fire as Straybow commands it to die. 

His throat burns so it does not close, and there is no silence to allow his thoughts to twist. 

When Straybow is done, he cleans their remaining tools- the pot, the bowls, the spoons- all by himself. Oersted turns away as Straybow leaves the burned food as a small offering. For a demon to be present during- 

Oersted picks up the pack before Straybow can decide to carry that on his own, too. Straybow’s hand is on the pack, but a quick look at Oersted’s face causes him to relent. 

He pulls the pack’s straps over his shoulder and begins walking before he can think about the churning in his stomach. It’s fine. It is fine. Straybow doesn’t even pray to Amalucrectia, he prays to the spirits- 

Oersted freezes, but only for half a second, allowing Straybow to catch up as they walk together. 

The spirits-

-Straybow worships the spirits- 

-The Spirits-

A memory, covered, not-covered, faded and torn and buried. The smell of flame, burning but soft and safe. Wrong. Warm, too warm too cold. Bent nails removing giving water. Burning, the feeling. Burning from the inside. A firepit, a voice, safe. Small, light, held between the fingers, thrown to the fire. Hair, knotted- 

“Protect-” 

Oersted slips, shaking, breathing, breathing- 

Finds his balance, leaving nothing more than a stumble.

“Oersted?” It is not Staybow’s voice. Straybow’s mouth is shut as he walks by Oersted’s side, carefully watching where the both of them walk, guiding Oersted through the forest.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, and only four are pointed. He runs his fingers through his hair, tugging away the knots. He looks at the strands, and none the blessed gold they once were. 

The shard sits close to his heart, beating softly, but creating no ire. 

Demon, in all the ways that do not matter. Made from blood that does not exist.

Y̵̡̬͖̠̋ͫ̌ͤ̚͞͞e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡ d҉̴̷̧̢̛̖͔̤ͯ̔̑̄͢͟͡͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞m̴̵҉̸̲̗̰̼͗͌̃̇͟͟͟͠͞͠o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝n̸͐̈́͟͟͝ a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝ t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡h̷̶̘̘̬ͭ̏͞͡e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡m̴̵҉̸̲̗̰̼͗͌̃̇͟͟͟͠͞͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞.

Chapter Text

Eventually, the soft underforest gives way to broken stones, and the trees begin to thin- enough to easily walk through, enough to let the light through, but nowhere near enough for it to no longer be called a forest. The sounds of the village are dulled, but not impossible to hear. 

At least, not for Oersted. 

Then, almost between one step and the next, the trees completely clear, and the both of them are on the edges of a rocky field. Oersted winces at the sudden sun, still bright despite now lowering- they must have spent the entire day travelling, and still not have encountered many monsters.

Oersted glances at Straybow- if he noticed it, Straybow definitely would have- but Straybow seems unconcerned for the lack of monsters they encountered, even while off the path- instead, his eyes are narrowed as he gazes at the field they’ve entered. 

Oersted follows his gaze. There might be less monsters now, after all, when the demons and humans gone, there were only monsters- 

“That way,” Straybow states, pointing along the edge of the forest, “There’s a house if we head the other way, and I would rather not be accused of trespassing.” 

Oersted nods, and walks with Straybow, taking in the village as they get closer- The place nestled with mountains to the north, west, and southwest, and it’s impossible to miss, even when looking to the forest. The lowering sun is reflected off the snow, leaving the entire area almost- no, not almost- completely shining. Oersted lets out a hiss of pain from looking at the mirrored light, and turns his gaze to the lower parts of the village to avoid it. 

From the first glance he gives, it’s clear that this place survives off the mountain’s gifts, both stone and meat, even as the greys and browns of the structures blend with the greens of the plants. 

The field that they found themselves in seems to have been one for goats. It doesn’t seem to be walled in the slightest, and Oersted can’t help but find it foolish, considering that the herd might be preyed upon. The people only give Oersted and Straybow a second glance before continuing with their work, clearly already deciding that the two aren’t worth their time. 

He huffs under his breath, and looks at the houses as they enter- now that he’s closer, he can’t help but notice almost every building within the town has some form of goat head carved into it- usually only the side of a hilt- something especially difficult, since it’s clear most of the buildings are almost completely stone. 

Once the colours of the village seem less blended, he sees the fire pits along the paths, dotting almost up the mountain, even where there are no houses. The coals they hold burn with an unpleasant smell. The stones used for the firepits- and the houses, too, almost seem to have an odd pattern. None of the lighter stones are touching- though, some of the houses clearly have more light stones than others. 

The greenery- vines, mostly, a few rose bushes that are far too stubborn to be killed by the goats, and other spiked plants that cling to everything but the mountain, in fact- 

Oersted narrows his eyes as they continue walking. 

“Straybow?” He whispers, and the slight shift in Straybow’s stance tells Oersted he has the man’s attention, so he gestures with a small flick of his chin, “The vines near that cave mouth aren't budding.” 

Straybow gives a sharp inhale, “I see.” 

He says nothing more, but Oersted nods, satisfied that Straybow heard what he needed to say. 

Straybow walks towards a large house- the hall, Oersted corrects himself, and realises that the village is close to becoming a town in of itself. 

At yet he doesn’t remember it at all- 

Oersted remains silent as Straybow waits outside, frowning, and realises that the bell at the gate had been destroyed- the gate itself was still intact, iron decorated with fine stone, but the bell, and the area it’s connected to, had been completely torn off, broken shards scattered on the inside of the property. 

Straybow, likely having decided that waiting outside as it slowly becomes colder is not a good idea, places his hands to his lips and lets out a low but loud whistle. 

It only takes a few moments for someone- A young, pale human with red hair and a heavy, grey fur cloak- to open the door, and upon seeing them, hurry to the gate in greeting. 

“I am Straybow, and this is my companion, Oersted,” Straybow introduces, tone pleasant as he shows the note, and the seal attached to it, “We were sent from the city to assist with the… attacks, I believed you called it?”

The person gives a nod in return, and opens the gate, gesturing for them to enter, and Oersted accepts the invitation- only to realise he passed the gate without Straybow. He turns, giving Straybow a look of confusion before the mage seems to shake off whatever caught his thoughts, and follows Oersted. 

By the time the two are walking through the yard, the person is already at the hall’s gates, holding it open for them. Oersted feels a rush of warmth as he and Straybow step up and into the place. The centre fire is well-lit, casting light over the area- a small cart sits by the door, on Oersted’s left, clearly well made from dark wood. Oddly, it seems too small to be pulled by anything large, and it’s built to be seated on despite being sized for supplies. Even stranger, there are very few seats, and no tables- all the tools and furs scattered to the sides, or on small benches that reach Oersted’s knee. It’s only then that Oersted notices that none of the windows were open- all had already been closed for the nightly preparations. Thankfully, the smoke window is still open, and Oersted looks at the two sitting- one keeling, one cross-legged- on the other side of the flames, being handed something by the person who opened the door. 

The first thing Oersted recognises is that the fur that the couple are wearing is clearly from the goats- and the rings and horns decorating their belt are, too. The couple in charge of the village are clearly younger than the king- their hair is a dark brown, but the grey streaks in it are impossible to miss, as are the wrinkles on their skin. 

“You do not need to stand,” The one on the right- bearded, with long, loose, hair- speaks first, “Please, sit. My wife, Yutta, and I, Torbyern, thank you for coming to Ourhus’ aid.” 

Don’t thank me don’t thank me don’t- 

It’s only when he sits that he realises that the man is not kneeling by the fire- from the knee down, he has no legs.  

He doesn’t remember-

Did they live to-?

Was he carried when the demon’s came, or left-

He was probably left to rot, weak-

Or did he force them to fight-

What difference would-

Don’t thank me don’t thank me don’t- 

Oersted shifts in discomfort, and grounds himself by feeling the fabric of his glove shift as he rubs his fingers together. 

“We accept your thanks,” Straybow replies easily, “Your plea claims that a building was lost in an attack. Would you be willing to elaborate?” 

“Of course,” Yutta agrees, her voice stained as if she had recently been screaming yelling, “The attack happened during the night, so few were awake to witness it, and it happened suddenly. You saw the bell by the gate being torn, yes?” 

Oersted presses his fingers together until there’s a small amount of pain. He nods. 

“It’s happened to every bell in the village,” She states, and Oersted blinks at the news- why would anything go after bells? “All torn from their place, sometimes violently. A few attempts were made at attaching them to another area, but it’s been the same results- almost nothing is left of the temple from the attack.” As she speaks, the red haired person hands her a cup before walking away again. 

“We were worried no one would be sent,” Torbyern adds with a sigh while Yutta drinks silently, “Our flames’ spirits protect us from most monsters, and we know how odd it sounds- an area such as this leaves little room for an attacker.” 

The flames must have done nothing when-

‘Little reason,’ as if a reason was ever needed-

Straybow alive and well and here hums at the words, and Oersted focuses on that.

“All the bells were stuck,” Straybow repeats, “Were any of the animals harmed in the attack?”

“None,” Yutta answers, and Oersted feels something in his stomach relax, “Our goats have no reason to leave, so we see no reason to keep such things on them.” 

“No reason?” Straybow’s tone raises slightly, into one Oersted almost doesn't recognise, “Is there a reason they stay so willingly?” 

“Oh, none that would encourage something like this,” Torbyen chuckles, waving his hand at whatever notion Straybow is suggesting, “While we’re protected from the sea by the west mountains, salt water still finds its way over them. The goats would never leave.” 

Straybow nods, “The flame pits- That is what protects this place from monsters? How long ago were they made?” 

“The first were made forty years ago,” Yutta’s voice is slightly more clear, but still somewhat scratchy, “The last, twenty years ago.”

“And the bells?” Straybow continues.

Kampa-?

Focus, focus, focus- Straybow is next to him, breathing. Focus on that. Focus on the people talking. 

“It would be impossible to tell,” Yutta sighs, “I could tell you how many years ago certain bells were made, but not all of them.”

Straybow hums in consideration, “I see. My companion and I are willing to help, however, it would be best if we stayed the night before confronting the issue. If you would be willing- could you direct us to a place we can stay, so we can protect Ourhus at full strength?” 

Why does Oersted feel angry that-

Didn't he want-

Focus. 

“Of course,” Torbyern gives a slight bow, “Usually, visitors would stay at the temple, but as it’s destroyed, I’m afraid only the side house is available if you want a room.”

“That will suffice,” Straybow says, giving a glance at Oersted- he gives a quick nod, “So long as it has an area for a fire?” 

“It does,” Yutta confirms, “There’s still wood that can be used, so warmth should be no issue.” 

“Your hospitality is appreciated,” Straybow says, and Oersted can see his fingers tightening on his staff, “If we may leave?” 

“Of course,” Torbyern waves his hand as he speaks, “Please, rest- Ourhus will last a night longer.”

With that, Straybow stands, and Oersted with him. He swallows his spit as he hurries after Straybow, and tries to pretend his shivering as they're ushered out is from the cold.

Chapter Text

 When they arrive at the- well, it seems closer to a hut than a side house- the first thing Straybow does is begin a fire, opening the smoke window once it’s strong enough. Oersted sits by it, gesturing to their packs in question. 

Straybow’s only response is a raised eyebrow. 

Oersted sighs, not from frustration, “Shall I unpack, or…?”

Straybow says nothing. It’s clear he’s waiting, and-

“...Let us continue our conversation when we arrive at the village,” Ah, of course.  

“You stated we would talk more, once we entered the village,” Oersted begins, moving closer to the fire, leaving the packs in the shadows, “Is that now?”

“Now,” Straybow agrees, but it’s clear from his voice that he dislikes the situation, and Oersted cannot stop the stiffness that crawls up his arms, freezing him for a moment and then leaving him in a shudder, “I tell you that you shouldn’t keep watch all night.”

 “Rest is not something I need that often.” In honesty, he isn’t sure if that’s true or not. His sleep leaves him more tired than when he kept watch all night. As much as he dislikes being alone with his thoughts, it’s still kinder than being trapped with his thoughts.

Because he knows the dreams might not be dreams-

Did the spirits leave him haunted or is it just his own sins?

Did he sleep while he-?

Does a demon like him need sleep, or do demons just rest to avoid boredom-?

He barely slept those days leading up to-

M̸͚͂̽a̶͎͎͐͌y̴̐͜b̸̀͜ͅẹ̷̇͆ ̷͖͕̀̚h̷̭̃ę̶̻͌́ ̸̠̈́̓ẁ̵̺͎ả̵̹̕s̵̜͗̀ ̶̯̿̚a̷̗̪͝l̸̥̺̐ẁ̴̧̩͂à̵̞͌y̶̱̯̆̒ş̴̮̇̈ ̴̱̍â̵̪̱ ̷͇͆̎ḏ̷͐̋e̶͈̘͠m̸̼̉͝o̵̭̜͆ñ̶̜̖,̴͎̄̉ ̶̨͓̍a̴̯̪̽n̵̳̻̈́̋d̶̨͇̈́͗ ̷̳̲̌h̵͖͊e̴̜̦͋̿ ̷̭̱̊o̷̝̟͛̄n̵̢͒̇l̵̛̬̻ẏ̵̳̍ ̶̨̏͋ē̴͎̉v̵̛̞̳̾e̴̖̞̽͘r̸̢̦̾͝ ̸̹̤͋͘n̴̨̫̅̽ë̴͍̝́é̸̺d̸̳͍̓̎é̶̱̭d̷̪̝̿ ̵̭͑t̵͉͎͋̀ḥ̵̚ë̶̲̩ ̸̢̎̓e̶͕͐x̸̦̊c̵̦͛u̷̯̇s̴̰̈͝e̶͙͐́-

He slept when he came back returned to the city, only the city, Lucretia hasn’t broken-  

But he didn’t sleep at all last night, and-  

“That doesn’t change that lacking sleep leads to mistakes,” Straybow’s voice bites through Oersted’s thoughts, “I would never feel safe if you kept watch all night, each night.”

