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mirrortouchedsea · 2 months ago

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dark. that was all he had ever known. cold, dark, damp. the boy shivers in the small room, painfully alone, only a book and his magic to keep him company. he tries not to use his magic very often, though. it seemed that the people above knew when he used it and they always always always refused to give him food until he “woke up” next, if they bothered to keep track of that. maybe this time he’ll learn their lesson. the boy whispers his spell, cur memini, and creates a small light in his fingers. this is the only spell he can cast safely, too small to be noticeable by the people above. he holds his hand over the fading book on the floor. the boy can’t read the letters on the page, but this book has pictures. he flips through it again, careful of the pages that were falling apart, admiring the figure in armor who always comes to rescue the figure in the tower, cut off from the world, just like him. the boy frequently dreams of a figure in armor coming to save him, despite the years he has spent alone. dark and cold and damp.

the room the boy lives in, the only room he has memories of, is empty besides himself and the book. sometimes the people above would give him water and stale bread to eat, and then there was a cup and a dirty plate, but otherwise it was just the boy and the book. the boy knows why the people above have locked him away, they told him that he was a freak of nature, unnatural, dangerous. but the boy could only make lights in his palm, and that wasn’t very dangerous at all. he thinks to himself that the people above are the dangerous ones, locking away a child for something like this, but he can’t say that out loud. he doesn’t want to die again.

the boy’s stomach grumbles and he curls in on himself, the light in his palm fades out. he longs to see the sun again, to play with the other children he can hear through the ceiling, to be normal. the people above must have decided to punish him again, though, as he doesn’t remember the last time he had anything to drink, to eat. his stomach would eat through his skin and he would still wake up the next day. why can’t he just die once and for all and be rid of the pain? why is the world keeping him here? why was he even born?

the boy closes his eyes, and falls asleep. maybe this time it won’t hurt so much.

---

how long has he been here? the boy doesn’t keep track of time. he knows he’s died at least a dozen times, but how long does it take for a dozen lifetimes to pass?

---

a clattering on the floor wakes the boy up. the people above decided he can eat today. stale bread and water again, but better than nothing to the boy. he crawls closer to it, listening to the door. it closes and the voices disappear. where was the sound of the lock? did they forget?

the boy scarfs down his food and water before tiptoeing up the stairs. he doesn’t hear any voices, but he needs to be careful. he doesn’t remember what the above looks like, but he needs to leave. he needs to be free.

slowly, quietly, he opens the door. it’s dark on the other side of it, but still much, much brighter than his room ever was. he closes his eyes but keeps the door open. breathe in, and out. opens his eyes again, blinking the brightness away. pushes the door further open. steps on the hard ground outside the door. he’s so close. closes the door quietly. turns around and holds his breath. where was outside? pick a direction and go. his legs hurt. turn the corner, listen for voices. voices are dangerous, get away from the voices. whisper his spell, create a small light. keep moving keep moving keep moving. window ahead. break it? open it? is he strong enough? lift the window up. too weak. voices coming. hurry hurry hurry must get out now. whisper spell again, hand on window. break the glass and jump through it. cuts on feet cuts on legs deal with that later. voices getting louder voices shouting. run run RUN.

the boy runs away from the building, away from his room. freedom is so close. first get to the trees, then… he hasn’t thought that far, but he will find a way. gunshots from the house. he runs faster, must get to the trees, must hide, must be free. cur memini, he whispers again, crossing into the forest. his spell can make lights and now break windows, but he needs it to protect him at this moment. run run run until the voices are quiet again. his legs are giving out, but he needs to run. he can’t die now or they’ll find him. keep running. bare feet on sticks and stones and sharp things, everything hurts but he can’t stop. he keeps running until the sun comes up. his heart beats out of his chest.

