Archive of Our Own ^beta

You wake up. 

Shit, how long had you slept for? This isn’t the place for restful, comfortable sleep—you could do that when you got out. You need to be on guard.

There could be anything down here. Anything in the darkness. 

No, there is something here. You feel something here— shit!

Quick, a torch. A match. A fucking fire. Anything. Your eyes could never adjust enough to see through this supernatural darkness, never meant for humans.

You reach for your pack, by your left side where you always keep it, with torches at the top for exactly these situations–

Your hand hits polished wood. Your knuckles bang into it, causing something nearby to rattle, and sending a tiny jolt of pain up your wrist. 

Maybe it’s the pain that lets you see. 

You look. It’s your bedside table. You look again. 

You remember your other senses exist. 

Soft blankets under your hands. Cushions. Insects sing distantly. Breathing—two sets. One quick, irregular, panicked. The other, smooth and slow. The smell of cedar wood, and the incense that Celeste likes to burn.

Celeste. Her breathing, beside you. 

You’re not in the dungeons.

You’re in your own home. 

The relief knocks you breathless like it does every time, but it doesn’t quite outweigh your bitterness at this same fucking thing happening fucking again. 

You can’t shake the taste of iron and frustration from your mouth. You got out. You got out. Months ago, by now. Why the hell did you still wake up every other night convinced otherwise? When would you learn?!

You collapse back in bed and close your eyes. 

You last about ten seconds before they snap open again. 

You can still feel it. There’s something there. Dungeons or no, all your instincts scream that there is something there, something in the far corner that you can’t see. It’s there, and you don’t know what it is, but it sure as hell knows you. 

You try to ignore it. You can’t. 

Fear courses through you, faster, faster. You reach for the knife under your pillow—and feel only softness. 

Right, you remember: Celeste banned weapons in the bedroom, after waking up to see you with a knife and a crazed, hunted look in your eyes one too many times. Her one allowance is a sword by the door, mounted on open hooks; simple decoration to an outside eye, and your one pitiful defense against anything that came to hurt you. 

“This will be good for you,” she had said with a soft, sad smile, gently holding your face with one hand and petting your already greying hair with the other. 

It doesn’t feel good. It feels dangerous. 

You fumble for a candle and tinderbox, praying for the meager starlight to protect you before you finally get it lit. 

You always keep candles and an oil lamp on your bedside table. Celeste doesn’t mind; she’s already used to sleeping when it’s light out, and she knows that this particular reassurance is one you can’t go without. 

The candle sparks to life, but still doesn’t illuminate the far corner that you can feel danger radiating from. You shakily bring the candle to light the oil lamp, and the burst of flame finally banishes the darkness from every part of your room. 

There’s nothing there.

There’s never anything there. 

You feel like crying. But you don’t. Just barely. 

Your instincts never used to trick you like this. 

You never used to feel like crying, either. Not since you were a kid. 

Maybe you’ll never learn. 

With the light of the lamp you see Celeste laying beside you, her hair in waterfalls of glistening silver. She started keeping it long after you bought her freedom; no one will ever have the chance to grab her by the hair again. Her face is smothered in her pillow. You almost smile, wondering for the hundredth time how she breathes like that. 

But aside from her questionable sleeping habits, she’s safe. You’re safe. You’re…

…Shit, the kid! 

Your heart jumpstarts again with the terror that something might have happened to her. That something could happen to her, at any time, and that you could be powerless to stop it. 

That little girl you brought home from the dungeons… you need to make sure she’s okay. She has to be. If anything happened to her… 

You slip out of bed as quickly as possible without waking Celeste and grab the oil lamp before dashing out the door and quietly closing it behind you. 

Bringing home that little girl from the dungeons is the one good, selfless thing you’ve done in your entire life. She’s the only good thing that could ever come from that sickening place and you promised, you promised, that nothing bad would happen to her here on the surface. 

Normally, you don’t give a shit about lying to people. In fact, you do it all the time, shamelessly and skillfully. Your word means next to nothing. But with that little kid… 

You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you lied to her. 

Her bedroom door is so close to yours that you don’t have the space to break into a run over that tiny stretch of hallway, but you try anyway. 

With all the restraint left in you, you knock softly on her door and count to three before opening it. You promised that this room belongs entirely to her, and that’s another promise you’d do your damnedest not to break. 

The oil lamp casts a warm glow over the room, and just as always, she’s okay. 

There’s nothing in the corners of her room, nothing behind the curtains or under the bed. 

She’s sleeping soundly, comfortably, curled up in a cocoon of the fluffiest blankets Rondon had to offer, still clutching that eerie patchwork doll you gave her all that time ago. You’ve offered her a dozen different dolls at this point, but she doesn’t care. She just wants that one, with all its stitches and its stains that won’t fade no matter how much you try to wash it for her. 

It almost gives you hope, that she could still love something so broken. 

You know she still keeps the dagger you gave her under her pillow. She knows you won’t tell Celeste. 

You let your body sag against the doorway, the oil lamp hanging limp from your loose grip. She’s okay. She’s safe.

Your family is safe. You’ve made sure of it now. 

So, rationally, the fear should be gone. But you stay by the door with the oil lamp.

You watch the blankets slightly rise and fall with her breathing, waiting for your heart to calm. 

It’s kind of crazy, the amount of recovery the girl has shown in just a few months. 

She sleeps through the whole night most of the time now, she no longer stares at the pantry in awe, and you’ve finally convinced her to stop using magic outside of emergency situations. Explaining to Celeste that your newly adopted child was an expert in blood magic was hard enough.