Oersted turns his head away, hoping to hide his expression- Straybow was looking at him while he was reminiscing thinking, and the last thing he wants is for those emotions to show on his face. He waits for Straybow to continue, but Straybow says nothing. He waits, and Straybow waits.

“…Is something wrong?” Hesitant, and a tone Oersted can’t place. The tone Straybow used when talking about- he can’t quite remember. Something to someone before they started fighting, but that’s all. 

“Nothing you said,” Oersted hurries to assure, still not looking at him, “I thought you had more you wished to say.”

Straybow hums, and there’s the sound of iron almost… clinking, then a constant, gently tapping on the stone floor. Oersted lets out a small hiss of pain from the noise grating against his ears, and it stops for a moment. 

“…Then I propose this: You set up camp, and I will gather and prepare the food,” A tapping noise returns, this time less grating as Straybow taps something iron against what is likely the wood of his staff, “You can keep watch for longer if you don’t like sleep, but you must at least let me keep watch for one third of our rest.”

The words surprise him, but Oersted cannot place why. The voice is right, part of the tone is familiar, but so much about it is off in a way Oersted just can’t seem to find- Blended. That’s what it is. The familiarity is blended with everything that is off, yet-

It makes sense, should make sense. This Straybow is… different from the Straybow Oersted killed was expecting.

Oersted tilts his head, trying to dispel the thoughts without making it seem like a rejection- something he never considered before, his mind notes. Straybow’s younger than before, and Oersted’s different than before. This entire situation is new, and that should be fine, should be good. It is good, so why…

He ignores the gnawing in his chest. He knows at the least that brooding during a conversation will definitely only make matters worse, no matter how much he doesn’t really know Straybow.

He nods at Straybow, and then speaks when the look on Straybow’s face doesn’t change, “That sounds acceptable.”

“I am not asking if it sounds acceptable,” Straybow’s voice is cautious, Oersted realises- only now as there is a familiar hint of anger behind it, “I am asking if you agree to it.”

Oersted hides his finch, but nods, “I agree to it.” 

Almost immediately, Straybow relaxes once again, and Oersted realises he should try and get better at telling when Straybow is tense, since he barely notices until he’s relaxing again. 

“Good,” Straybow says as he stands, having placed the iron near the edges of the room and now dusting himself off, “Is there anything you can’t eat?”

“I don’t think so,” Oersted tilts his head, considering, “Of course, I cannot eat things like rocks, and…” Oersted tries to remember, but even that experience has been washed away, but he knows it had something to do with the sea, so… “I doubt you would find it here, so it doesn’t matter.”

Straybow, slowly- Likely warily, and Oersted cannot help but feel slightly happy with himself for noticing Straybow’s nerves- he really gets stressed over the smallest things, Oersted realises, and maybe, just maybe if Oersted can assure him when those fears build up, there won’t be a betr- and leaves, allowing Oersted the room to set up their equipment.

It’s only when Oersted begins setting everything up that he realises remembering what Straybow has said and helped with, then repeating it is more difficult than expected. He bites the tip of his tongue with his pointed teeth- a sharp, but somehow familiar pain- and works best from his memory.

For some reason, the frustration feels nostalgic, as if remembering some things perfectly clearly and other things as a blurry mess of emotions has always been a balancing act his brain has performed, and not something that only begun after his isolation.

The comfort that the frustration shouldn’t bring makes the setting up easier, and for some strange reason, when he is done, he cannot help but feel bitter.

He sighs to ease the frustration, and looks once again over what he has done.

He knows, he knows with certainty that he set something up wrong, but he cannot, on his own life, place what it is. Last time, Straybow was there to explain everything, and while that felt… almost exhausting, trying to focus on it all, Straybow’s extra hands made actually setting up easier.

 With nothing to do but wait, he sits next to where Straybow placed the iron, holding it in his hands. It looks… well, it is an iron poker, though, what Straybow needs it for when the fire is made from his magic, which does not harm him, Oersted does not understand.

He turns it over in his hands, almost finding comfort in the weight, in the distantly familiar shape.

H̶̢̹̙͙̓ǐ̴̺s̷̱͈̲̃͊̕ ̴̱̥͔̓͘͜ạ̷̢̱̥͐̋̐̄̚u̸̜̓ṉ̴̻͔͎̥̀̏̊̎̕t̸͉̳̗̆̀͒͠ ̷̭̒h̵̫̿̽̑͘͜͠ā̷̝̝̏̐d̸̩̾͑͘͝ ̸̤͍̉͂̾͝͝a̴͍̥̭͖͌̊͐ ̴̙͔̼̃̿͝ͅf̵̞͚͛a̵̞̟̔̈͠n̸̫̙̹̎̄͗͝͝ĉ̷̪̼̘̾͐͝i̷̦͈̥̒̂̚ͅè̷̢̜̰͂̓ȓ̵͖̺̩̤̺͊͂ ̸̧͍̽̋͝o̵̜̙͓͐̌͂͘ǹ̸̰͖́̓ḛ̶̢̘̌͝,̸͈̱͕̇͒͛ ̸̡̳͙͇̱̄̀͘ĥ̶̰̈́a̴̙͕̩̫̩͑́v̷̬͇̐̄̊̄͒ͅȋ̷͈̆̾̌n̸͖͎̅̑̆̊̕͜ğ̴͖̲͒̓ͅ ̸̰͍̼̍͐̿̒̔t̴̪̟̑͜r̶̠̹̼͖̾̀̚̚a̵̪̟̣̻͗̌̏d̷͍̬̩̣̱͌͆͐̊̚e̷̱̻̅̈́d̵̫͈̲̖̟̆̐̇̐ ̸̡̛̻͊̄̍̈i̶̡̢̩̋̏̓t̵̢̝̫͊͒̓ ̴̝̯͙͊̔͝͠f̴̣̲͉͔͖̄̈̂ö̶̼̥͔͔̿ȓ̵̢̭̦̭̑ ̷̡̨̛̤̣̫͂͂ȃ̶͇̹̭͑ ̶̢̪̺͚̤̓b̷̢̧͎͈̄̈̓͐̿u̵̡͎̱̾͂̓̾́ç̶͚͗̎͒̕k̶͓̇͘͘e̵͈͕̙̋͗̈́t̷̞̦̀́̌̄ͅ ̸̖͈̉͋̊o̸̠̱̭͔̎́̈́͠f̵̖̽͝ ̵̝̜̼͗͠f̸̗̺͙̼͆i̶̛̭̒̀̌s̴̭͒h̸͓̑͆.̶̙̿̋ ̶̢̝͉͈̊ͅL̴̡̽́̿̈́ĭ̴̬̦̬̣͒͠s̷̨̛̞͓̥̍̂̉͌s̷̢͍̲̙̑́̐̂͝ë̸̯́͆́̃͘ ̷̻͋͗á̵̻̀̕l̵̡̨̦̙̳̂̌̿͂w̶̼͗̀͌a̸͉̣͊̋͗y̴̳̣̓̈́̄̊̓s̸̻̗͕̓̈́̽́̈́͜ ̸̻̬̻͇͓͑͑̀͆ĺ̴̳̺a̴̛̺͕̓̈́̃́ṳ̷̯͍͛̓ǧ̷̢̦̮̻̆h̵̨̠̗̀̍̄ę̴̺̰̾͋̃͑̈d̴̲͆͒ ̵̢̒͋̓w̷̧̛̰͛̔̒ḩ̷̱̑̈́̍͋̌͜e̸͕̐̇̓n̷̳̼͕̏͛͌͒ ̸̰̹̃͛h̵̗͈̓̎̿͝e̶̖͖̓̾͝ ̴̏ͅt̶̲̣̾͑͗r̷͚̲̟̱̼͑̇ĩ̷͕̆ȇ̷̻̠͈͂̃͝d̸͎̻͊͑͋ ̶̨̝̗͙̯͛͌͑̑̊ẗ̴͖͓́́e̵̱̙̫͐͗n̸͉͙̤̻̍ͅḑ̷͓̥̈́͋͝ì̵̢̛̻̱̬͂̔͋n̷̘̞̲̳͋̃̊g̵͉̯̤͂̚ ̶̣̭̠̓͝t̶̞̩̗̓̚ǫ̶̛̮̼̠͊͛̌ ̶̢̩͍̉̈́̔̾͘ṯ̸̡̃h̴̺̩̪͒̇̀̅e̵̟̦̪͐ ̵̪̥̰̳̣̂f̶̙́͒͘͘i̸͙̺̥͔͒̽͆r̶̹̭͘e̷̦̟̓̎̃͊͆.̷̪̮̐

Oersted only realises he’s dropped the iron when it clatters against the stone. Oersted- Breathe. He needs to breathe. He can breathe. Breathing is easy. Why isn’t he breathing? He bites his tongue, and-

The pain lets him breathe.

Then he realises there’s blood in his mouth, and he hurries away from the iron to clean his mouth. The last thing he wants is for someone to walk in and see such a thing. Once he’s certain that it tastes worse than it looks, he sits by the fire and refuses to move away until Straybow returns.

He waits, and the fire is too bright, so he looks away from it, and at his gloves- they’re uneven, almost. They both fit perfectly, but the one Straybow gave him is… it’s a shade darker, only noticeable in the firelight, and Oersted brushes his other hand against it.

It feels comforting.

It feels…

Straybow returns, a bucket of something in his hand, eyes glancing around the room-

“I set something up wrong,” Oersted says before he can choke on his own words, though, they don’t come out as clear as he hoped, “Would you be willing to show me what I set up wrong?”

“…I would,” Straybow says slowly, walking to the fire and sitting near Oersted. He gives Oersted a look that Oersted is certain isn’t wariness, and stares for a few moments. Then, he gestures to the sleeping furs, “That won’t keep the cold out. Sleeping in that would leave you to freeze in your sleep. It’s fine right now, when its warmer and we’re inside with a fire, but otherwise…”

“I understand,” Oersted replies, hesitating for a moment. He had never had an issue with it before, but… it had been a long time, and he wouldn’t have an issue from the cold the last few nights, “Can you… guide me through it?”

Straybow sighs, but complies, and Oersted tries not to freeze when he feels Straybow’s hand brush his own from the assistance. It was only for a few moments, but it’s only once the furs are set up that Oersted remembers to breathe and realises his entire body has just… tensed up. He shivers, and sits himself next to the fire, giving Straybow a helpless look.

“…An addition to our deal,” Straybow leans back as he says it, sounding some mix of tired and amused, “When I return with the food, I look at the camp, and help you correct what was done wrong.”

Oersted settles his grin into what he hopes is a reassuring smile. He can easily agree to that.

Chapter Text

The mage, careful not to think of his own name, watches the- Oersted, he calls himself Oersted, call him Oersted. Do not incur wrath. 

The mage watches Oersted… sleep. He doesn’t sleep silently, doesn’t remain still. He knows when he, himself, sleeps, that there’s barely any movement, barely any noise. Enough for anyone close to pass him by. 

Oersted doesn’t sleep like that. Oersted tosses and turns, before curling up and shaking. Even then, Oersted is not quiet. He yells. The sound he lets out can’t be called a scream, but it also can’t be called a roar. The mage has heard it before, during nights when predators found themselves in hunters traps.

It’s not a pleasant sound. It doesn’t quiet for a long, long time. 

When it does, there’s nothing but sobs, dry cries, and soft yells. They sound almost human. 

The mage does nothing. There is nothing to do until part of the night is over.

Hands. Hands handshandshaaaCold. Cold hands. Dirty hands. Hands covered in callous’ and hands so soft they didn’t live long enough to see work. Hands. Eyes. Hoovespawsfurskin- torn and warm. Torn and cold. Eyes. Cold eyes. Empty eyes. Chilled remains Eyes that are so cold they begin to feel warm. Eyes hands eyeseyeshandseyeseyeseyes-Did you do this?- eyeseyeseyes- 

Eyes. Eyes, hands, a curse. 

Whywhywhy- 

There’s nothing left in the grave.  

Is there a grave? 

Dirt. Dirt and mud where air should be. Air where dirt should be. Hands clawing out from within, just below the neck. Air. Air should be there. The air is in the grave. 

Grave. The grave. Bring flesh to the grave. Bring bone to the grave. The grave is full. The mud flows into the grave. The mud flows into where air should be. There is no air in the grave. There is no air where air should be. 

Buried. Lying down. The mud is soft. The mud is suffocating. The mud is everywhere as it should be. Flesh. Bones. Clawing. Keeping them down. Keeping the clawing in the mud. Belonging. Suffocation. Constriction from everything. 

Air. 

Air. Lying down. Air. Air, airairairairAIR-

Sound. Voice. Judgment. 

Lying down. Softness and suffocation. No clawing. Keep it buried- 

“-awake?” 

Spins- Eyes. Cold eyes. Wrong eyes. A head. A head that ends at the neck. 

Red. Warm. Stone. Light. There’s light. There are shadows. 

Warm. It’s warm. 

The floor is hard. The head is attached to the body. The body is just covered by the clothes. It blurs- Eyes hurt. 

He blinks. 

“Oersted?” The voice asks- the voice- the voice- The voice- Straybow’s voice- asks, “Are you awake?” 

Oersted. Oersted. His name is Oersted. His heart is beating. He’s in sleeping furs, not a grave. There is air in his lungs, and he blinks because he needs to. There’s no clawing from the inside of his chest, or his stomach. There are no hands travelling up his intestines to his throat to beg for- everything- from his neck. 

He is Oersted, and he’s meant to be keeping watch now. 

He nods, not trusting his voice, not trusting his throat not to force his insides out the moment he opens in. He sits up as- as- asasas- Straybow. He is Straybow and his head is attached to his shoulders, and he’s lying down to sleep, not to die. His cloak nearby is red because it’s been dyed- by his choice, not by blood. His resting cloaks are brown because they are fur, not because they are the earth. 

He lies in the furs because he needs rest, a rest he will willingly wake up from. 