---

when he wakes up he doesn’t know how much time has passed. his heart beats fast and he sits up. did they find him? he looks around. trees, rocks, a gurgling stream. he’s free. he’s free. he sighs and lays back down. how far did he run? he needs to go further. away from other people, away from anyone who might lock him up again. he sits up again and forces himself to stand and walk towards the sound of the stream. he can start there. water is important, and he might be able to get food from the little stream too.

his first drink of the stream water is icy cold, quenching his lifelong thirst in just a few swallows. he washes his face with it, removing years of sweat and grime. he wants to sit by the stream forever if only he could, but the people will find him eventually if he doesn’t keep moving. but he allows himself a few minutes to bathe in the water, savoring the feeling of water on his skin. his stomach still growls, wanting something more filling than the freezing water of the stream, but that would have to wait. he needs to get his bearings.

the light of the outside world is almost blinding, he realizes. the sun and the snow made it almost impossible to see anything. he should get up above the trees. can he even do that? cur memini, he says, trying to get his voice to be louder than a whisper. his feet float a few inches above the ground. he closes his eyes and says his spell again with more conviction. Cur Memini. he feels himself shooting into the air before he opens his eyes. he can see the forest stretch out for miles around him. trees covered in snow in every direction. if the old house is behind him, he should fly straight ahead, towards the forests on the mountains. tentatively, he leans forward and focuses his magic on keeping himself afloat.

it doesn’t take much to exhaust what little magic he has, but he’s put more distance between himself and the old house and the people above now. he should be safe to rest, truly rest. but first he should find something to eat. is there anything to eat out here? something in his head tells him to look a little closer to the ground. to his left. there’s a bush full of berries. he’s never had anything but stale bread, and doesn’t know what to expect as he crushes one with his teeth.

the sensation overtakes him for a brief moment. the berry is sweet, yet tart, and delicious. it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten and he thanks the little voice in his head for the information as he picks several more berries from the bush. the juice runs down his chin and makes him sticky, but it feels good. he feels truly alive for the first time.

once he’s finished picking the bush clean of its fruits, he needs to find a place to rest, to stay warm. he’s shivering in the intense cold of the north, but it’s nothing he isn’t used to. the room was never very warm after all. he listens to the little voices calling out to him, guiding him towards a small cave, instructing him on how to make a small fire to warm himself up. a small rabbit brushes against his leg and he swears one of the voices is coming from it. and with the fire going, he thanks the rabbit before it hops away back into the snow. he would be roasting that same rabbit over the fire a few months later.

the boy can’t stay in the cave forever though. as days turn to weeks turn to months, he worries that the people above are getting closer to him. they’ll put him back in that cold, dark, damp room again. he needs to keep moving. he has been practicing his magic, casting stronger spells, and he needs to be ready to fly. it's been long enough. cur memini he says holding his hand out. a rough stick with twigs tied to the end flies into his hand. it’s a poor excuse for what he understands is a broom, but it will work. he climbs onto it and focuses. cur memini cur memini cur memini. he lifts off the ground and watches as the branches of the trees get shorter and eventually he passes above the treetops.

he takes a moment to gather his bearings. he no longer remembers the direction the house was in, but going up is his best bet of staying away from the people above. he laughs, realizing that he is the one above them now. after a moment, he flies into the mountains. the small voices change into bigger, unfamiliar ones as he gets further into the mountain range. they tell him to hide, to stay away. he doesn’t listen. they cannot be more dangerous than the humans he is running from.

the boy lands, still exhausted from using so much magic, but he was able to travel further this time. that has to count for something, surely. he gathers some sticks and looks for another cave to make his home in. the caves remind him too much of the room he left, so he chooses to stay close to the entrance, close to the light that reminds him he is free. the fire keeps the animals away, but the voices are curious about the new presence in their woods. they make him curious too. he should stay in the cave tonight though and regain his energy. maybe he can get some small game to fill his stomach before settling in for the night. he listens for a rabbit’s voice, or maybe a squirrel, anything that would be small enough to kill with his hands.

at last, a small fox’s voice is heard nearby. he wonders if fox will taste different from the other game he’s eaten thus far. he lifts a hand-sized rock and slinks out of the cave towards the voice. it takes a few minutes to find the source, but the fox is curled under a tree, shivering, hungry, just like him. the boy hesitates before bludgeoning it and slinging the corpse over his shoulders. there are more foxes. he is much more important.

the fox is only the first animal he hunts in those mountainous woods. he spends several years in that forest and eventually humans settle up there as well. the boy, or rather, the man now, has made a name for himself amongst the human populations of the north. he is no longer afraid of humans capturing him and locking him up. they are still terrified of him, but now he is in control of that terror. the hunters that left his territory alive whispered tales of the great wizard owen who inhabited the mountains and terrorized anyone who had the bad luck of running into him.

