Chapter Text
You are way too old for such foolishness, Hunter.
His tone was chiding in that light sort of way when he was making fun of him. At first, Hunter took this as a good sign that he didn't anger his uncle too much. Despite that, he was sent away. Out of the room, down the cold hallways, back to his empty room—a walk he hadn't had to walk since he was very small. Smaller than he still was.
Maybe his uncle was right. It surely didn't feel like that at the moment, but Hunter knew that he was always right.
He was the voice of the Titan; he was wise, and smart, and knew everything better than Hunter did. Hunter, who seemed to be making mistakes at every turn. It was best if he listened to him, as had been advised many, many times by his uncle. So if he said that his nephew was too old to come bother him in the middle of the night because he had something as foolish as a nightmare, then he was right. Hunter just had to learn to act like he was supposed to and not make a fool of himself. More than he already had.
It was just a nightmare after all, it couldn't hurt him. Not like evil wild witches and wild magic could—like curses, lashing out, twisting flesh and bone, pouring off of a skeleton like melting wax runs down the side of a candlestick.
He shook his head.
It was only a nightmare, he told himself, get it together.
But like all nightmares, it felt so real. The fear that gripped him—a claw hooking into his flesh, pulling closer and closer—the sinking feeling, the darkness pressing down on his chest. Waking up in a cold sweat didn't feel better either. He just had to go and see and make sure that his uncle was alright.
It was foolish, he knows now, not knowing the difference between a nightmare and waking, flesh and blood reality. How can he see through the lies of wild witches if he couldn't see through his own tired mind's trickery? He was proving himself to be unreliable already, wasn't he?
But he can do better.
More so, he had to do better.
It was deathly quiet in the halls. It was familiar in a way that everything was around him. Fog seeped in through an open window, filling the halls with cold night air. Something creaked, somewhere in the vast bowels of the castle.
A final gurgle, as a throat filled up with sludge. Steam rolled off in waves as the body cooled.
A chill ran up his spine.
Then he felt a sudden urge of anger, not at the darkness he had to feel his way back to his room – these halls were never well lit – but at himself. He was seven years old, far too old for this foolishness.
Far too old to be spooked by the dark and the twisted forms it paints onto the paintings he had seen a thousand times. Far too old to shudder at nightmares and old, creaking floorboards. And certainly far too old to run to his uncle for every little thing.
Cold blue eyes, piercing. Even as everything melted away, even as the claws dug in deeper. It sees everything.
He sees everything.
These are just cold, empty halls.
Nothing more, nothing less.