Chapter Text
While Ted and Henry sleep, Rebecca gathers her things. Sorts through items, decides what to take and what to leave behind. She charms her satchel, and then Henry’s, so they’ll hold more than they seem. Tucks extra food and blankets into Henry’s bag, along with a small cooking pan, a lantern that will never go out, and a few precious potions he can use to treat headaches and minor wounds.
In her own, she selects a few books she may need, her own potions, more dangerous ones, not fit for unfamiliar hands. From her room she summons some clothes, soap, and, without thinking about it for long, the small box of insignificant treasures she has left. It’s sentimental, and will take up space, but as she holds it in her hands she can’t bear to leave it behind; still, after all these years, can’t abandon the memories. It feels too much like abandoning the people she loved and lost, the people the items remind her of, so she tucks it away, deep at the bottom of her bag. On top she adds a brush, a pouch of water that will never empty, her box of vials.
Around her waist, she ties a holster and sheath, thinks it will suit Sir Nathan’s sword quite nicely.
From the kitchen, she selects her own pan, her teacup, and then stares at the little daisy, still sitting in the vial on her counter.
Kind gestures, she knows, are hard to come by, so she waves a hand and sends it into one of her books, pressed neatly between the pages. It may come in useful later.
There’s not much else—everything in the attic, of course, but those items are mostly sentimental and therefore unnecessary, or not quite important enough. There are a few books, but she remembers most of what she’s learned; there are clothes, but she doesn’t want to be weighed down. She thinks about the small teddy bear Ted had noticed, but it’s not worth it—better to leave it behind with the memories of better, lighter days.
There won’t be a light day for a long time now, she knows. No more days spent in her garden, listening to the flowers. No more singing in her kitchen, or feeding animals out the window, or going into town for the occasional item or meal.
No more quiet, no more safety.
She’s resentful, a little—of Ted and Henry and having to leave this place; but at the same time, she knows, she’s been stagnant too long. She hates to admit it, but her magic has grown weaker, domestic—it’s settled in her bones, accustomed to flight rather than fight, and if she’s going to help—she still hasn’t quite decided—she’ll need to relearn, retrain.
There’s a part of her, a small, tender part, that almost wishes she could just… go with them. Walk away from Rupert and the suffering he brings. Wishes she had never learned what she now knows, wishes she could leave the land to its fate.
But Ted was right about one thing—they may be the only ones who know what he’s planning. Ted and Henry—they can’t do anything. They may want to try, but they’re not fighters. They’re liabilities, at best, and if she has any hope of getting anywhere near Rupert again, she needs them out of her way. They’re too soft, too kind—they’ll either get her killed or get killed themselves, and she doesn’t have time for either.
She’ll take them to the port, to Roy, and then head to the East Country alone. It isn’t much to go on, but she’s quite certain whoever sent that letter—and perhaps the talisman with it—can be persuaded to talk, under the right circumstances.
It’s as good a plan as any, for now.
Rebecca has spent most of her life fighting it on sense or another, and she supposes, if there’s anyone left who can fight Rupert—who stands a fighting chance—it’s her. She knows him, knows his habits, his ways. She knows how he thinks, what he wants, what he’ll do to get it.
She somewhat doubts she’ll make it out of this alive, but maybe that’s for the best. Maybe that’s what she’s meant to do—maybe that’s what all of this has been for—to start the war, and let someone else finish it.
Shaking her head to ban the maudlin thoughts, she looks around. The room has grown darker, the sun just setting, only the fire keeping it lit.
She can feel the sadness in her house, its quiet ache, its understanding. She runs her hand over the door frame soothingly.
It wasn’t a lot, but it’s been her home for almost two decades, and she’ll miss it. It protected her, kept her safe and dry and hidden away, kept the stillness from settling in too deep. She’ll always be grateful for that.
Her eyes catch on Ted’s book, sitting on the small table by the fire where she’d left it, page open to that dreaded talisman.
Crossing the room, she sits in her chair, stares down at Ted’s hasty sketch, ancient symbols clumsy and inaccurate, but the stone shaded a deep black, the charcoal slightly smudged.
The evil king slaughtered them all one by one, and as his power grew, so did his greed and bloodlust. He boiled cities, burned villages, brought death and suffering to all who opposed him.
Why? she remembers asking, her voice quiet and frightened. Why would anyone do such a thing?
Her father never had a reply.
He’d always stop, then, and close the book.
Perhaps your mother is right, he’d say. Let’s try something a bit lighter, eh Sausage?
Rebecca shakes her head to clear his voice away, but she can’t stop thinking about it—the old king’s wrath, Rupert—what he could do, what he will do with that much power.
She turns the pages, finds again the little girl, her face the picture of innocence.
She was like that, a long time ago.
But Rupert has always been clever, and ruthless. Always thought three steps ahead, able to turn even the most troublesome of circumstances into victories. No one has opposed him in years, as a mortal man.