all of this is perfectly fine with owen. eventually his reputation will grow beyond himself, encapsulating atrocities that were impossible for even someone as strong as oz to commit, but that would be a problem for future owen. for now, he is still young and living in his cave on the outskirts of a small village and scaring hunters who stray too far from their boundaries. the wolves don’t like these visitors either and gladly listen to owen’s lamentations. it keeps his hands clean of the bloodshed if he isn’t casting the spell himself. the wolves don’t care for owen either, but they respect him. and that is enough for owen.

the first of the unwanted visitors was a young man, someone who wanted to provide for his family. he pleaded with owen and the wolves to let him go and he wouldn’t cause any problems. those pleas fell on deaf ears though as owen looked the man in the eyes. won’t your family be disappointed, he asked almost innocently, you don’t have anything to show for your efforts. the man stammered a response, they’d rather i come back alive with nothing than die trying to find food. is that so, owen reached out for the man’s chin, the distance between their faces was almost nothing. y-yes, sir, please just let me go and i won’t bother you anymore. owen grinned. oh i’m sure you won’t be causing us any trouble again. the wolves stalked out of the woods, drooling at the prospect of tearing a piece of that man for themselves. owen snapped his fingers, and they came running forward, only to stop mere inches from the now trembling man. there was a suspicious yellow stain in the snow beneath him. p-p-please sir, anything you ask, it’s yours! then make sure you tell the rest of your little village that this forest belongs to the great wizard owen. the man ran off, leaving behind a hunting rifle and a ratty sack. the rifle would be of use, but the sack became tinder for his fires.

despite the warning from that first man, hunters continued to enter into owen’s territory. and one after the other, they ran off screaming with their tails between their legs. this should have annoyed owen, that people would ignore all of the warnings and stories that had started popping up about him, but it doesn’t. their fear feeds into his magic power, only making him stronger, and that is all fine with owen. he is no longer a weak child locked in the damp, dark basement, and he never will be again.

#shay writes #mahoyaku #promise of wizard #mhyk fanfiction #owen #owen mhyk #owen mahoyaku #character study #my wips #okay putting. disclaimers in the tags bc formatting. i am still new to reading everything #i'm almost done with the ballads. i have one left and its the proud hunter one #and then i'm hoping to start the first anni story #so uhhhhh if anything past the ballads is wrong no its not #jk jk i just havent gotten to it but i also like to take creative liberties with some things #and i definitely have already #trust me this is going to be way longer than it already is #like this is 2.5k words and i'm only posting all of it now bc its owen's birthday #i have several more scenes i want to write out as well that will add probably at least #another 2k words to this #if not more. its gonna be a time #but i did force myself to get to a decent place to end where it wasnt like. the middle of the scene #or a sentence. which some of my wips do accidentally end midsentence. i need to get better at that #but yeah. okay i should go to sleep i am actually sick and need to sleep and pray #i can go to work tomorrw. though if i'm feeling worse thats fine w me #i can sleep in for once #anyway happy birthday owen my mippy <3

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happi-tree · 1 year ago

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are we out (of the woods yet)

You look down.

Well, this explains the pain, you think, eyes darting over a body that you inhabit but do not recognize in the slightest, in colors that you can scarcely remember seeing.

Father is going to kill me. Then, Where am I?

Or: Henry Oak, and being destined for two worlds and when you've only ever walked in one.

ao3

Here’s my fic for day 3: werewolves. Like day 1, this is part of a supernatural au that @kaseyskat and @llumimoon masterminded alongside me, although this one takes place chronologically before day 1's. Hope you like it!

Life is good for you. Great, even! At least, that’s what Father wants you to believe.

Below your feet, the leaves crunch in shades of silver and gold, compounded into tiny bits that fly up around you as you sprint through the dense forest, and life is… as good as it can get, for the time being.

The sky is becoming clearer by the day, more and more pieces of azure heaven made visible by the ever-growing gaps in the canopy, carrying with it relief and distress in equal measure.

The sun lances to alight on pale golden fur, warming you through, unfettered by the leaves as you bound from shadow to shadow, light to light. At the same time, you feel the autumn’s chill on the breeze; though it is not yet cold enough for the grass to don their frost-coats at the gray-gold-blue dawn (scarcely ever is, these past few years), there is a weariness in your bones that belies the winter ahead, aching in joints that have not shifted right in quite some time.