Oersted opens his mouth- he can’t beg, or plead, or- he covers it before something he regrets comes out. 

Straybow- Straybowstraybowstraybow- looks at him, eyes unreadable. “There’s still food in the pot, if you want to eat it. It’s safe- it hasn’t stopped boiling. Just make sure there’s enough for me to eat in the morning.” 

Oersted nods. In the morning, because Straybow will wake up; because Straybow wants to wake up. 

Straybow wants to wake up. 

He listens to Straybow’s steady breaths throughout the night. 

By the morning, the phantoms that held Oersted in their grip faded- it’s strange. He knows that the nightmare he had was intense, he knows that it followed him when he woke- that there was no one moment when he was completely asleep and next when he was completely awake- 

But the blur has gone into the recesses of his mind, and Oersted is thankful for that. 

When Straybow wakes, he doesn’t bring it up, and Oersted doesn’t know if he’s grateful for it or not. Straybow just looks at him with an intensity that he’s seen few times before, times that he doesn’t want to remember- and asks “Do you need anything?” Stressing the word ‘need’ so softly that Oersted isn’t sure if it’s there or not. 

He’s- He’s used to more concern, he knows. No- He’s not used to, but most of his memories from- before have Straybow’s concern more clear. 

Because Straybow asked ‘Do you need anything?’ the same way someone asks ‘Do you need rest?’ Except- 

There’s something in his voice that Oersted can’t place, that placing would feel like breaking an unspoken and fragile rule. 

So he shakes his head, eats, listens to the goats, people, and sound of herding, and begins to pack. Almost everything is where it was last night, except for the iron poker, which Oersted can guess Straybow placed in his bag with whatever else he took out during the night. 

“It would be best we leave everything too weighted here,” Straybow states as he opens the door a crack, “It’s unlikely anyone would try to rob those in change, especially if it’s something that will be noticed missing.” 

Oersted nods, and places the shared pack in a corner. He’s tempted to find a lock for the door- thieving from a locked area is a greater crime than stealing from an unlocked area, he recalls, distantly, but there’s nothing to use, and Straybow is already waiting at the door. As they take the small step down past the threshold, Straybow closes the door firmly, and gives Oersted a small- Not smile, but… 

It puts Oersted at east. Something eases in his chest and immediately twists. 

Oersted looks down, and walks next to Straybow as they travel though the village. The air is cold and the stones that meet his boots are solid beneath his heals. It’s impossible for the scent of goat to be avoided when they walk. There’s nothing keeping them contained, and they walk on the same paths that the two of them take as they look at the stone bells that collapsed. 

Oersted can’t find anything unusual about them. If there is magic, it’s not something he can detect, or even begin to try and understand. He doesn’t even know if magic can be detected that way. Most, if not all of them, are destroyed the same way as the one near the elders’ home. There’s nothing for him to say, so he doesn’t worry about speaking or being read. 

When they arrive at the collapsed church, Straybow immediately begins muttering, and Oersted takes care not to listen. Straybow’s- well, Straybow’s never been self-conscious to his knowledge, but Straybow always hid- but he does become… terse when Oersted approached him afterwards if he listened closely to it, answers short and pointed. 

So Oersted remains by the edge of the collapsed stone while Straybow goes closer- he does not wish to interfere with anything Straybow is doing. Both of them know that the tower did not simply collapse under its own weight, and nothing was flung at it, even if it looks like that. 

Oersted watches as Straybow circles the stones, brushing his hands on them, running his fingers along the grooves. The bell hasn’t been touched, and Oersted can only guess that it’s because they consider it cursed. It’s bruised, but it can still be melted for tools and accessories. 

He hears Straybow sigh, and looks at him curiously. When there’s no answer, Oersted tilts his head to make his question more clear. 

“Nothing touched them,” Straybow explains, gesturing to the stones as he backs away from it, “There’s no actively malicious magic left on it- no curses, but- It’s just… wrong. It looks a mixture of collapsing under its own weight and…” He narrows his eyes, “It looks like something just took the carrying stones and pulled. The sones that didn’t collapse in where completely bent.” 

Oersted blinks, and looks at the stone his companion’s hand rests near. It… does look like it’s been twisted. Doing that normally to a stone would have crushed it. 

Straybow sighs again, but this time, he gives a smile. “At least we know where the caster was when they caused it-” Straybow gestures to one of the rocky walls, and- “And there’s only one area on it that shows obvious signs of magic.” 

Oersted, looks, thinking Oh, because now that Straybow has said that- it does look like every bell and some of the stones had all been pulled towards one area, almost as if pointing towards where the culprit was- towards the mountain- and- he remembers thinking the vines strange, when nothing else was budding,  “The cave mouth?” 

Straybow just nods in response, and they begin walking. 

Chapter Text

The cave isn’t cold, despite the shade and darkness within it. Oersted’s gloved hand rests comfortably on his hilt, and Straybow seems to be holding his own staff in a vice grip. Straybow makes no move to run ahead, and Oersted takes his example, keeping a slow pace. 

The sounds of the outside fade, and all Oersted can hear are the stones and water. Straybow lights the lantern and ties it to his belt. There’s wind. It’s soft. Oersted knows it’s soft, but it feels too strong for within a cavern. 

Oersted doesn’t know how long they walk. It’s long enough that he becomes used to placing his feet slowly, as not to slip or disturb any barely visible stones. The cave, like all others surrounding Lucretia, is fairly large. Oersted wonders why it hasn’t been made into one of Amalucretia’s temples. 

…Oersted cannot recall seeing a fish carved into the built- now crumbled- temple, either- though, his mind was clouded from the night before during that time, and any carving may have been disturbed or torn in a way he wouldn’t be able to put together. 

He would have to ask Straybow about it, later. 

Eventually, they reach a fork in the path. There isn’t an obvious difference between the two, as the roots of the cave are impossible to distinguish. Oersted hesitates, and then takes a slow, deep breath in- not though his nose, like usual, but through his mouth, leaving just enough room between his teeth for the air to meet his tongue undisturbed. It tastes- smells- of-

Oersted doesn’t know how to describe it. The only word that comes to mind is “Autumn.” 

Straybow looks at him, and he realises, that- while he didn’t speak allowed, a sound found its way to his throat, although not past his lips. 

Oersted forces the words past his lips, if only for Straybow’s benefit. “The air here smells of Autumn.” 

Straybow says nothing for a moment, long enough for Oersted to wonder if he spoke and Oersted simply did not hear, before- “Early or late?” 

Oersted blinks, “In what way?” 

“Does it smell of early or late Autumn?” Straybow asks, and- for some reason, it feels strange not to hear his name at the end of the question. 

“It smells of both,” Oersted replies, stalling his words as he takes another breath in. He walks to one opening, breathes, then walks to the other and repeats the action, “The one to the right tastes of early autumn, and the one to the left tastes of late. So late that it could almost be considered early winter.” 

Straybow pauses, and this time, Oersted can see he is deep in thought. “Do you have any suspicion or suggestion?”

Oersted shakes his head. He does not care. Anything within he can fight, and yet-

Oersted pauses, and then considers. 

“We take whichever path we think will not have what caused the bells to fall first.” Oersted states, and Straybow looks surprised, before he considers. 

“You want us to-” Straybow shakes his head, silencing himself before he can say the words allowed, “Is that wise?” 

Oersted freezes as he sees the look on Straybow’s face, and forces himself to stop and consider. If they go in the opposite way, they might find something of worth within. Though, it might be something that belongs to who- or what- is dwelling here, and that will only make the situation worse. It might get them trapped. It might be a trap. They might become lost if they take too many turns. There are weak creatures for Straybow to practise his spell work, but- too much fire in a cave is a bad idea. It might exhaust them before they find anything. 

It will take time.

Oersted has always been careless with time. 

“...It may not be,” Oersted admits, turning away, trying to stop the burning of- something indescribable under his skin- “Pray forgive my ill advice.” 

Straybow makes a sound at the back of his throat. “Forgiven.” Oersted doesn’t have time to wonder about the tightness of the word as- “I think we should take the tunnel to the right- the one that tastes of early autumn. Does that sound wise?” 

Oersted stills, because- 

Because Straybow said ‘tastes’ as if it were normal. He did not say it with disdain, or concern, or a tone that cannot be placed. He spoke it like it was stated. 

Oersted said he could taste the air in the tunnel, and Straybow accepted he could taste the air in the tunnel. 

He tries to recall if Straybow ever- 

He didn’t- or did Oersted leave that habit before he was made to work with Straybow? 

He forces the thoughts away- the air is strangely grounding, strangely guiding. Straybow asked him if he thinks the decision is wise- strange, strange, strange- 

“If you believe so, I will believe you,” Oersted states, the words coming easier now. Early autumn almost makes sense. Most creatures are still active in early autumn, although preparing for their long rest.

His hand, still protected by Straybow’s gift, tightens on his hilt. 

He hears movement- Straybow nodding, almost stiffly, and they continue down. 

At the second split, Oersted tastes- He tastes rotting leaves and wood, and rotting fruit on the other path. 

They follow the one tasting of rotting trees, rather than what is bared by them. 

At the third path split, Oersted tastes spring water, salt water, and a third one he almost cannot recall. A vague description to Straybow clarifies that it’s likely bog water. 

They go through the one tasting of spring water. It only makes Oersted more nervous- 

“Most caves with springs have already been turned into places of worship, Oersted,” Lisse explains, rolling her eyes- 

-Eyes rolling back in her skull as she’s torn apart-

“That’s why they need to make one themselves. This way, I’m close enough to mother and father-

MoTheR aNd FatHEr-

Oersted falls to his knees, and the rocks that scrape them give him clarity, and he lets out a pained gasp. 

His parents are alive. 

His parents- 

Oh gods his parents his parents his parents his par-

Hands take hold of him, and pull, and- 

Oersted screams- 

The hands let go, and he falls back onto the rocks. 

The pain- 

The pain is- 

There are rocks tumbling, and he freezes, because not again not again not again- 

Hash Uranus STRAYBOW-

Red. There’s red, lit by the yellow of- 

Lantern. Did they have a lantern? Did Uranus’ magic not-?

No, he’s- 

The rocks are surrounding them, and- 

It smells of early Autumn. The air tastes of rot, the kind that comes from trees, not meat. It tastes of fresh water and mud, of new rainfall and flint, of- 

Are they even inside a cave? The air is too… 

There’s no staleness in the air. The air in Devil’s Peak is nothing but stale, and- 

The meat was rotting- tasted of rot in a way that only caused illness- the first time Oersted visited it. 

There is a hand, a hand that is grey, but not stone enough to lack fingers, reaching for him- not to grab him, but for his sake. The palm is facing upwards, and it is open enough for Oersted to grip it with his own- The glove, the glove, it wouldn’t be here if this was- and stand. 

Oersted leans on the stone, and focuses again. The darkness swirls, but the grey shades begins to take shape, and- 

Oh. 

They’re surrounded. The bodies aren’t armoured, but are grey nonetheless. The one reached for Oersted was easily taller than him by half his height, and it was the shortest. Moss and lichen, mushrooms and fungi cover some, while others have thin strands that could be mistaken for wheat or hay coming from their skulls and back. It’s impossible to tell if they’re hunched or if that’s simply the only way they can stand. 

A sound is made from one of them. It sounds like a rumble and hiss, animalistic if it didn’t contain a groan that sounded far, far too human for comfort. 

The one that- helped him up? Grabbed his hand? Was too curious?- returns to the others, and it’s only once the creature has let go that he realises the ‘helpful’ grip was so tight it’s likely going to bruise at best. 

Trolls. 

He and Straybow were completely surrounded by trolls. 

At least they know what destroyed the bells now. 

Chapter Text

Oersted shuts his mouth before he can taste any more of the air. It- It’s wrong- 

Somehow, trolls had slipped his mind. Somehow, he only thought of ‘monsters’ as monsters- 

Why weren't they attacking? 

Why was Straybow not attacking?

Oersted turns, facing Straybow. The man is still. Almost so still he could be mistaken for a statue if not for his breathing, face terrifyingly blank. He looks at Oersted, and there are words that clearly need to be spoken behind his eyes. 

Oersted’s beginning to regret agreeing to this before Straybow learned how to understand him without words- 

Another troll speaks, one different from the- well, the one that called back shorter one. Oersted takes a deep breath. There are nine or so. If necessary, he can fight- 

The thought makes his body shudder with repusion, and he can’t afford to push it down now, and fall again- 

“Why aren't they attacking?” Straybow asks with narrowed eyes, and he looks at Oersted. 

Because your magic- Oersted stops the thought before it can continue. Straybow does not know that spell yet. The trolls aren’t confused by where they are- the smallest just proved that.  Oersted shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, giving Straybow his most open helpless look- 

“Should we fight them?” Straybow asks, and Oersted-

Stops. 

Now that he’s… calmer. Not calm, not with his heart beating like a deer’s-

Should they. Should they? Not ‘Do we need to fight them?’ Not ‘Do you want to fight them?’ but… 

Should they fight them?

“I… Do not know,” Oersted whispers as the same one that made noise before does so again, and Oersted can see that the mushrooms are not growing on its skin, but on the wood tied to it- wood that he had not noticed before in the darkness. The white, orange, and red mushrooms stood out on all of them too much for him to notice. 

Straybow raises an eyebrow, and Oersted lets the air ground him, so he may continue. He… 

Should they?

Oersted can’t think of any reason they should besides that they were told that the trolls attacked the bells. Not even a goat was harmed from their actions. Oersted cannot think of any reason that they should not-

There’s no point, something in his mind says, because even if they leave, it will happen again, and then they will be discredited, and another knight will come, and that knight will kill the trolls or be killed by them, and- 

“A human when you want to prove humanity’s failings and a demon when you want to prove your own nobility-” 

A sneer- no, a sneer would be considered fair compared to- nose turned up in disgust, “How dare you! How dare you! To claim that your truth is the only one that has ever existed!” 

