Thread by @detwoit, Hank was in agony, alive. What a disappointment.He did not see so [...]

Hank was in agony, alive. What a disappointment.

He did not see so much as feel where whole chunks were rent in the shapes of claws and teeth. And he felt, too, gentle fingers pressing into the subtracted areas. He hissed and screamed and cursed in a haze punctuated by even

sharper sensation. There was the feeling the sting of a wet cloth soaked in some vile liquid; the cool contact of something like leaves that, once applied with pressure, felt like needles driving into his open flesh; and an comforting, potent herbal smell that even cut through

he metallic stench of blood. The constant, though, were soft words, murmurings he didn’t think he could understand even if he had his full faculties. They anchored him to the world like the pain did, but unlike the pain, the gentle voice made him want to stay.

What must have

been hours or days later, the first word Hank actually understood was, “Drink.”

He was propped upright, completely supported, but couldn’t feel anything like pillows or furniture or even a limb holding him. “Drink,” the voice repeated, a little exasperated. The rim of a wooden

bowl pressed insistently against Hank’s lips. His eyelids split open with a great effort and he was rewarded with the sight of a unearthly-looking man - curls falling into his face, eyebrows knit in irritation, a pretty, pouty mouth. Hank’s own lips parted involuntarily, letting

in a rush of hot broth onto his tongue that he barely managed to not choke upon.

Hank was now dimly aware he was on a bed, felt the radiant heat of a roaring fire, heard the soft rattle of the dried herbs hanging above as they shuddered against draft snaking its way through the

rafters.

“The whole thing,” the man insisted. “It would be a poor show of gratitude for all my work to have you die in want of supper.”

“You’re the witch,” Hank rasped between glups.

“Sent by the gods to save you, yes,” he said drily, finally withdrawing the bowl and setting

it on a bedside table with a soft thump.

Though the pain was ever-present, Hank found his strength returning with a bit of food in his belly. “If you really are a witch,” he began slowly. “You of all people know to leave a body you find the morning after a full moon to rot.”

“I’d call myself a poor village witch if I didn’t do what I could to protect the villagers under my charge,” he replied primly.

(CW: suicidal ideation for the next passage)

“Good thing they didn’t hear you say it. Your villagers will be giving you an earful when the moon’s full again.”

Hank was joking, a bit. It kept the horror of it corralled safely away. Part of him, despite the aches and pains,

wanted to run from this cabin and into the night, lie in the bosom of the forest, and wait until the earth reclaimed him and he became the corpse that he was always meant to be.

But, as always, he thought bitterly, he lacked the will. He’d hedged his bets on years of death-wish

drinking at the tavern to do him in, and he’d gotten so close, so close…

The witch bore through Hank’s thoughts, staring at him with an intensity that made him feel suddenly and painfully aware that there were little more than poultices, bandages, and a quilt to conceal his

naked body. Then again, given what had happened - the witch had already seen all of him, and that made it even worse.

“There are ways,” the witch broke the silence, careful and slow. “There are ways of managing it.” He looked as if he had more to say, but kept it to himself.

The witch smiled, and suddenly whatever force had been holding Hank upright gave way gently. The shift brought fresh pains to his healing wounds, but it was but a little more than the constant ambient pain in the background of his awareness. His silver hair fanned out over a

feather pillow beneath his head, and he felt the quilt crawl up to his chin of its own volition.

“Rest,” the witch said, and so it was done.

—

The next smattering of awakenings passed in much the same way; the witch being an enormous pain in the ass about eating or drinking

something before Hank passed out again. But rest and care eventually built up his strength enough that Hank could sit up without the witch’s invisible fingers holding him.

“You haven’t mentioned your name,” Hank murmured, staring into the dregs of whatever foul mix of herbs

passed as tea in this little cabin.

“You haven’t asked,” he said pointedly, crossing the room to tend to something on the hearth. There was a whine as the hinge of an iron arm extended over the fire flexed back toward Connor, and he unloaded a kettle. “Terribly rude, you know,

to not show much interest in your savior.”

“Yeah, well, making up for it now,” Hank grumbled.

“I have many names, I suppose,” the witch conceded at last, clearly enjoying himself. “You may call me Connor.”

“Connor,” Hank repeated. “Well, don’t know what the fuss is. S’not

like you know anything about me.”

“Oh, but I do, Hank, Ander’s son.” The way Connor said it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “Witchcraft involves a lot of knowing.”

He didn’t believe for a second that Connor was bluffing or bragging. The fact that he’d brought Hank from the brink of death was proof enough of that. So it took a long moment for Hank to gather himself and say, “Sounds like a fancy way of admitting you’re a nosy little fucker.”

Connor laughed. It was strange and musical and weirdly unrestrained in a way he had not expected of such a smug little creature. “I suppose that’s a more apt description of what I do, yes.”