With magic, he’ll be unstoppable, and so many people will suffer, the way she did at his hands.
Slamming the book shut, she throws it into her bag, she makes her way upstairs. She pushes open the door to her room, finds Henry asleep, Ted on his back, his arm thrown over Henry’s shoulder. In the dim light, she can just make out the small wooden soldiers, two of them, set up on the floor at each end of the bed, like guardians.
It’s fanciful, and naive, and she feels a rush of anger at this man she’s just met—how ill prepared he is for the world outside, how innocent he tries to keep his son, when she knows all too well there’s no innocence left to be found. The world is dark and hard, unflinching in its cruelty. The sooner Henry learns that, the better, she thinks—
And then, unbidden, remembers his laughter. His smile. The small star carved into her bread for no other reason than to make her happy and the part of her she tries to keep locked up tight hopes and prays that Henry stays wide-eyed and joyful for as long as he possibly can.
As long as the world will let him.
“Is it time?”
Rebecca blinks. She’d been so lost in thought, she hadn’t noticed Ted’s eyes open.
She nods stiffly, watches as he gently rouses Henry, coaxes him to sit up. They both look exhausted still—Henry whines, and Ted puts on a smile she can tell isn’t quite real, but he whispers something to Henry that makes him giggle and hop out of bed. He scoops up the soldiers, and she can tell he wants to show them to her. Wants her to admire them. Wants her to share in the fantasy of protection.
She turns on her heel instead, leaves them to wake more fully. In the living room, she slips on her cloak, summons Nathan’s sword and slides it into her sheath.
She thinks about giving it to Ted, but he’d probably just kill himself with it by accident.
Gathering her things, she opens the front door, unsurprised to find Shithead munching on her flowers at the end of her walk. He looks up when the door shuts behind her, and she arches an eyebrow.
“Seriously?”
Shithead bites the head off another rose, taunting her.
“Just for that, you get the child,” she grumbles, saddling him up. Shithead makes a noise of protest, shaking his head, but he makes no move to stop her from adding her bag and a blanket to his weight.
The moon hasn’t risen yet, everything a deep dark. She can barely see into the forest past the treeline, but it doesn’t unnerve her. Silence, darkness—they’re old friends, where she feels most comfortable, and she’s just taken a deep breath, the fresh air cool in her lungs, when her front door slams open.
She jumps, turning to glare at Henry, and Ted close behind him, carrying their things. He opens his mouth to say something—perhaps a joke, judging by the quirk of his lips—but she cuts him off with a curt,
“Do you have everything?”
He pats his backpack and Henry’s. “Everything we have,” he says, and it’s with a smile; but she hears the pain in it, and looks away.
Looks at Henry, frozen halfway down the walk.
“What?”
Ted steps up beside him, a hand on his shoulder. “He’s got a little… horse-aphobia. Got kicked in the stomach once.”
“He’s harmless,” Rebecca says. “And we’ll move faster with Henry in the saddle.”
Henry’s eyes bug out. “You—you want me to—to ride him?”
“Problem?” she asks archly, a bit unsettled when Henry starts to stammer. She doesn’t want him to be afraid, but they need to get moving, sooner rather than later, and patience has never been her strong suit. She doesn’t want to drag him along kicking and screaming, but she will.
She opens her mouth to tell them as much, but Ted holds up a finger, asking her to wait, and she huffs.
Beside her, Shithead snorts, and Henry nearly yelps.
“Shut it,” she grouses under her breath, and Shithead lets out a second, much softer sigh.
When she looks back, Ted is crouched down, coaxing Henry to look at him, to tear his eyes away from her horse.
“Hey, bud,” he says softly, “You remember when we were on the farm, and that guy Mr Malston kept stiffin’ us on our tomatoes?”
Rebecca rolls her eyes. “We do not have time for this—” she starts, but Ted waves a hand, shushing her, his eyes fixed on Henry’s.
“And then his brother came by, and wanted to buy some stuff from us, and I wasn’t sure; but your Uncle Beard, you remember what he said?”
Henry sniffles. “No?”
Ted chuckles. “Yeah, I don’t blame you, cause you were probably still in nappies. But he said, all people are different people. Just cause Mr Malston #1 wasn’t a fair guy, didn’t mean Mr Malston #2 was the same.” He turns Henry slightly to look at her horse. “Same thing applies here. Just ‘cause one horse did you dirty, doesn’t mean this one will. Besides,” he adds cheerfully, “this is Rebecca’s horse, and he’ll do what she says, and Rebecca ain’t gonna put you in harm’s way, yeah?”
Shithead gives her a look of absolute disdain, and Rebecca smiles tightly.
“Of course,” she says, and neglects to mention Shithead rarely listens to a damn thing she says.
Ted stands up, smiles at her reassuringly and carefully coaxes Henry closer and closer.
“Be nice,” she hisses, and Shithead snorts again.
“He’s really big,” Henry says nervously, stopping a few paces away.
“Yeah, he is,” Ted agrees. “But hey, you wanna know what his name is?”