Your convictions- 

A playful snicker, the autumn dusk, a hand cleaning the dirt from his hair- 

Your convictions should never leave you without armour.

Oersted bites his tongue. Odio’s convictions left him with nothing. All it took were well aimed strikes, and there was nothing but his bare flesh. The demons- 

He thought they were the only ones telling the truth, but then they were liars, except- 

Part of him wants to think about it now, now, when he is grounded. Now, when the world feels almost frozen, everything holding its breath instead of blurring past him like it usually does. He claimed the demons were the only ones not hypocrites- 

But they were, but they weren’t. He cannot tell, because-

Because their words were true, but they meant two different things to Odio and themselves, and after he-

-of their main entertainment, after they began to roam-

-Claws. Neck-

How could they both be lying-?

-he still does not know why.

There’s too much blood in his mouth. He needs to breathe-

Autumn. 

“I do not want to harm them.” Oersted realises, saying it aloud, allowing more of the cave air to mix with his tongue. He has no grand reason- No proving humanity good or fear of its wrath. There’s nothing worth saving in them, but- 

He does not want to kill them. 

He doesn’t know if his decision would be the same if- 

So he will try and find a way not to kill them. 

The troll- Second tallest, larger than both he and Straybow, with long hair, and an almost robe made from something akin to lichen- makes sounds again, this time very slowly and Oersted realises, perhaps rather late, that the troll is trying to talk to them. 

Straybow nods, “Can you understand what they’re saying?”

Straybow’s easy acceptance calms his nerves, and he closes his eyes, focusing on the shard in his heart- Was there ever a troll that hated? Hated enough to throw away everything for a name, connection, and power that was not truly its own? 

He realises a moment after he asks that question that it will never work. His shard is weak, and instead of connecting to all others who made the same choice, instead of sharing what they held, he cut it off. They are weak, they are all-

Helpless.̵̛̐͠

Oersted shakes his head. He doesn’t want to think about it. He not have the time nor the need to think about it- he doesn’t want to think about it- 

The cave is so very, very grounding. It grounds the thoughts he would rather have washed away.

Holding back the tide is futile, comes unbidden, and Oersted opens his eyes to find a distraction, but it remains- 

He stares. Straybow is…

Straybow is moving the smaller stones, and Oersted approaches to see what he’s trying to write- 

He isn’t writing. He was… almost making shapes. A cave, a village. Then, a bell. A weapon next to an exaggerated sad face. A stick figure injured next to a similar face. A circle of people next to a smiling face- one carefully made to show eyes and not an open mouth with teeth. 

“I don’t know how to make a question,” Straybow mutters as Oersted stands besides Straybow, almost forgetting to watch his back for a moment- the largest troll standing over them both, although still a fair way away, looking at what Straybow is doing, “If they do not speak our language, it is likely they do not read it, so the symbol for asking would be different.” 

Oersted… feels like slightly a fool, but… almost in a refreshing way. Of course they wouldn’t know a human language, they lived on the mountain- 

Oersted stops for a moment. They lived on the mountain. In the mountain cave, within the mountain that was filled with goats. 

Oersted tilts his head to the side, and makes his body language relaxed, not directly facing the troll. He doesn’t lower his head, careful not to show anything that would claim aggression or superiority towards them. With his chin, he gestures away from the image of the bell and towards the cave. 

He does not make a sound. A sound could be an order. 

He keeps his shoulders relaxed, makes his expression as open and as questioning as he can when he looks at them again. 

The troll takes a step back, and lowers its legs, facing to the side, and begins doing the same as Straybow- although it crushes a rock first to create the pebbles. A dish of fire, next to a face that could be pained. A… tunnel? The end of one, at least, with something- lines, almost like a bent fence, concerning the trolls-

Oersted blinks. 

He knows that symbol. Straybow looks confused, but Oersted- 

When he connected to- 

Don’t think about it, breathe, just think about what he symbol means- 

Oersted picks up a pebble, and pushes it under his glove until he can focus. 

“It’s the sound,” Oersted explains, gesturing to the bent lines, a symbol that he’s never seen through his own eyes. Sound waves, he remembers, almost distantly. 

“The bells,” Straybow places easily enough, “They head and attaked them with magic without seeing them. How did the sound even reach this far in?”

Oersted considers it. His mind almost comes up empty, but- “Some sounds reach farther than others. Even if most people can’t hear them, they can still hurt.” Bells have never harmed Oersted, but the sound of stone scraping against stone was once so sharp that Oersted nearly threw up, even from a distance. If the trolls were anything like that…

Straybow nods, looking at the other shapes made. “They can’t leave- the village’s protection trapped them here.” 

“Would telling the village not to build bells work?” Oersted asks, because- if that’s all the problem is, then it should be fine.

“No,” Straybow runs his hand through his hair as he answers, tugging it slightly in clear stress, “The bells are part of their wa-worship- they wouldn’t stop. They didn’t for Lucretia’s royalty, they wouldn’t for trolls.”

Oersted glances at Straybow. He’s missed something, he knows he must have missed something. He tilts his head, and Straybow glances at him before a few expressions cross his face and he answers. 

“They don’t worship Amalucretia, or the anointed one, or the fallen empire’s gods,” Straybow explains, looking at Oersted like he’s the strange one for not realising this, “But their worship still requires bells like some of them. If we leave this cave, claiming that they shouldn’t string any up, there’s a chance we’ll be considered enchanted.” 

Or worse, Oersted almost wants to add, but the way Straybow says those words makes him think that for Straybow, being considered enchanted is more dangerous than anything other option, and- 

Saving the one enchanted has never been a priority, Oersted remembers with a shudder. Always their victims. 

“Oersted,” Straybow’s voice is abrupt, despite how slowly he moves down to re-order the stones, “Lucretia’s mountains are filled with caves. Will you be able to convince them that we can take them higher? The sound won’t reach them there, and once they’re past the protection, they can go as far as they need to avoid it.”

Oersted doesn’t hesitate. He nods. If it needs to be done, he can do it, so long as Straybow can plan it. He asks Straybow to rearrange the stones to show something else- the last thing he wants to do is lower his head to them. Straybow does so- The mountains, an arrow, a trail out, the sound no longer reaching. A larger, more complex cave system away from the fires and bells- the bell done with the bent lines around it.

He hesitates, and decides against drawing an open gate. Straybow finishes with a picture of the trolls far away from the village with a happy face. Oersted tilts his head and keeps his expression open.

The troll gestures to the stones arranged in the shape of the fire, sharply. Oersted gives Straybow a questioning look, and for a moment, can tell that the mage is holding back a sigh.

“We can move them up one layer at a time-“ Straybow explains as he glares at the stones, as if willing them to move with his gaze alone- “By putting out a single flame, then climbing up, then putting out the next one and lighting the previous one. If we do it carefully and slowly, then they can leave without the village noticing anything is amiss.”

Oersted frowns. He will convince the trolls to leave, but this plan is- “Would they not see the flames go out?”

“Not under nightfall,” Straybow answers easily, “So long as we are careful, and stand behind the dishes, they would mistake the flames we hold for the ones they maintain. They might be on edge now, but so long as the flame appears lit, they would not care if it weakens. The cave entrance is already a fair way from the village. They likely want to avoid the risk.”

Oersted almost asks Straybow if he would be willing to cast illusions, before remembering that it's not a matter of will, but ability, which he does not yet have. He asks he next question before his thoughts can become distracting. 

“Can you see in the dark?” Oersted asks. It would be difficult enough if there was only the moon, but- it is spring, much of the snow has melted, and the flames would make it difficult to adjust to the darkness.

“I can travel well enough.” There’s a hardness in Straybow’s voice that makes Oersted hesitate, and decide to back down from any more questions. If Straybow has a way to navigate the darkness of the mountain without drawing attention, then he would not ask further.

The second largest troll seems to by mimicking Oersted- keeping its body language open, not looking down, tilting its head occasionally. Oersted waits, and the largest troll makes a sound, and in response, the second largest relaxes its shoulders. Oersted tils his head. It gestures to the image. Oersted moves his eyes to it. Straybow seems to have gotten the message across by moving the images of the trolls and people around enough times, and the other trolls… don’t appear displeased, but not overjoyed, either.

Then again, Oersted never has been good at reading emotions.

There’s a- Oersted doesn’t know, but one makes noise, than another, and Oersted realises that they’re talking to each other. Straybow stiffens, and Oersted can feel the beginnings of a spell on his lips, but Oersted gives him a sharp glance.

Wait. He mouths, Do not react.

Straybow hesitates, but nods. After a few moments that seem to drag out, the largest troll once again rearranges the stones- this time to form something else. Oersted can’t make out the first one- a badly one circle with dark stones on it, next to a pained face, but the one after is clear- a human home.

“They want to be close to people,” Straybow explains, voice low, and Oersted almost wants to laugh at that- and yet- and yet-

He cannot deny them that.

“I do not know if there are any villages this close to the mountains.” Straybow continues, and Oersted grimaces. He does not want to think of it-

“There are hermits,” Oersted grits out, “Other mining towns and temples, as well.” An elderly face- A young face with twin tails- a stern face- flashes through his mind. He grasps his next though with quick desperation. It feels almost like a betrayal- being willing to subject the trolls to humans, but-

Straybow stills, and Oersted sees-

Nothing. His face goes carefully blank for a moment before he continues, “They do not want caves near humans,” he whispers with realisation, “They want a cave that has been mined of its iron.”

Oersted considers, trying, trying but not wanting to think back to his- LisseMotherFatherAunt- WhereWhattraderoutesclosedhow- There are, there have to be, there must be. They mentioned it once, didn’t they? A trade route closing, people moving, because the risk of going higher for ore was worse than just finding a new village?

He presses his fingers against the gloved pebble. 

Oersted wants to speak, but his words get caught in his throat. 

“North,” Straybow mutters as he begins rearranging the stones, this time showing a moon above travellers, and an arrow pointing between sunrise and sunset, “There’s forgotten mines to the northern tips of the mountains, aren’t there? From before the shamans…”

Oersted doesn’t try to recall. A memory that old is too faded and forgotten. Straybow continues his work. He says nothing, but Straybow seems to take that as confirmation, and continues, doing his best to make it clear that the far off mines hold no ore. The pebble begins to dent his finger.

The trolls watch, and bicker, and talk, and all Straybow and Oersted can do is wait. They have until first dark, after all, and the springtime night is more than enough time to arrange and prepare an escape.

One of the trolls, the curious one, gives him a helpless look, and Oersted returns it before he can think otherwise.

They wait, until the largest troll gestures with a sharp turn of his face.

“They want us to leave,” Oersted explains, “For now, at least.”

Straybow narrows his eyes, but relents with a ‘Very well,’ and he stands and walks with Oersted, carefully making sure that Oersted has watch of his back. Oersted keeps the trolls in his vision from the corner of his sight while Straybow guides him out of the cave, and it’s only once they reach the entrance that Oersted freezes- they- they were barely in that cavern for half a day- yet-

Yet the sun is already low in the sky, showing the beginning of nightfall, and the moon is already beginning to light up the shadowed sky.

Straybow just sighs, not appearing surprised in the slightest. Oersted doesn’t doubt that partway through, he realised something akin to this was happening. He watches as Straybow opens his pack, taking out pieces of wood that he prepares to turn into torches, “Now, we wait to see if they understood our message.”

Oersted nods, and keeps a careful eye on the village below. He would rather not turn his back to them.  

Chapter Text

Straybow is silent, and Oersted follows suit- if there is nothing that Straybow wishes to say, then there is nothing for Oersted to say either. The silence is… kind, in a way. It is not quiet, of course- Straybow’s preparation of the torches, the wind, and the animals keep anything akin to true silence that Oersted knows so well away.

The wall that was forced to become a gate within his mind closes. Oersted’s shoulders relax as the strain of his thoughts gets pushed back slightly- it still is not easy, but… there is nothing willing him to think of such things, nor any reason to follow such horrid, true, yet useless thoughts.

“Do you wish to put out the fires, or light them behind me?” Straybow does not look at him, his voice almost muffled by the surrounding noise as he finishes his work on the torches and the shades.

“I…” Oersted winces, his throat feeling strained for a reason he cannot identify. He waits a moment. Swallows. Continues, “I will follow behind.”

He doubts he would properly put them out. Even besides that, it would be best not to put them out, just in case there is something that, when burned, harms demons. The path up the mountain is dotted with more than the path the two took in the village. There is not. Not enough of it, if there is. He knows this. He knew this.

“Very well,” Straybow states as he stands, slowly, carefully. It almost feels practised as Straybow hands him the unlit torch- clearly made to burn long and dull, although Oersted is not certain how- and then a shade. The moment he touches the cloth, he knows it was made of wool, even though his glove, “You must remember: Only light the fire behind me once all the trolls have travelled past the dish, and use the shade to keep the village from seeing the brightest part of the light. With luck, they will guess it is nothing but one of the lanternmen.”

He knows Straybow will light the torch when the trolls arrive. Oersted nods, and Straybow gives him a look he can only describe as significant.

There’s a difference in this treatment. Something he cannot place nor name.

He can. He can. He will not.

The sun completely sets, and Oersted sees Straybow almost… grimace at the moon. It takes a moment for Oersted to realise why his eyes narrow as he looks to the mountain. There’s little light from the crescent- enough to see, but not enough to make out anything more than vague shapes- if one were human. Oersted realises with a wave of awareness that he can see rather well- little colour, but the shapes are sharp and clear, and the reflections of the snow is more than enough for him to move with ease.

He gives Straybow a glance before he remembers that Straybow cannot yet read his expressions- That he cannot even properly see Oersted’s expressions in this light.

For now, they wait-

And then the scent from the cave vanishes, and Oersted turns just as the sounds of footsteps- heavy, but not careless. In the moonlight, the trolls’ pleasantly grotesque features are on full display. He blinks as he realises that the mushrooms almost seem to grow in a pattern on the trolls’- armour. Armour, because now Oersted can see clearly where the skin meets cloth, and where the cloth meets something akin to wood and something akin to steel that Oersted is unfamiliar with.