She’s still trying to pick a name for herself, at your and Celeste’s insistence. Assigning her a name felt wrong, somehow, and you both hope that if she chooses her own name she’d feel a little more sense of agency in the world. She’s struggling with choosing one, you know, and you don’t want to rush her. “Kiddo” works just fine for you in the meantime.

She still only said a handful of words a day, but, fuck, at least she talked at all now, and every time she did was another scrap of proof that all this bullshit was worth it.

You know it was worth it; you finally got Celeste out of that damned place. She’s free, and going into the dungeons was just the price you had to pay for it. 

But sometimes it’s hard to remember that. Sometimes you think you would rather have got the money to do it in literally any other way, even though logically you knew anything else would have taken too long. 

Sometimes it feels like that girl is the only good thing in your entire life, and if anything happened to her, none of what you went through—what you still struggle with—would be worth it anymore. None of it. 

Celeste says you worry too much, and that you should back off and let the kid breathe a little.

Celeste wasn’t there. Celeste didn’t understand what you and that kid went through together. What you went through for that kid. What you would do again without any hesitation if it meant keeping her safe.

The girl stirs, shuffles under her blankets and you close the door, finally realizing that the light could wake her. 

You’re glad that she, at least, can sleep. 

An ugly voice in the back of your mind jeers at you, taunting that this little girl is braver than you, you goddamn coward. This little girl has lived and fought through hells unimaginably worse than your own horrors, and still you’re the one clinging to light like a child.

Another voice laments that you’re a shitty father, and you’re kidding yourself thinking you’ll ever be better. What kind of example are you setting like this, being scared of the fucking dark? She’ll never look up to you, never feel able to rely on you. Once she grows up, she’s probably going to curse you like you curse your own father. 

You can’t disagree with the voices. They’re right.

But also, you remind yourself, they’re missing the point.

Coward or not, you’re still alive. Shitty or not, you’re the only father that little girl has. 

One more promise: you’ll try your absolute best to be there for her. 

All you can really do is try. It’s shitty and frustrating, and you know you’ll fuck up more times than you can count, but you’re not going to stop trying. 

Assured of your family’s safety (for now, something in your head reminds you), you turn to go back to your own room. Before you even take a step, you know your mind still won’t let you sleep. Not yet.

You…you still need to make sure. The darkness pulls at the corners of your mind, beckoning you, threatening you. There could still be something there. You need to check. You need to. Just to make sure. 

Fear drives you forward, and you set out to patrol your house, as is your instinct when you have nights like this.

Still, you don’t learn. You know your instincts are lying to you, but that doesn’t make them any easier to ignore. 

You wander the halls of your home like a ghoul, guided by the shaky light of the lamp and the muscle memory of having done this many, many times before. You know every time you do this that checking all these dark corners is stupid, but it’s the one thing you’ve found that will always quiet your mind a little, just enough to sleep. 

You check behind each set of lavish curtains, test the locks on each ornate, heavy door. You find yourself wishing that your home were smaller, even though it’s already quite small by noble standards. Of course, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to noble standards; it’s a manor to you. 

Somewhere in your mind, you know that rationally, there’s no real danger. Most likely, there’s nothing in the darkness. The worst case would be encountering a common thief, like you used to be. 

But when have the dungeons ever behaved rationally? 

Logic, instincts—both fail you. All you have is a bone-deep awareness, a certainty sitting in your gut like an insatiable hunger, that the dungeons will never truly let you go. 

No one ever escapes the dungeons. You haven’t disproven that rule after all. This state—all of this, with your family and manor and safety—is temporary. Every dark corner, every random creak of old wood, every paranoid thought that flits past your eyes when you try to sleep—constant reminders haunt you, whispering that you could never really leave the dungeons, not for long.

That kind of darkness doesn’t shake easily. The fact that you’re wandering through your own damn home trembling is proof enough of that. 

The darkness clings to you still, thick and fog-like, cloying, choking. Sunlight hides it well, but you know it’s always there. For the rest of your life, you know it will keep coming back for you, keep trying to claw you back in, keep feeding on your constant fear. 

Your stomach sinks and your heart beats in your throat as your mind catches on a fact you desperately try not to remember: you brought the darkness of the dungeons home with you. 

And it will leave no survivors. 

You can feel its hunger. It will want more. It will take more. It’s only a matter of time. 

All you can do is hope that you alone are enough to sate it—that it will never haunt your family the way it haunts you. 

You hope it gorges itself fat and stupid on your sanity and your remains, and the worst thing that will ever happen to your family is grief. 

You finish patrolling your house, too fast for your liking. You’ve gotten good at this, unfortunately. It’s not enough time for your mind to settle. You triple-check the locks—locks so sturdy even you can’t pick them— just for good measure, and then there’s nothing left to do but sleep. Maybe this time your mind will let you. 

You check in on the girl one last time, needing that last reassurance of her steady breathing, alive, safe, then finally go back to your room. 

In the flickering light of the oil lamp, your own bedroom always feels alien to you, no matter how many times you’ve done this. Fear creeps in again knowing you’ll have to snuff out the light, but you focus on the soft sound of Celeste’s breathing. The insects still chirping outside. The fading smell of incense. 

Yes, the darkness still sticks to you. The dungeons will come back for you. This is inevitable. 

But…you have this temporary respite. Short-lived as you know it will be, maybe you can still enjoy it. Even if you never learn, even if it never gets easier, you can still live in it, live with it, for as long as you’re allowed. 

You blow out the lamp, reach for Celeste’s hand, and wait for morning.