“What?”
“Shithead.”
Henry blinks. “Really?”
“Rebecca says he’s named after a friend.”
Henry frowns, looks at her, then back at the horse, his face the picture of consternation. “Must not have been a very good friend,” he mumbles, and Rebecca doesn’t mention how true that is.
“So what’d you say? Wanna give him a shot?”
Henry hesitates. Rebecca can see the fear in his eyes, and thinks of him frozen at the bottom of her stairs, his weak, dad?, the way it wrenched at her heart. The way his expression now does the same, but she keeps quiet. Doesn’t know what she’d say to comfort him, regardless. But Henry takes a deep breath, nods, and closes the distance. His hand is shaking, but he slowly reaches out, touching his fingers to Shithead’s neck.
She waits, holding her breath—but to her surprise, Shithead stays perfectly still, lets Henry touch him, get more comfortable, eventually soothing a palm over his neck.
He looks at Rebecca, then at Ted, and finally nods.
“Okay,” he says, and Ted beams.
“Alright.”
He helps Rebecca get him up into the saddle, talks to him the whole time, reassurances and praises.
“How you feelin’ up there?” he asks when Henry’s settled.
Henry smiles faintly, gripping the reins tightly.
“All horses are different horses,” he says, and Ted grins.
“You bet they are.”
Ted pats Henry’s knee, then ties Henry’s bag and blanket to the saddle, keeps his own sling over his shoulder. He’s wearing a coat now, though it’s thin and won’t keep him very warm. Henry, too, isn’t dressed well for the cold night air, and she doesn’t think much of it when she removes her cloak and drapes it over Henry’s shoulders. It’s far too big on him, but it’ll keep him warm and dry, and he smiles at her, snuggling into it.
Across from her, Ted mouths thank you, his eyes wide and grateful, and she purses her lips and looks away.
He shouldn’t be grateful. Shouldn’t trust her. She has her own agenda, one that doesn’t involve being friends with an idiot errand boy and his son; but Ted just smiles at her, tightens the strap on his bag.
“Ready to blow this pop stand?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Rebecca mutters. He gives her a curious look, but she doesn’t explain, just says, “Wait for me at the tree line.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but she silences him with a look, and after a moment he takes the reins, guides Henry and Shithead away from the house.
Rebecca sighs, turning away from them, her eyes drinking in her little cottage one last time.
Thank you, she thinks to the house, hears it hum in response, a sweet goodbye.
Summoning a ball of fire in her palm, she stares at it a long moment, watches it ebb and flow, little sparks dancing away.
You’re beautiful, darling, but you’re deadly. It’s for your own good.
She shakes away the voice, shakes off the tremors, and gently lets the fire wind its way out of her hand, setting the house alight.
Behind her, she hears Henry shout, but she doesn’t turn, watches instead as the fire quickly engulfs her garden, climbing the walls to the thatched roof. It’s… almost pretty, in a sad sort of way. The bright flames against the dark sky, the scattered bits of ash, the sparks that look like little fireflies, almost gentle.
A hand on her arm makes her jump, and Ted immediately lets go, but his face is full of shock and confusion.
“What’re you doin’?”
She looks back, the fire strong now, blazing away her home.
“There are too many things in a witch’s house that could fall into the wrong hands,” she says plainly.
“But—that’s your home. All your things, your books—”
She shrugs, hides the hurt. “I have what I need.”
Ted opens his mouth, closes it, his eyes wide and wet in the bright firelight. But he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t, at last, say anything. Just follows her gaze, watches the fire climb higher and higher, crackling as pieces of the roof fall, the beams begin to cave—
And then it’s gone.
No smoke, no mess.
Her house disappears, her garden, her cobblestone walk. They all vanish, swallowed up by the magic. In its place, a small clearing, full of wildflowers.
She sighs. Lets the moment sit heavily on her shoulders for a few moments, lets the wind pick up the smell of grass. There’s no trace of what once was, what used to be.
She tries not to find the metaphor fitting.
Beside her, Ted looks just as solemn as she feels, and it’s both irritating and strangely comforting. He has no idea what she’s been through, what he’s done to her life—has no idea she may not live through this. May not even want to, in the end.
But she can tell, by the look on his face, that he feels it. And it isn’t pity. Isn’t fear. For the first time in a long, long time, he just… cares.
She doesn’t know what to do with that. What to say.
The journey is just beginning, and there’s no time, now, for heartache. The port is waiting, the East Country after that—so much unknown, spread out before her, before them all. He looks at her, and she can see it in his eyes, the heavy weight of uncertainty—and for the first time, she lets herself reach out, to comfort him, in the barest way she knows how, her hand gentle on his shoulder.
It’s the first time in years she’s touched someone of her own accord.
The first time in years someone has leaned into her touch, like it was wanted.
“Come on,” she says softly, moving toward the tree line, toward Henry, toward whatever the future holds. “We’ve got a long way to go.”