If he could not see clearly, he would assume they had grown scales. The mushrooms- Oersted knows enough to know they are poison for humans- and animals, and demons. He cannot hold back a flinch, so instead, he looks to their faces- their stances.

None of them look bothered- not by the fungi growing on their armour, at least.

Oersted holds back the urge to look down- and instead looks to Straybow. Straybow, thankfully, had already begun to shape the smaller stones into a line, moving them along a small pile to show the process. He gestures to the leading stone and them himself, and then the following stone and then Oersted. 

Everyone moves slowly into a similar position, and it’s with such care that Oersted realises that neither wants to be the one to set anything ablaze- to burn this thin idea of trust that both groups are clinging to. 

“Can you light your torch?” Straybow asks under his breath, and his voice is so flat that it almost makes Oersted feel nauseous. He shakes his head, holding his torch forward far too clumsily as Straybow lights it and then his own lantern before covering it slightly, then motioning for Oersted to wait. 

Oersted watches as Straybow moves up the mountain, holding back the urge to follow him. He walks strangely- hunched over, one hand always against the rocks, his feet never truly leaving the ground, only tracing along it. 

Straybow can’t see. Not like Oersted can. 

Not like a demon can- 

The trolls follow, careful, but not the same extent as Straybow. They can clearly see far more detail, but are unused to the open sky and large area. The curious one- the one that approached him before, follows the furthest behind, their eyes wide as they stare down at the village. 

Oersted follows easily. Some rocks and vines kiss his shins, leaving cuts, but it means little, and bothers him even less. The rocks that withstood the weight of trolls can comfortably hold his own, so he keeps an even pace until the first flame goes out, and he waits by the bowl as the sound of their footsteps become distant, the wool no longer covering his weak flame. 

Unlike the bowls in the village, this one is clearly weathered- chipped and worn in areas where maintaining it was too much effort- but still strong. Oersted can’t stop his expression from twisting at the smell- something akin to the sea and something akin to- almost soap, if all the pleasantness from it was removed. The embers in it are completely dark- Straybow is nothing if not thorough- but still warm. When Oersted places his torch next to it, it only takes a few minutes for the flame to reignite. 

The second flame goes out. 

Then, he moves swiftly. That does not change that by the time he reaches the dish, most trolls have already passed by it, leaving Straybow waiting for a moment already moving away as Oersted reaches ir- all except for the curious one, frowning at it. When they see Oersted, they hurry to join the others, and Oersted waits before lighting the next one. 

After that, it becomes almost a pattern. Follow the trolls, wait at the ashes, make sure the curious one follows, light the flem, follow the trolls, reach after all but the curious one has gone, make sure they follow, light the flame, follow the trolls, wait at the ashes, make sure the curious one follows, light the flame, don’t think about anything else, follow the trolls, reach after all but the curious one has gone, make sure they follow, light the flame, follow the trolls, reach after all but the curious one has gone, make sure they- 

Oersted startles at the sound of rock scrubbing and the curious one- 

F 

     A 

         L

               L

                     S.

Oersted blinks. The curious one- 

The curious one has dug their- He isn’t sure. Dug something they were holding into the rocks, clinging to it, carefully moving their hands and feet trying to find secure rocks and safe crevices. The mountain path isn’t narrow, but it isn’t wide either, especially not for trolls. 

It takes far too long for Oersted to realise what is happening, and even longer for him to- 

Help. 

That’s right, he needs to help. 

Needs to? Why does he need to? For whose sake? 

The troll gives a cry as their leg hits something sharp, causing them to reach blindly for support- and the coals of the firepit are still warm as they reach the most secure stone- 

They hiss in pain, and it takes Oersted another moment to realise that they’re looking at him. 

Pleading. 

Pleading has never helped anyone- 

Oersted wants to help. 

Carefully, slowly, he pulls his blade, and before he is condemned for harm he does not cause, he digs it into a crack in the mountain side, and holds the hilt firmly. Once he is certain the blade will not move, tightens the rope on his boots, clings to the hilt with both arms and- 

Relaxes. 

He relaxes, allowing his feet to reach where the troll is. They look at him. He looks at them. He moves his feet, and then pulls his arms up. He has no idea which rocks are safe down there, and reaching down in any other way would pull him down, so-

The curious troll, thankfully, gets the message, and it takes the creature half a second for them to let go of their tool, and instead grabbing onto his legs and climbing from there. He grits his teeth and grimaces at the weight and begins to pull himself up. It barely takes a moment for them to be back on solid ground. 

The troll’s hand is burned, and their leg is wounded, and Oersted- 

Oersted’s own leg has the beginnings of bruises where they clung to him, but nothing that should bother him. It feels almost grounding, compared to the pattern he had before. He removes his sword and ignores the chips that now decorate it’s blade- he’s strong enough not to need something sharp to win- and loosens the now painfully tight lace on his shoe. 

The troll is still injured. 

Oersted hesitates. Considers. Hesitates more. Then realises that he’s just making excuses with the constant stream of They don’t trust me, I might need it later, There’s no point, Will they even understand me-

He takes the herbs out of his pack and holds them out, only realising a second later that he moved quick enough to make the troll flinch back. He stills, then slowly, very slowly, places the herbs on the ground, using a rock as a weight for them. Plucking the smallest piece he can, he takes a step back, takes his glove off, and cuts his thinnest finger on his own blade, showing the cut, before carefully applying the herb. 

The familiar feeling of stinging and numbness spreads, and he shows the troll his now-uninjured hand. 

They seem to realise, and slowly do the same as him, watching him for any sudden movements.

He makes none, even as the troll continues to look at him like a demon with intensity, not even daring to move his weapon or hand anymore. They stand after a few moments, shifting their weight and bending each finger individually. Oersted wouldn’t call the look upon their face ‘wonder’, but perhaps for trolls, that is what the emotion looks like when worn. 

The curious troll, staring at him with eyes that are too large and too small, too dark, so dark Oersted only sees the barest hint of white in the corner. For the first time since they have arrived, the stillness allows Oersted to see the details of the troll- the small, almost horse-like grey ears, the way it’s claws are neither claw nor nail-

“ᛈᚢᚲ,” Oersted startles at the sound, the voice coming from them small but still rough. They bite their nail once, and simply repeats the sound, “ᛈᚢᚲ.”

Oersted feels something within him shudder, and he shakes himself to rid the feeling. He bites his nail in return, hoping it is the right action-

The curious troll backs away, confusion far clearer than if it were on a human face. The troll gives him one last glance before walking, thus time far closer to the mountain side of the path, face always looking to the rocks and stones. 

After that, Oersted makes sure to keep an eye on the troll, and not to let himself drift again. It was foolish, and he needs to ensure he doesn’t make mistakes like that again. 

Thankfully, all that happens is they reach the top of the mountain, where the cold and wind are stronger.

The curious troll brushes against him, and Oersted stiffens, shielding them from his weapon and sheathing it as they place something in his gloved hand. He looks at it- a white, light-weight ball, just large enough to sit uncomfortably in his palm. Oersted stares, and runs the back of his free hand against the surface of it. It’s… textured, but not to a point that most people would think of. It almost seems like bone, but there aren’t any groves or lumps that a bone would have. It’s rough, yes, but it’s still perfectly round. 

He places the strange object in his smaller supply bag, and his glove back on.

He hears the curious one move ahead. 

The rest of the trolls- and Straybow- are waiting. They look- powerful, almost, or they would, were they were not trying so hard to look harmless. Unlike before, they do not form a half-circle around him and Straybow, but a full one around themselves, watching from every point. The powerful don’t need to- The curious one, even now, stands with one foot outside the circle, almost as if to run away. 

They give no actions of gratitude besides the third largest placing something small on the ground that Straybow seems wary of- his movements are stiff and almost disjointed even when he looks at it- and walk back, deeming their payment complete, perhaps. 

The two demons humans people watch as the trolls slowly begin to leave, moving as one across the mountain. It’s only when they’re far enough to become specks that Straybow moves. Even when he walks to whatever was placed, his movements are stiff, only after the trolls back away and he knows Oersted is watching his back. Straybow’s lip twitches as he holds it, but he does nothing else besides return to Oersted’s side. 

By his side, as he should be, as he won’t be, as Oersted should be by his.

There’s a heaviness that is gone, yet the cold in the air still stings his lungs.

Oersted looks back down at the village, and feels sick, immediately turning back to Straybow. Too small, like insects, except insects are- 

The sky is beginning to light, even if it doesn’t feel like morning- but the sun always does come early in spring, and the lower ice melts quickly. It would be best to head down now, before it gets too risky, or later, when it is clear what is dangerous and what is not. 

“It would be best if we went around, rather than go down that path,” Straybow says, his voice rough for a reason Oersted cannot place. Oersted has no disagreement- it would be best, at least for himself. If the flames had any form of affect on him, Straybow would be the one to notice. 

Oersted can see how it would be best for him, but for Straybow… 

He doesn’t ask. 

Instead, he walks next to his companion, just off the safest path, back down to the village that requested their help. 

Chapter Text

The first thing they do when they return is rest. There is little point in disturbing Ourhus so early and with no reason for urgency. Oersted is- oddly tired, and it only takes the sound of a few dragging steps for Oersted to realise that if he is tired, Straybow must be exhausted. 

He does not turn, but he can hear Straybow’s uneven footsteps, and the way his left one almost drags along the ground when it needs to move, staff constantly hitting the ground harder and with less grace than Oersted remembers hearing. It echoes in his mind. 

He grits his teeth, and digs his heels in when they land, only stopping when they start to become sore. There is nothing else to think about. Instead of saying anything, Oersted forces himself to match Straybow’s pace, and nothing else. 

The two of them reach the village without comment, then the side house. Oersted opens the shared pack, both him and Straybow emptying part of it with the efficiency expected of people who have worked together for years. 

It takes a few moments before Oersted can form the word “Rest,” and the sole acknowledgement Straybow gives is a look that Oersted is too tired to take as anything but agreement, and a nod once Oersted adds, “I will wake you in the morning.” 

Straybow rests. 

Oersted waits, and eats, and watches for the first rays of the sun to come up. The noise of his surroundings- of Straybow’s breathing- makes it easy for Oersted to remain awake and focused, and yet the drowsiness forces his mind to wonder, and all he can think of is-

The curious troll, staring at him with eyes that are too large and too small, too dark, so dark Oersted only sees the barest hint of white in the corner. For the first time since they have arrived, the stillness allows Oersted to see the details of the troll- the small, almost horse-like grey ears, the way their claws are neither claw nor nail-

“ ᛈᚢᚲ,” Oersted startles at the sound, the voice coming from their small but still rough. They bite their nail once, and simply repeats the sound, “ ᛈᚢᚲ.”

Oersted feels something within him shudder, and he shakes himself to rid the feeling. He bites his nail in return, hoping it is the right action-

The curious troll backs away, confusion far clearer than if it were on a human face. The troll gives him one last glance before walking, thus time far closer to the mountain side of the path, face always looking to the rocks and stones. 

Oersted freezes as he repeats the events of the past day in his mind, almost cursing his own foolishness. The troll wasn’t saying a greeting. A greeting repeated wouldn’t cause confusion. It wouldn’t cause disappointment, or anything similar. The troll had not given a hailing, but a name. 

Their own name, he knows, vaguely recalling the fact that the other trolls had called them by such, the events already replaying in his mind. They should be clear. Oersted’s recent memories had always been clear, painfully so, yet the words used in a language he does not know he does not remember clearly, and the more he repeats the troll’s- ᛈᚢᚲ’s- name, the more difficult it becomes to remember it. 

By the time Straybow wakes, all Oersted can do is pass out, and enjoy the oblivion it brings. 

“There were trolls within the caves,” Oersted answers easily, the air light and thin, “We removed them.” 

“Marvellous!” Torbyern declares with an intensity that Oersted carefully does not shift to, “And how so? Was it your strength alone, or was it something that could be taught?”

Straybow stiffens besides him, and Oersted thinks he alone hears the short breath the mage sucks in at the words. Oersted curses the words within the space of his own mind, and gives Straybow a pleading look that he hopes his companion understands, “It was not done with my strength alone,” The words feel heavier than anything said previous, and already, he wishes for silence from the humans, “It was my companion’s planning that granted victory. If you wish for more information, then look to him.”

Thankfully, Straybow seems to understand, and his eyes widen and narrow for a split second before giving Oersted a strong nod. It’s enough for Oersted to relax and look away from his face, and allow the lies that Straybow spins to wash over him. 

Oersted would never be able to claim such a tale- At least, not so well. Even when telling truths that sounded not so, when he was this young, his voice and face would be off. So now, telling a falsehood that he knows to be such, of how they killed trolls for simply causing damage and not harm, would leave his mouth feeling as if it were covered in blisters. 

He knows the relief and gratitude is showing on his face, but he pays it no mind. Let Straybow know his feelings, if the mage can read him. 

“I- am afraid that it is not a skill easily taught,” The mage begins, a poised smile gracing his features, “But there is little need to think of such things, as the defences this village has…” 

As Straybow talks, Oersted cannot hold back a shudder. 

It hurts, to see Straybow look at him like that. As if Oersted’s kindness is a puzzle that he needs to take apart instead of put together. 

That gaze holds him until the human that greeted them at the gate previously brings out two objects to place at Oersted and Straybow’s side of the blaze. 

“Please, take these as gifts: A ring, made of the bones of a midnight goat, and blade, made and forged from the bones of a fierce ram,” Yutta says, voice soft, almost difficult to hear over the fire, “It is known how thankless this work is in these lands, and bone is abundant in this village.” 

Oersted looks at the two items. The latent magic of the ring will give Straybow the ability to have more strength within his spells, but his own gift is… 

Unpleasant. 