It tugs at the back of your mind, the turn of the seasons, the shifting of moons, the shedding of leaves that regrow with the promise of spring. But there isn’t much you can do about it - not without it getting back to Father in some way or another (it always does, and you have long since learned that this corner of the wood has eyes beyond those of the white birches), and that is the last thing you want - so you growl under her breath, clench your jaw, and run harder, as if the ache is just a muscle you can stretch simply by outrunning it all.

You bank around the trunk of an old, gnarled dogwood and think of winter. They’ll need food stocked up at the Commune, soon.

(Commune, a name that Father has given your number, because Pack is too much too animalistic, too barbaric, too laughably simple for what you are. For your purpose. For your community.)

(You would personally like to tell Father where he can shove his community.)

(Well, most of it.)

The sun will be setting soon, you know, and as you bask in golden hour you dread the encroaching indigo-tinge of twilight that will bring you to Father’s side, ever the obedient daughter. There is not much you can do, though, except to attempt at grasping ephemeral joy in your hungry jowls, to crush the dead growth underfoot until you are expected back within the heart of Commune territory.

<Hen!> a familiar mind-voice calls out to you. <Hey, Hen, over here!>

Well. You suppose that maybe there is something else you can do.

The careless footfalls of your partner approach from behind, and you whirl around.

<Goose,> You sigh, half-exasperated, half-fond. <What in the moon’s name are you doing over here?>

<Could ask you the same question, Hen Ry’,> he chuffs, trotting over to brush against your flank.

<Plus, you always head over to this part of the outskirts when you’re all moody,> he notes, gesturing with his muzzle at your surroundings.

The cliff-wall before you is a massive, towering thing, all craggy rock and silvery moss. You could spend hours following the striations in the stone, nosing at the peaks and valleys, following them to the edge of Father’s influence. You have spent hours doing just that, following the winding currents within the rock, stripes of light and dark that squirm organically like the veins of some giant, petrified creature.

The trees thin out, here, and you glance sidelong at Goose.

<I’m not “all moody”,> You argue rather pointlessly, staring at the ribbons of light-dark in the stone before you.

<Please, babe, you’re always moody. I can smell it from miles away.>

Goose Sy’ is a gangly, wiry thing, with dark fur that looks lit from within in the dappled sunlight. He hunches lazily now, but there is strength and power and quickness beneath his pelt.

<What’s on your mind?> He asks, and you let him touch his nose to your cheek, an affectionate gesture that is a rarer and rarer treasure, these days. <Is the old man on your ass again?>

<When isn’t he?> You respond simply, growling a bit as you kick up more debris.

You sigh. <He keeps asking if I’ve thought about a mate,> you confess, and you scent his agitation and the slightest bit of worry as he turns his golden eyes on yours.

<He’s not, like, suspicious or anything?> Goose asks.

<Moons, no, thank goodness,> You respond, seeing him untense before you. <Could you imagine?>

Goose says, his laughter resounding in your brain. <I’d love to see the look on his face when he realizes his perfect paragon pup has been fraternizing with a mangy commoner. You know, before he kills me.>

You nuzzle against his side, let his scent wash over you. You’ll have to roll around in muck and mire for quite awhile to erase it, but as you bury your face into his ruff, you think it’s worth it.

There’s an ache in your heart that matches the ache in your unshifted bones, and you often wonder which came first.

<Killing is against his own rules, and my Father surely wouldn’t debase himself to such levels. It is beneath our glorious, enlightened kind,> You sniff mockingly.

He bumps his side to yours, snorting.

Father… has been getting very insistent about settling you down. Perhaps a part of you always knew that pups were the only things he judged you as being good enough for, but your stomach turns at the very principle. You feel trapped, miserable here in his territory, heir to his kingdom of oak and earth. To bring more of yourself into the world, to force them to endure as you have…

You scent a chill on the breeze, and it ruffles your fur, causing a shiver to run down your spine. The ache intensifies, and you can practically feel the creaking of your bones beneath the sinew.

You hear yourself whine before you can stop it, and Goose presses closer to your side.

<Have you thought about Changing?> He asks, mind-voice lowered to the slightest of whispers.

You balk. <Are you insane? Father would actually kill me. Just because you can get away with it doesn’t mean I could just - >

Goose says, trying on a soothing tone like an ill-fitting coat. <It’s just that - > he snarls, low and angry, and you flinch.

<Sorry,> He cuts himself off. <But you’re hurting, and it’s his fault. Him and his stupid fucking rules.>

It’s not the sun against your fur that makes you feel warmed through, now.

Goose tells you.

You reply, instead of the me, too that lies just below your speech-thoughts.

<A little,> He answers. <Well, a lot, at the beginning. But then, the pain goes away a little, I guess. Shrinks. You could try it, you know. I’d take care of you.>

Your heart says something different, as it always has. You ponder for the briefest moment the concept of running away from it all, of a full-moon sunrise where you awaken in a body that is still yours but also not, side by side with him. You imagine the shift-ache unfurling into a new shape before shrinking dormant below your reformed skin.

You wonder if he would drag you to the treeline outside the nearest town, dress you in human things until you could masquerade among them. If he would teach you how to walk on two legs.

You wonder what he would look like. Instead of brushing against your side, you wonder if he would hold your hand.

Wondering is a pointless thing, though, Father says, and running is cowardice.

Staying feels even moreso, but you know nothing else.

<Well, if you change your mind and wanna stick it to the old mutt, you know where to find me,> Goose’s voice echoes softly between your pointed ears, breaking you from your thoughts.

<Thank you,> You respond, trying to wrangle your mind-voice into something that sounds less morose and forlorn. You fail, judging by the way Goose presses his muzzle against yours.

You wish you could go, just pick up and leave, but there are things that keep you. Mother, for one, though she grows more and more distant by the day, ever colder, like the Autumn she is named for, as Father sinks his claws into you both, bleeding you of your heart and your strength and your freedoms until nothing is left but exhaustion and ache and apathy.

Mother belonged to another Pack, once, you know, even though she has never spoken of it. A real Pack, in name and in function. She has known what it feels like to move between forms, between worlds, transient like the phases of the moon.

You would’ve liked a life like hers, a name like hers, one that feels equal parts human and beast.

Instead, you were named in Commune tradition. The first moons of your life you went nameless, in order for your parents (your Father, mostly) to judge what name would best suit you.

You think of Father’s name: Bear, a towering, massive presence compressed into lupine form that looms over you even when he is not there. Strong, masculine, predatory.

Goose was named this way, too, and the name suits him well - your partner is flighty, a free spirit, but brash and loud and quick to bite and clamor at whatever displeases him.

Even your childhood tormentor, Horse, suits his name. Proud and haughty and ornery and loud in his own right, skittish beneath Father and Mother’s glares.

You do not have to wonder why Father chose Hen for yourself. You are a livestock, a thing to be kept in a wooden cage, with clipped wings incapable of flight, legs unsuited for traveling too far from his reach. Your children and your children’s children will feed the gaping maw of your captor, and there is nothing you can do about it.

Your name chafes at you, scratches at you like brambles upon your hide. Meek and feminine and prey-animal and all the things you are but wish not to be.

<Sun’ll be down soon,> Goose’s mind-voice resounds in your brain, and you startle, cocking your head to dislodge your useless spiraling.

You look around, noting the yellowish light stretching the tree-shadows longer and longer across the ground.

<You’re right,> You agree.

<Lost you for a minute, there,> He says.

Goose doesn’t press for answers, but the flicking of his ears gives away his concern.

<Just thinking,> You respond, glancing at the deepening blues on the horizon.

<You were thinking pretty loudly,> Goose remarks with a light press against your side. <You gotta get back, yeah?>

<Wish I didn’t have to,> You grumble, already turning to the depths of Commune territory, pawing forward even as you think it.

<Offer’s always open,> Goose replies. <Full moon’s only a week away.>

The pain within you seems to increase at the reminder.

Goose exclaims as your paths begin to diverge - his, to his home on the far reaches, yours, to whatever Father has awaiting you tonight. <Thanks. See you soon?>

<Soon,> You agree, and hope you can make good on that promise.

“Hello?”

The first thing you register as you awaken is that your body hurts.

Bone-deep, marrow-deep, cell-deep, all over. It feels like your limbs have scrambled themselves, ground themselves to dust, and then attempted to piece themselves back together from the rubble. It is as if every muscle fiber within you has been stretched past breaking point, as if every nerve ending fell prey to one thousand claws, one thousand fangs.

Your very soul yowls in pain, and it is only because your teeth feel so wrong and foreign in your own jaw, because your vocal cords scrubbed raw, that you do not vocalize it beyond a shaking rasp.

The second thing you register is a presence right in front of you.

You open your eyes, and the third thing you register is dazzling, dizzying, scintillating color.

Your hands (hands?) scrabble at the rough earth in a vain attempt to ground yourself as you look around half-dazed and hurting, and the soft, uncalloused flesh of your palms smarts and stings against jagged bits of debris.

You look down.

Well, this explains the pain, you think, eyes darting over a body that you inhabit but do not recognize in the slightest, in colors that you can scarcely remember seeing.

Father is going to kill me. Then, Where am I?

You don’t recognize this part of the woods - the scents of the Commune are all but nonexistent, and the area around you is well-trod, devoid of grass, human odors lingering and overlapping.

A human hiking trail?

You blink rapidly, taking in the fuzzy dawn light and its myriad of hues.

Mother had taught you about colors, once, when you were a very young pup and the world was still bright with more than shades of yellow and cerulean and she was not yet as poisoned by oppressive bear-weight of cynicism.

She had told you their names, even, though you struggle to remember them.

You test them out, now, forming their mouth-shapes with a slow clacking of newly-blunted teeth.

Green, the color of moss and grasses and foliage at the height of solstice.

Orange and her deeper sister red, the colors of the fallen leaves underfoot, the colors of the sky as evening starts its slow descent toward dusk.

The coveralls that the human woman before you wears are purple, you think, a flower-color, a dusk-color, a dawn-color. A spring-color, a beginning-color.

“H-ello,” you attempt, your voice creaking and throat constricting at the novelty of speaking aloud.

“Hello, again,” the woman responds, slowly and frowning, but… not unkindly, you think.

You inhale, and her scent is tinged with something sparkling and warm and cold all at once. Magic-smell, you realize. There is worry there, as well - not for her own safety, but for yours.

There is not even the tracest amount of falsehood to her - her demeanor, her expression (though, that, admittedly, is mostly guesswork), her scent.

It’s a novel concept.

You cannot remember that last time anyone had had honest intentions with you (apart from Mother and maybe Goose), let alone went as far to show genuine concern over you.

It takes you aback, strikes you nearly as harshly as… whatever it was that has left you feeling so crippled.

“My name is Mercedes,” the woman says, gently, softly, as if speaking to a wounded prey animal.

The comparison is… not without merit.

“What can I call you?” She asks.

Smart, this woman is. Or incredibly stupid. To lend her own name like that knowing full well the risks is either an intense show of trust and compassion, or…

There is a glint in her eye, you notice, and the magic-scent sharpens.

Well… best to repay a kindness with a kindness.

“Hen,” you croak, trying to get the shape of your name to form on your clumsy, human tongue. “Ry’Oak.”

“Well, Henry,” the woman (Mercedes!) says, and you splutter at the way that she slurs the first two syllables together rather than the last.

“Are you okay?”

Moons above, no, you are not.

Your body hurts like it never has before, and your eyes sear with a kaleidoscope of hues you haven’t seen since you were a young pup, and the way this witch has butchered your name might be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

Henry, you mouth to yourself, running it together. It sounds rather plain, achingly human. Father would hate it.

You quite like it.

“I think… I will be,” you tell Mercedes.

“Good,” she says, extending a hand. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

#this au has LAYERS i tell you. layers!!!#anyway. shoutout to nyx for the idea of barry having a cult of fucked-up werewolves that believe that their wolf forms are superior #surely. henry will not have several complexes as a result of this. and chronic pain #but hey! mercedes!!! it's not all bad :)#ANYWAY. thank y'all for being so nicies on the last one. hope this one makes sense!#dndads #fic #happi scribbles #dndads halloween week 2023 #bat and wolf #also. i know this one is ANOTHER 2nd person pov but i swear it's the last one. probably. it just flows better this way. trust 😌#okay i THINK. this is all the tagging i need to do

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