“I must decline this gift,” Oersted states, before he forces himself to accept something he does not wish for, “I have my own blade. I cannot accept a spirit sword.” 

The spirit within Brion-

There is nothing Oersted wishes to bargain with the spirit bound to a blade. 

“I apologise, but my companion has nothing to give in return, as we came only for the task given,” Straybow speaks with clear formality, “However, I am glad to accept my gift, and offer one in return:” He pulls out a small sewn pouch and places it down as he takes the ring, “Herbs which help with burns and numb pains.”

The one who brought the gifts hesitates, before taking both the sword and the bag of herbs, walking back. 

There’s a silence as Torbyern and Yutta stare at them as if there’s some forbidden word that Oersted spoke, and the strain only becomes apparent to him when Straybow shifts slightly, finger on his staff. 

“Of course,” Torbyern replies, a semblance of ease returning. 

“I appreciate the gift and hospitality shown,” Staybow voice is clear, taking a once familiar firm tone, “But my companion and I have duties to attend to in the city, and it would be rather foolish to leave them unattended.” 

“And we are thankful towards you and yours for helping us in our time of need,” Yutta replies, back straight and chin high. Oersted simply nods, and walks with Straybow as they leave. 

Straybow only sighs once the sounds of the hall can no longer be heard. 

Oersted hesitates to speak as they walk, almost content to enjoy the distant sounds of animal calls. It is far easier to breathe here, now that his thoughts can bury themselves with ease. Eventually, the forest swallows the sounds of the village creatures, and rustles of the plans and movement of the streams is all he can hear, their own footsteps heavy enough to silent them. 

 The silence between them settles and eases. 

“The troll that was the furthest behind was strange,” Oersted speaks softly, hands and expression moving openly. Straybow may not understand them yet, but he is driven enough to, “They were curious, and when I helped them, they gave me a gift and told me their name.” 

Straybow stiffens, and stops walking for a moment, before he shakes himself out of and catches up once Oersted, too, stops. His expression flat, and voice almost… something he cannot place, not strained, but far from strong, he speaks, “If I may ask… Can you tell me what gift and name the troll gave you?” 

“I cannot tell you the name,” Oersted sighs, the word the troll spoke already hazy in his mind, “But I can recall that the name sounded similar to ‘Pook’, so that is the closest I can say.” 

 “‘Pook’ then,” Straybow nods, “Is what we will call it.” 

Oersted withdraws the ball from the pocket, and Straybow looks at it- curious, but clearly wary. He does not touch it, simply watching as Oersted holds it and returns it to his own pocket. Straybow says nothing, and Oersted has no choice but to accept that Straybow will remain quiet until he has an answer to give or there is something else to speak of. Even once there is, he knows the mage will continue to mull over it.

Oersted tries to hide his confused disappointment. 

He thought Straybow would have an answer. 

Chapter Text

“Kindness is a weakness.” 

Once, at a different time, at a different place, an heir sat by the bed of their lord father, and their lord father told a story. 

Once, at a different time, at a different place, the lord father was a child, sitting on his lady mother’s lap, and his lady mother told a story.

Once, at a different time, at a different place, a story was told. It does not matter where or when it was told, it does not matter who it was told to. All that matters is that one day, it was remembered by a liege, who told their child, who told their child- 

‘Once,’ Said the lord father Said the lady mother Said the liege ancestor Said the storyteller, ‘Once, there was a moth and a human. The moth was not beautiful, nor skilled, nor strong, as it should not be, not like the human was. The moth was a moth, and its place was in the dark, weaving garments. 

‘The moth was not satisfied, as it should have been, for it was drawn to the flames. “I worry for you,” Said the human child, foolish and young, to the moth, “If you finish my garments, I shall show you the flames.” And the moth agreed.

‘Again, the moth was not satisfied, as it should have been. Seeing the flame made it long for more, and it wondered, “Why should the humans enjoy such light, while I must stay here to work?” And thus, jealousy grew in the moth’s heart. It was a moth, and like all the moth’s in the house, its place was to make clothes.

‘The young human, once again foolish, told the moth, “I shall light a candle, so you may work by the light.”’ Said the lord father Said the lady mother Said the liege ancestor Said the storyteller.

‘And, while the human slept, the candle burned, and burned, and burned. The moth was enamoured, and saw it as nothing less than perfection. It came closer, and closer, and closer, until there was nothing of it left.’ Said the liege ancestor Said the storyteller, ‘It wanted warmth. Instead, it burned.’

‘What it wanted was not what would keep it safe, and in giving in to those wants, the human gave it its own destruction.’ Said the liege ancestor. 

‘The moth thanked the human, and worked slower than before, but the garment it made was so beautiful that the human did not care, and let the candle burn to the wax,” Continued the lord father Continued the lady mother, ‘And the moth was still not satisfied, for the light was there, only to leave again. This time, instead of the human allowing the moth to speak, the moth crawled to the human, and asked “Can you not teach me to light the flame on my own? That way, I can keep warm while I work on your garments, O kindest human.”

‘The human, foolishly, so foolishly, agreed happily. They showed the moth how to light the flame, and how to feed it, and then returned to their studies, careless.

‘For the moth was not beautiful, nor skilled, nor strong, as it should not be, but it was cunning, and it was cruel. That night, when the human went to sleep, it set the precious garments aflame. It did so again and again, the heat hardening and cracking its flesh, the smoke corrupting its eyes. Still it did not stop until it was strong enough to set the home ablaze with only its breath.

‘The once moth, now a drake, burned everything it once served, everything- but the foolish human who showed it flame,’ Said the lord father Said the lady mother, ‘“Look upon what you have wrought,” Mocked the drake, “And know you only live to carry that burden, so that I may watch you falter under it,”’ Continued the lord father. 

“So you see,” Explained the lord father to his heir, “Kindness is a weakness. Give the servants anything more than promised, and they will believe they deserve more than given. Kindness invites treason, invites nothing but flames and ashes upon us.” 

The heir does not speak, only nods. The heir does not speak, because if they did, they would say, Was it not the human child’s kindness that spared them? If the moth was cunning, would it not have learned to breathe the flames from another? Would it not have sought vengeance against them all for the long time in darkness and service? 

The heir leaves, before their voice can be found. They still have a flame to show their moth, after all.

Once, at a different time, at a different place, a mage finds a boy in well-worn clothes and armour lying by the side of the road. The boy looks barely of age, perhaps younger. The mage sees the boy that is not a boy, and knows that anyone travelling upon the road can harm him. 

Kindness is not weakness, The mage thinks, although not in those words, and decides to stay with the boy that is not a boy. 

“I worry for you,” Said the human child, caring and young, to the drake-to-be.

“Besides, I’m more worried about you,” Said the mage, foolish and stubborn, to the once-demon. 

Once, at a different time, at a different place, an heir decided to start feeding the birds that gather at the clearing near their home. As they sang such sad songs, and had such beautiful coats, when the heir travelled that path, their heart bled for the creatures. 

“You shouldn’t feed them,” Said the servant to the heir as it approached, “Those are animals. They don’t recognise kindness, only food.” 

“And what is wrong with that?” Asked the heir, tilting their head, “The poor things look starved!” 

“They will come here for food!” The servant scolded the heir, “They will not learn to hunt as they should, and when they hunger, they come to you, and expect food!” 

“Well then,” The heir puffed their chest out, clearly trying to make those words an announcement, “I shall just have to carry food on me at all times!” 

Once, at a different time, at a different place, the heir did not carry food as they walked near the area where the birds were often fed. In fact, the heir did not have food at all, near starving as they were. 

The birds did not care for that. All they saw was a figure associated with a feast, and so they swooped down to gorge themselves. When the heir gave them no food, they became violent, pecking and screeching, clawing and tearing- 

Until the heir, staved as they were, swung a branch, hitting one on the head, and then several on the wings, continuing until it was finally silent. 

The heir ate well that night.

Ạ̴̧̛͊͐̋͊̿͋̐͛̃ ̷̨̯̠͕̤̳̱͓̝̯͋̀̄t̵̫͕̟̂͆̈́͗̕r̶̺͍̙͔̟̍̋̓̿͋͛̀́̌̎͐̂͊͜͝ͅu̶̥͇̅͂t̵͕̐͑͑͐͆̉͘͠͝h̷̡̛̩̑͋̆̂̏̈́̈̈́̓̈́̋̾,̵͔̦̪͍̳̜͕̰̖̈́̾̎̓͒͒͆̐̍͂̐ ̷͈͈̳͍͍̘̟̜̦̩̬̞̫̥͒͛̓̃̾̌̂͝t̷̡̡̲͍̻̦̺̺̟̭͇̘̻̠͐͗̏̌͒̔̾̍̕h̷̠̹̪̗̻̙͔́́̿̒̊̀̐̑́̃͆̀͠͝ͅa̸̛̲͌͋̏̊̈́̀̾̚ṯ̷̘̟͚̼̝̩̻͉̀̅̽̆́̔͂̽̃̒͗̚ ̸͎̘͕̜̲͚͙̲̤̖͇̫̀͋̀̋̍̎̇̋̓͝͝ͅņ̷̨̞̦͓̩͇̰̜̺̙̲͂́͋͋̿̄͆͊̄̽̕͘̚͠͝ͅo̷̫͙̯͖̰̬̼͉̳̲͇̞͉̠̾͒ ̵͔͕͖̉̊̿̀͐͐͜ớ̴͉̤͔̎̓͋̅͘͠͝n̷̢͔͚̠̅̒̑̾̔̽̿̈́͑̀̎̔̿̕͝ͅe̵̡̢͙̦̙̩̰͚̗̘̣̒̑̾̄̈́͑͆̅͒́͗̓̏́͠ͅ ̴̢̦̻̖̱̳̩́̅̒̾̈́̆͛̒͘̚͝w̵̛̜͓̬̲̪̮͍͒̾i̶̛̼̦̿͑l̸̼͉̺̭̫͖̣̬̪̞͔̞̾͗̊̊͂͛̐̆̋͆͊ļ̸͓̳̲̗͉̱̺̳͔͐̄̈̓̋͜ ̷̢̼̰̦̳̾̌̉̿̍̒̌͌͗̕̕ͅa̷̧̛̬͉̝͉̾̄̍͋͊̔̒̌̿̎̌̚̚͝d̷̛̹͚̳͙̑̀̄̀̓͆͆̂̈́̎̒m̶͔̠͇̥̓̿͋͑́̃̔̓̚͝ḯ̸̢̛͈̙̲̣̞̬̱̘̩͛̃̎͒͋̃͊̋̋̈́͝t̵̖̝̲͑͗͐̃́͊͆͝͠:̸͚̭͖̭̩͕̃̋̅̌͑̎̊͒͒̇̕͜ͅ ̶̨͍̺̺͓͈͎̬͔̭̱̻͉́̾̒͋̂̄̅̌͛̉̇̽̕͝ͅt̶̙̩̙̭̳͇̠̦̝̠̖͙̝̖͉̍̄͝h̷̢̖͚̻̩̅͑ơ̴̰̩̰̬̮͊͌̿̔̇͐̿s̵͚͎͎̽̍̍̑̌̚͠ȩ̴̨̛̣̼̲̼̫̱́́̆̈́ ̶̧͓̘͕̫͕͉̂̈́͋͗͂̔̍̏̑̚͠w̵̛̳̘͖̞̳̘̱̻̰̖̗͓̺̝͇̑͐̽͂̀ȩ̵̡͕̼͈͙͉̔̅͊͒̏͜ŗ̶̛̝̺̦̟͚̇̈̆͌̆̐̈́̀͑̈́̈́͆͝͝ͅë̶̡̛̲͎̭̙̫̈̃̀̌͊̏ͅ ̵̡̡͕̬̞̫̘̞̝̳̠͕̣̽͐̿͐̅̍͂̉̈́͂́̊̚͝͝ͅǹ̵̥̲͔͓͖̪̗̝͕͈̔̓̊͋̿̽ö̷̧̩̘͓̮̭͚͙̼̝͎͚͓́͌̒̒͜t̴̢̨͕̖̤̠͕̜̝̪͗̉̇̏͊̀͘ ̶̫̥̥̱̫̠̭͔̗̝̮̩̻̾̈́̓̄͗̐̾̍͠b̸̨̡̼̙̝̙͍̹̫͕͇̼̪̪̳̔͗͋̽̽̿̓̍͒̐̚͠ỉ̸̩̓̄͛͒̌̀̔̕̚͝͠r̵̛̠͓̹̖̟̻̥͔̜̥̻̄͐̄͐̇̉͆̋̅̈̌̑̕͝ḑ̷̛̩̳̠͓̰̹̺͎͉͈̼̹͂͛̅̉͂͒̃̐̉͋̈́̓͠ͅs̶̖̠̘̱̦̩̲̣̍̔͐̀̾͊̾̎̀̉͐̄́.̶̧̧̪̖͓̻̱̫͓̩͇͖̠́͋̾̾̏͒͜

Once, at a different time, at a different place, a mage looked at a knight that was to be king, whom following felt so natural the mage did so without thinking. The feast had long since ended, and still, the knight looked hungry. 

Oh, The mage realised with a slow-dawning horror, I have nothing left to give. 

Ą̵̢̨̜̮͕̪̠̘̬̭͍͔͉͈̜̝͍͈͜͠ ̵̨̨̡̩͕̦̟̘̬̣̫̹̞̥̩̫͎͔̫̥̯̠͚̯̹͓̼̹͇̙͆̀̽́̀̆̊̏͂̂̆̈́̀͠͠͝l̴̢͍͚̗̗͎͇̪̱̜̗̝̦̪̓̓͐̊̀̎̒̎́͑̓̽̈̎̇̆͑́̊́͊͂̕͜͠į̵̢̱̙̝̭͇͖͎͎̪͍͈̪͉̖̦̈͂͒̐̓̓̽͑̐̎̀̎̿̄͂̅̅͠͠ẽ̴̢̡̡͕̜̘͕̹̲̹͔̰̘͈͕̠̘̯̤͗͒̌͜ͅ ̷̡̨̧̧̡̗͈̫͎̗͙̱̱̱͎̖̗̟͈̥̭̩̟̟̱̹̦̓̂͂͐̈́͂̇͘͜͜a̷̧̨̨̛̼̼̤̮̮̪͕͍̝̭̪͓͌͑̓͒́̐̽̃̓̽̑̓̈̀͑̈́̈́͐̇͛̇̋̆͋̓͌̕̕̚ͅn̶̺͇̘͈̭̤̯̔͒͂͑̇̑͛̓͑̿̑̆̈͝d̷̦͍̰̝͍̘̝͈͇͍̹̹̣͕͍̙͉͎̲͙͉̍̋͗̈̋̈́̌̀̇̒̓̈́̅̔͂͋͑̓̓̕ ̸̭̭̑̉̒̒̓̕n̴̡̛͔̞̠̦͍̙͓̤͍̳̖͔̤̫̼̋̎̃ͅo̶͕͓̝͕̹̳͎͕̥͍̣̣̰̮̰͈͈̣͚̠͂̋̊̉̀̈́̍̀͋̃͘͘͜͝t̶̨̡̨̛͉̬̣̞̮̫͕͉̳̲̪̭͇̊̄̂̀̽́͒̃̃͒̆̔̊̊͋̍̅́̓̆̊̊̓̾͋͘̕̕͜.̵̝̰̣̬͇̑̒͋̾̒̑̿͐̊̈́̏̇̌̊̕͜ ̸̨̧̡͇̝̲̩̙̳̼̮̭͚̱̼̠̫̫̳̻͓̼̘̫̜͓͂̿̍̀̈́̓̈̀̐̍̐̃̽͘͜͠͝ͅͅT̴͈̬̣̗͎͖̭̟̰̬̺̯̹͇̲̟̖̜͌̄͜h̸̨̠͔̺̝͉͕͙̪̲͖̠̹̦͍͕͎̙̣͈̜͂͜ͅe̶͉̮͚̳̘͙̟̙̫̭͈͇̱̗͉͔̦͈̗͂͗̍̓͗̓͂͗͆̏͗̄̏͌̐͗͌͒̿̽̋̈̚͠ ̸̧̨̺̤̱̣͕̗̙̪̯̖̲͚̻͉̞̮̲͇̯͉́̍̏͋̾̽́͆̊̈͑͘̚̚͜ͅm̵̧̧̡̨̭̱͇͍̰̣͙̤̺̹͕͎̙̖̭̼̬̟̬̱͖͚̋̃͜͜a̷̧̢̬͓͕̬̬̖̬̓̃̽͂̚ǵ̷̢̨̧̛̣̞̜̲͓͕̮̫͍͉̞͔̹̣͓̈́̐̎̈́̇̂̉͑͝͝ē̵̡͔̳͔̗̣̖͔̞̝̟̖͓̤͇̘̏̓̑̀̀̇͒͒͒̄̋͂̌͐̓͊͂̓͊͗͘̕̚̕͝͠ ̷̨̦̗̼̙̩̙̎͂͂̎̇͌̿̈́͐̓́̑̒̋́̔̽͆͌͘̕͝w̷̢̢̛̛̛̩͍̞̅́̓̍͂̈́͐̐͗̊́̾̌͐̏̅̊̍̑̚͠a̸̡͎͕͈̻̼̼̓̈̿́̒̏͐͊͂̀̂͛͗̊̈́̎̈̏̏̏̋̈́͒͘͘s̵̨̜͇̜̠͖͎̪̥̓̒̀͛̎̄̀͐̾̃͂̍̓̍͘͜ͅ,̸̨͔͚̱̙̳̱̻̖͇̯̺͇̥͖̬̯̜̉́͗̀͋̈̚̕͝ ̶̨̡͉̘̻̫̘̯̞̭̥̳̮̿̀́̔̉̆͂̉̓̀̎͑̃̍̏̃̓͗́͒̏̀͋͑̏̃́̌͘͘ͅf̸̧̧̟̗̳̹͙͇̫͈̪̞̞̭̯̠͔̭̻̗̠͚̲̒͌͊̇ͅͅô̵̧̡̘̗͚̲͍̹̹͙̺̩̭͍̮͚̐̈́͋̈́́̅̎͑̊͘͝r̵̨̧̩̫͕̗̼͓͓̙̫̗̠̥͆͆̽͛̎͂̋̔̈̾̔͝͝ ̴̨͙͔͚̥̠̱̙̗̰̳̭̹̙̳͓̞̪̗̗̰̩̲̎͐̀͜͜ͅọ̸̡̗̺̦̳͕͕̬́́͛͌̽̇͠ǹ̷̖̯͇̣̗̻̼̭̻̼̭̺̘̙̦͖͉͓̳̻́̓̏̒̎͂͆̊̈̄͆̕ͅͅe̵̛͍͖͕̠͓̰̙͌̆̐̒̿̋̂͊͗̋̔̒̀͘̕̕͜͝ͅ ̴̤̻̹̺̹̱̼̦͎̣̲͐̔̊̔̐̉̀̀̅̕͠m̵͝ͅơ̷̢̡̠̝̪͖̺̯̺͓͚̠̙͇̝̬̆̔͆̄̔́̃̓́̀͠͠ͅm̷̨̢̛̭͓͚̖̲̥͕̼͕̜͔̙͈̬̦̗̦̙̜̤͍̣̳̟͙̰̝̊͊̀̉̋͂̈́̾͐̆̽͋̑̽̈́͑̀̔̄̂̏̈́̍̕͝e̶̤̙̰͚̱̖̙͔̱͈̪̹͕̠͕̘̣̩̲̙̟̞̠͕̜̓̀̔̃͠ṉ̸̡̪͕͔̜̲̗̬̤̻͇͚̘̌͌̃̎̍̓͌̔̒̓̐̀̉̈̏͐̋͂́̈́̔̔̒̍͘͠͝t̶̢̢̢̛̪̳̙̮̪͇͙̝̺͓̟̲̻̖͕̤͈͐̋͌̿̈́̿̅́͘,̵̢̢̻͉̯̲̣̘̳̙̝̭͎̬̆̾̾͑͗̍͆ ̷̧̧̦̙̝͔̲͕̗̮̜̻͈̝͈͍̱̗̊͌̅̎̈́͊͂͆̀͐͋͠ͅt̸̡̢͈͓̮͈̩̙̙̫͇̬̜̀͜r̸̡̨̨̨̝͙̞͎̰̲̣̲͎̘̘̆̿̐̀̃̏̀̍̎͂̂̑́̾̈́̆̄̈́͆͂́͒͒̈́̌̚͘͜͝͠ͅu̵̧̡̨̨̳̞̩̺͚̲̹͉̫̥̯̰͚̘̮͙̜̺̪̼̳̭̰̫̝͑̐̿̋̊́̒̃̄͒̏͋̕̚̚s̶̡̧͖͙̗̬͇̟͇̺̪̰̫̩̭̰̘̠͖̔̎̃̈̊̑̌͑̿̓t̴̢̧̡̧̛̖͔̭̜̦̞̮̳͇̜̲̦͙͕͔̹̦̜͂̈́̀͗̇̏͆̇̅̀̈́̇̓̈́̓̓̅͒̿͂̈̍̅͘͜͜͝͝͝ì̴̡̢̨̮͕̮͔̖̳̘̲̩͍̟̯̰̞͈̮͓̻̫̑̐̊̀̒͋̊́͌̆̕͜͜ͅņ̸̡̹͔̹͗͒́͝ģ̸̡̛̱̱̼͇̗̖̳̪͓̼͎̻̝̘̪̮͎͓̘̤̣͛̔͆̊͛̄͑̓͘͝͝ ̴̡̤̱͓͔̦̩̺̜͎̭̯̩̩̉̃̒͂̈́̏̉͑͆̈̚͜͝͝ͅͅā̷̪̗̯͎̤̮̫̳̜͉͎͉̃̋͊̎̉̉̉̽̔͒̔̅͗͘̕̚̕ņ̵͕̀̆ͅd̸̯̘̝̫̉́̽̽̄͋͌ ̵̛͚̃̀͆̏̊̅̀͆̈̌̚ẅ̴̨̫̥̦̠͓͖͈̲̪̳̹̮́̑͂͐͐̔̆̈́͛͗͒̆̈́̂̅͌͊̔̆̾͆͌̕̚͜͜͜͝͝ị̵̢̨̙̬̗̹̹̤̯̌́̇̀̋̿̍̂̿̈́̋̿̉͐̒́͝ḽ̶͒̑͒̈̔͂̉̏̄͋̓̈̂̈́̈́͌l̵̨͎̰̟̖̹͕̠̮͓͍͎͓̀̄̎̂̀̇̀͒̈̑̽̿͆̆̆̾͛̒̚̕͘͠i̵͓͔͍͎̹͖̻̞̳͉̮̠̼̰͔̭̫̫̰̊̋̒̈́̅̿̍͒̎̍̈́̉̑̾̇̀̐̑̒̋̒̓͘͝͠͝͝ṇ̷̨̢̢̛̻̭̩͕̤̤͉͔̪̝̱͉̳̀̐͆̎̈́́̿̍͛͒̈́͂̀͜ģ̵̧̧̠̼̖̣̪̱̹̱̹͚͉̬͔̪͓̹̣̬̤͖͔͇͉̜͐̈̇́̓ ̸̧̧͕̤͇͉̗͍͇̗̳̩̩̣̘̳͓̝͖̜͈͍̙̟̹̟̉̈́͛̽̋̾͒́̾̋̕̕͠͝ṫ̷̨̡̡̡̖̠̜̗̦̱̗̭̰̖̗̝͉̫̘͔͖̗̲̲̙͎̙̲͇̇̌̆́̊͊̓̅̀̎͑͌͘͜͝ȯ̵̡͓͉̪̟̮̜̣̫̆̒̐̈́͆͗̉̾͠ ̷̡̨̛̛̺̱͚͎͕͓̠̮̝͍͖͓͙̤̘̞̻͈͍͈̤͕̹͙͐̒̇̐͂̎̈́̊̓̆̂̄̿̐̉̈́̾̈͋̒̈́͠͝ͅf̵̡̢̥͚̻̜͙̻̖̦̲̮̟̮͉̙͚͔̉̃͒̋ō̶̧̱͉̯̫̺̝̰̘̠͈͙̠͉͇̲̤̭̼͚̟̲͚̒͂͊̎̌͑̓̂̂́̌͠ļ̴̛͇̪̟̣͉͉͔͌̍̏̓̏̑̑̈́̽̃̍̿̓̽̌͌̌͂͠l̵͍̠̖̹̳̟͙̓̕o̴̧͕͍̭̦̣̥͎̮̹̣̬̱̘̙͚̤̼̗̠̲͇̞͒͛͒̆̆̌̍͋͌̇̈́̉̅̓̕̕͝͝͠w̵̡̖̩͉͈̟͙̱̭͍͇͔͈͈͍̏͊͒̏̈́͛̊͑ ̶̧̡̯͍̺̻̟͇̰̖̦̺͍͓͋́͐́̄̓̄̆̈́͗̈́͊̓̈̽̌̔̄̋̕̕͠͠ͅṱ̴͍̳̗̹̩͕̙̭͈̠̮̳͉̯̱̖̱̱̖͉̱͈͈̲̣͗̍̊̋̈́̇̓̕ͅͅͅẖ̴̋͂̂̑̆͌̉̔̇̂̇̄̂̉͑̈́̄͝e̵͎̥͔̽̂̑͑̔̑͌͛͋̓̈́͑̊̎̓͆͛̾̈́̂͗̌̋̕͘͘͝ ̵̧̡̣͕̲̻̝̱͇̩͙̹̖̬̲̟͍̩̮̀͛̓̒̉̂̄̂͆͋̈́͒̌͌͂͆̕͝͝k̶̨̝̜͍͕̦̤͖̙̠̲͂̈́̏̍͒̀̾̃̽̀͋͆̑͊̉̿̾́̏̇̕n̴̛̜͈̦̘̹̰͍̱̩̄̄͛̈̽̒̎̄̋͐̂̓̈́̽̄̾̋̀͂̈́̚ͅi̴̢̧̧̠̜͈̻̺̰̟͍̼̳̜͉̖̒̒̽̂̈́͋̑̆̀̈́͑̈́̓̈́͆̋̃̚͝ͅg̸͖̤̞̒̈́͛͂̅̀̐̀h̴͔̪̹̖̗̘̥̤̯͖̙̫̻̞̙̺̜͇̲̬̥͓̩͍͖̻̱̅̃̄́̒̿͆͐̋̔͊̂̌̕͘̕͘͜ţ̶͍̪͉͕̖̭͉͓͔͍̥̠̬͉̟̯̪̯̻̖͓̫̫͚̰̹̆̇̿̐̍́̏́́̈̐̇̉͒̿̏͗͋̓̕̚̚͜ ̴̡̗̖̹̦͇͕̼̮̲̭͚̳͎͎̱̘̬͚̂̃̄͋̄̓͆̎͒̈́̐̍̕d̷̢̛̙̗̖̫̫̼͚͔͕̳̓̔̊̿͗͊͛̓̃͊̔̕͠͝͠ͅę̴̢͓͍̱̖̜̳̘̥̳̟̮̞̺͉͍͎̬̣̙̦͉͎̔̈́̿͜ṣ̶̩̯͙̩̘̖̮̞̱̦̫̐̎͊̒̊̈́̌͒̀̄̊͊͌͂̈́͜͠͝p̸̢̙̱̬̞̭̯̲͇̺̮̪̤̩̅̒̂̿̿̓̏̽̒͗̃̏͆͛͂̔̒͗̀̋͒͗̕͜ȉ̶̧̧̯̪͕̟͖͖̝̯̜̥̟͙̊̅̅̓͒̀̂͒̈́͘̚͘͠t̷̨̛̫̹̥̙̘̱͚̠͇̼̝̲̺͉̜̪͎̮̻̱̝̜̯͔̩̿͒̄́ĕ̸̡̛̮̮̯̭̹̝̘͕͉̝͓͇̯͇̺͇͎̜̠̲̝̯͕͇̂͋͊̂̾̾̑̾̾̋̊͌̓̊͊̽̕̕̕͜͝͠͠ͅ ̸̨̯̬̦̪̙͕̮̟̥̻͈̻̱͇̝̗͉͙̱̹̣͇̗̮̃̈́̿̅̚t̷̡̩͉̼͔͙͙̩̘̳̫̃͗̍͋́͋͆̌͗͂͊̀͑̅͌̾͊͠͝h̸̗̘̟͎̘̖̟̟̼̫̰̘̫͙̣̲͚̲̰̋̄̈́̂̈́̋͊͋̽̈́̋ͅḙ̵̱͎͙̯̞̳̙͕̝̳̤̯̇͐̋̓̊̍̎͂̃̃̔̽̇̇̈́̏̈́̆̊͛̏͗̚̚͠͝ ̴̢̢͍̩̮͓̟̺̻͕͖̣̞̲͓͗̑̊͜l̵̢̳̜̪͔͉̫̼̙̯̠̖̦͈̹̞̒͊̃́̔̎̏̾̽̀̉̓͜͜͜͠ͅͅơ̶̡̡͎͈̖̼̹̩̩̤̭̰̱̻͂́̋͒͋̀̾̃̎̾̊̔͊̈́̈́̀̆̉͊͗̊̇̕͘͜͝͠o̷̧͕̼̬̼͓͔̗͓͖͚̝̺̥͉͖͍̤̝̒̎̋̓̐̎̃̏̏̈́͋̑͛͘͜͜ͅk̵̡̡̢̺̦̣̞̗̹̘̫̭̰̹̩̤̝̹̺͇͖͚͉͇̞̔̊͋̾̂̓̌͑̽͆̌̄̉̌͗̂͜ ̶͇̘̮͇̖͗̍͊̾̔̎͝i̷̡̨̧̢̙͍͓͍̤̞̫̘͕̖͉̼̙̖̟͈̰̮̪̬͚̿̊͊̎̈́̀͊̾̇̊̓̏̒̇͑͑̇̈́͂̅͌̕̕͝͝͠͠ͅņ̵̧̢͔̥̫̙͉̥͍͈̦̰̠̙͍̖̖̹̗̲̜̆͒ͅ ̴̢̧͖̳̹̖͈̻̺͚̦̗̩͇̘̙̗̗͈̠̼̤̞͎̖̈́̓̆̄̈́̀̔͝t̵̹͇̫̗͕̺͓͂́̀̾̉̈́̂̓̀̂̑͆ͅh̸̢͍̠̼̟̯̖̩̙̖̥͉̾̍́̿͆̉̓̀͊̀̇̓͗̈́̿̌̈͝͠͝e̵͕͚̮̤̙̊ ̴̡̨̨̛̛̹̟͙̠͓͎̯͚̝̖̹̰̻͎̲̠̼͓͖̗̣̥̪͇̠͐̋͗̎͛͛͊͑̌̍̓̈́̈̂́͒̔̂́̀̚͘͘̚͠ͅķ̶͊͂̍̒̅̋͒̏͛̆̆̉͘̕̕͠͠͝ņ̷̲̣̤̼̅̓͛̓̓̊̽̅̋̓́͐̈́͒̂̈́͛͐̕͠ì̴͖͗̉̀͘͝ͅǵ̴̢̧̨̨͇̲̫͎̮̥̘̠̮͎̮͓͎̝̭̥̠̤͇͖̩͕̤̦̞̈́̿͋̈̆͂̂̑͛̓͋͆͊̈́͐̾̂̒̆̄̎̚̚̚̚͝͝͝ḩ̷̛͉͖̝̯̺̖̟͇̭̼̔̒͆͊̈́̂͌̎̐͊̋̆̋̒͐̉̄͐̕͝t̴̡͖͕̼̼̜̦̤̻̲̜̮̬͈̫̀̐͗̀͑̋̒̓͋̕̚͝’̵̨̡̡̧̻̞̦̯̰̤͈̏̇͌͆͌̅̾̔́̀̈́̈́̎́́̚̕͠͠s̸͔̥̺͔̖̭̩̺̟͉͌̔̀͒̂̎̋̈̈́̓̃̏̑̎̔͑̀͂̑̚̚͝͝͠ͅͅͅ ̶̞̂̀́̂̾̀́͊ẻ̷͖̣̞̹̝͔̓̈́͌̒̌́̈́̈́̀̀́͌̈̿̃̋͘͘͠͝y̸̧̨̨̡̛̛̩̱̻͉͇̮̘̗͉̻̹̰͙̥͎̳̼̬͚͚̯͓̑̀͂̅̉̌́̒́̈́̑́̕͘͜͠e̸̻̼̬͎̜̖̯̐̿̓̿͠͝s̶̢͔͔͙̣͙̦̜̰͕͕̤͙̖̉͆̐̈̔̊͆̾͂̅̈́́̈́̅̽̑́͜ ̷̡̧̨̧̗̼͎̗͎̗̗̥̹̘̱̯͓͙̜̼̖̠̱̮̔̓̐̽̽͆͐̆̔̑̀̈́̃̉̈́̓̊͒̏̊͂̆͊̾͘̚̚̕ͅḿ̷̛̭̫̻̲̲͇̦̇͂̈́̉̐̅͌̓̆̈́̉͐̇͑̾̄̓́̈̈́̓̆̆̿̈̍̚̕a̵̡͕͍̖̥̥̹̺͍͎̪̯̥̖̠̗̟͍͍̱̋̑̾̀̔͛͌̒̒͊̾̃̽̅͑̑̉̍͋̆̈́̀̕͘̕̕͜͠͝͠͝k̴̢̘̜̰͎̝̥̮̤̖̖͖̯̱̣͇̙͈̟̙̭͈̗̯̮̗͇̭͋͒́ǐ̶̢̡̧͎͔͇̘̮̱̭̠̫̣͕͙̜͈̘̰̫̝̌̔͋̑͜͝͝n̴̘̣̝̼̥̼͖̭̣̙̝̔̊̾̀g̵̛̹̹͈͎͕̋̾͆̉̄̔́͛̀̓͗̏̈͊͂̍͋͠͝ͅ ̸̢̼̫͇̫̦̺̫̤̯̪̝̥̠̝͙͇̞̎͂͂̽̔̃͂̏̔̽̉̾̀̓͘͜͜͝͠t̴̢̛̛̛̖͚̣͎̠̠̘̠̝͙͕̺͔͋̍̇̃̆̽̆̒̄̓͂̔̽̿̃̑͘͝ͅh̸̨̡̢̨̨̖͕͙͎͍̲̦̣̼̻̝̝͍̠̬̦̞̪͎̘̩̲̾̋̅͗̃͆̂̋̌͂́̇̔̍͋̾̕̕̕͜͠ͅè̷̡̢̝̖̓͆͋͋̍̉̒̿̇̊͑͑͒͋̄̍̐̑͠ ̴̨̛̣͍͕̻̭̫̣̟̱͚͖̘̜̯̼̯̥̖͖͔̮̗̖͛́̅̍͑͋͌̽͒̆͆̀̈͂̌̔͊̚͝͝m̸̡̢̢̱̮̬̫̘̰͍͖̺̱͙͉͔̝̘̎̃̉͗̓̾̈́̔͐͊͒͑̈́̈̃͆͊͛̚͜͝͝͠ͅa̴̡̡̹̳͕̘̝̺̼̘͚̜̘̩͙͔̓̃͗̆̔̊̓ǵ̵̦̑͆͛̃͋̒̂͌̔͊͜͜͝͠e̵̜̐͋̉̍̍̋̓̄̓̐̑͊̊̏̋̚͝͠ ̴̡̧̢̛̦̻̜̟̭̗͙̬̳̬̗̗͖̀̇͊̆̌̋̃̏͌̐̈́̇̈́͐̈͆̚̚̚̚͠͝f̸̧̰̺͚̗̥͕̹̻̣͚̝̲͕͍̻̩̘͆́͑̓ͅͅr̷̨̡̛͚͈͕̰̩̖͚͕̤̫͆́̊́͌͋͛͋̍̏̽̈̍̓̓͑̐͠͝͝ę̵̧̢̛͈̥̫̰̟͍̹͍̭̩͕̗̟̩͖̬̲͍̣̻͕̱͒͐̉̏̾̏͂̓̀̈́́͘̚̚͝͝ͅȩ̶̢̨̨̛̛͎̬̦̞̗̗͈̪̖̦̞͚͇͔̼̗͉̝͕̗͐̐͐̓̇̅̈́̐̈̒͗́́̀̒͗̑̂̾̀̾̅͑̈̚̚͜͠͝z̵̧̭̥̻̟̮͈̣̤̰̹̳̺̠͙̐͒̕̕͜e̷̗͖̦̗̭̤̹̖͖̻̪̊̍͊̓̂̓̇͗̉́̒̍̾̕̕͠͠ͅ,̷̤̠͙̖̝̈́͐͛͆̓̑̀̔͊̓͂̋̽̓̓͋͗͆̉͛̍͝͠ ̸̨̭̯̭͈̝̰͓̼̩̳̻͔͚̠͈̮̀́͌̽͛̌͜͝ͅȁ̶̘̭̬͙̮̳̩͉͍͍͙̖̝̤̝̤̗̺̲̠͑̅̀́͋͒̊͗́̔́̌̈́̿͌͊̏́͆̀̇̌͋̕͠͝n̷̢̧̡̨̡̮͈̖̖̖̙͈̪̭̯̹̖̟͕͈͚̪̘͓̣̮͕̩͐̏̃̇͋͊̉͒͌͘̚͜͜d̶̨̝̤̟̜̻͉̗͙̟͒̔̽̍̽͆̉̑́̀̓͘ ̷̨̡̬̝̠͓̖̬̞͈̱̘̰͕͚͍͇͖͇̼͍͇̘̥̮̳͙̳̪̓̂͝ḧ̵̢̡̡̨̢͚̝̝̲̣͇̱̙̣̝̟̩̗̤͕̼͈̹̼͙͙̠̲̪́̋͂̇͛̋̎͋̃͂͊̑̾̈́̃͝ͅȍ̴̬̺̭͔̮͕͖̯̞̞̓̈́͑̋̕͝ř̵̪͉͙̈́͌̌̌̔̈́̆̈́̈́́͌͂̐͛̃̓̈́̉̂͊̃͐͝͝ͅṛ̷̢̧͕͓̝̠͎̮̟̯̭̞̬̪̰͇̼̠͉̱̥̲̫͕͑͐̅̿͐̒̿̊̽͗͗͋͊̇͗̽͋̔͌͋͝i̷̢̢̧̛̬͈̥̼̘͚͇͔̹̥̪͕̪̹̺̦̩̙̯̼̺͕͔̩̍̇̆̌̈́̊̀͊̈́͊̏̆̋̀̀̈́̈̑̓̐̈́͆͆͘̕͜͠͝f̶̡̛̛̖͓͇͈͔͉̬͚̺̪̹̝̳̅͛̃̈́̈͊́̇͌̃̄̌̏̆̇̏͘͝͝͝͝͝i̷̢̢̛̛̜͉̭̯̻̝͖̮̼̥͙͉̜̳̖̩͉̮̽̇̔̈́̓̋̈́͊̍̀͋̽ë̷̘̲̙̠͖̯͛̈̍͑̓̅̌́̀̈́̽̉̑͒̿̌͋̉̾̚͠͝ḑ̸̧̡̛̩̘͔̭̰̩͚̝͈͎̺͖̩̱͔̞̉͒̿̏̀͑̋̀̏̂̿͆̀̕͜͠ͅ ̸̧̢̢̲̮̼͎̼̻̬̖̬̣̪͓̥̪̝̭̝̪̌̓͗̅̄̋͊͋͐̍͒́̉̈͐̉̌̔̈̒͌̚͜͜͝͝ͅt̸̢̨̻̦̖͎̻̪̘̪̲͕̜̣̲͉̣̰͚̯̰̥̎̆̎̓͐͛͒͝ͅh̶̨̨͎̞̫̻̐̀̾̂͊́͗̍̓̿̿͛̓͗̈́̽̒͛̽̚͘͘̚͝͠e̸͓͑͛̀͗͒́͋̇̌̓̈̆̽̀͒͗̍ ̷̨̡͙̪̦̟̭͕̫̬͍̞͙̬̥̫̬̮̯͔̖͉͍̥̤̀̿͐̓̋̎̉͑̑̽̈́́̿̀́̚͠͝n̸̖̜̖͖͎̭̤̗̤͇̬̫̗̟̫͎̺̜̮̭͔̫̟̗͖̯̈̈́͗͆̽̈́̓̒̈́̀̅͋́͒̓͋͘ͅͅẽ̵̙̌͊̔͛̉̓̾͛̂̽̾̋̽͂͂́̕͝͝x̸̢̢̨̡̛̝̝̫͖͇͚̲̰̣̤̺͈̣̳̲̳̤̪͚̤͚̜̓̈́́͌̏͊́̕̕͠t̴̨̧̢͎̭͔̘̜̦̩̼͍̥͍̞̮̫̗̰̗̩͕͙̾̌̽͋̑̾̿͋̏̽̀͜ͅ.̸̧̢͈͍͚̳̥̩̫̰͕̼̼͔̩̎̊͆̈́̓̌̑̿̊̋͛̾͛̄̾́̆̚̚̕͝͝͠

Once, at a different time, at a different place, a once-demon offered to help set up camp, and then watch for danger. 

The birds never offered to watch for danger. 

The moth never stopped watching for danger, as it spent all night weaving.