There was a companionable silence as Connor took to that work, pouring steaming water

over various blends of herbs. It kept the cabin pleasantly humid despite having a fire going at all hours. When Hank had to keep a fire going, the air often got so dry it could crackle. In another life, when he’d kept the midnight watch, Cole had gotten up from the bed the three

of them shared, only to prod Hank with a little electric shock, and, oh, two could play that game, and he’d tickle Cole until their laughter woke his mother.

Hank shook his head as though he could physically cast it from his thoughts. He swiped at his eyes quickly and gulped in

a breath. When he’d properly exorcised the thought and he could keep his voice reliably even, Hank cleared his throat. “It’s - it’s been a few days since - well.” He scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “I don’t want to ask more of you, but my homestead doesn’t run itself

and I mustn’t have been there in a spell.”

“Ah yes, your holdings,” Connor said, sounding amused. He left his work at the broad live-edge wood table by the hearth and pulled up a stool next to the bed. “You have a proper hellhound of a guard dog. Knocked me over and licked me

until I was baptized in slobber.”

Hank smiled.

He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

“Sumo.”

“Oh, I know,” Connor said. “Unlike his owner, he has /some/ manners about introductions and pleasantries.”

“Uh, right,” Hank said gruffly. Magic shit again.

“I guess I should thank you.”

“Quite right. I’ve been feeding the chickens since I found you. They were all quite concerned about you, Hank, but I let them know you’re alright.”

“Shouldn’t lie to ‘em. You’ll get their hopes up.”

“I didn’t.” Connor said, firm and oddly

serious. “You will be.”

Hank didn’t know what to say to that, and Connor seemed to sense that. To fill the silence or what, he didn’t know, but Connor went on unprompted.

“I know a little of what it’s like, to not have a soul in the world caring whether you live or die.

To be seen as a monster and a nuisance. I thought - well, if it were me, I - “ It was the first time Hank had seen Connor struggle for words. “I would want help,” he said, soft as rain.

If Connor was disappointed Hank didn’t have the words to thank him, he didn’t show it. Maybe he knew without needing to hear it out loud. Magic, and all that.

—

As the weeks passed, Hank grew stronger and fell into a comfortable routine. He would wake with the sun in the

morning, Connor always up before him and making careful, quiet movements as not to wake him. Hank would pretend to sleep, facing his body away from Connor and watching his shadow move across the wall in the firelight, then the sunrise. He supposed it was pathetic, relishing in

the quiet intimacy of sharing a space with another person again, but he didn’t stop himself, either.

Later, he would wake in earnest. In the early days, he’d break his fast in bed while Connor joined him at his side. As Hank grew stronger, he’d heave his still-sore body out of

bed and actually sit at the live-edge table that Connor used for most tasks. Hank would ask about magic, about the incremental changes the season passing made upon the land, about the plants and animals Connor saw on his little walks out collecting, all while Hank sipped at a

drink Connor had made out of roasted dandelion root that he’d had grown extremely fond of. And Connor would answer, in earnest. He loved sharing what he knew, and his eyes would light up particularly when recounting the previous day’s visit to Hank’s homestead and all the little

bits of gossip he picked up from Sumo and the chickens.

Maybe, despite his insistence that his isolation was a choice, Connor relished in the company, too.

To his surprise, Hank shared, too. At first it was to point out places where the drafts came in that needed repair before

winter started clawing its fingers at the corners. Connor bristled a little at that, the insinuation that he didn’t have every little aspect of his housekeeping under his thumb until Hank made it clear that he was pointing it out because he was offering to help. Despite

everything, part of Hank wanted to hold onto the idea of having a reason to visit in the future.

That there was a future, well, that seemed to be of two minds in his head. The new skin unfolded over Hank’s wounds ever so tentatively, in pale masses of scar tissue. It needed to

serve as a reminder of what was to come now that the pain was waning away a little. He couldn’t think beyond what the next full moon would bring, but Connor said there were ways of managing it and Hank desperately wanted to believe him.

However, as the moon waxed, Connor grew tight-lipped, at least with regards to what exactly “managing it” would entail.

“You’ve been brewing up a storm,” Hank said one morning over a meal of eggs Connor had brought back from the homestead and a loaf of bread that he had “found”

behind a row of books, mysteriously fresh and still warm. “Wouldn’t happen to be for me, would it?”

Contrary to his usual enthusiasm about magic, Connor resolutely stared into his clean plate. “It’s fine if it isn’t, you know. You’re usually - “ he faltered a bit, and found

some of the old bitterness creeping into his voice. “Well, forget I asked.”

Connor stood, moving to the window that overlooked the forested valley below, early morning mist still rising through the trees. “I thought there was something more I could do - but it seems I was

overly optimistic. I can help you.” Connor turned to face him again, and shame stole the color out of his face, the sparkle out of his eye. “I can keep you here. I can keep you from hurting others. I can’t promise anything else. I’m sorry, Hank.”

“So you lied?” On some level

of awareness, Hank was thankful it came out as a hiss and not as a sob.

“I didn’t /lie/.” Connor’s eyes were misting. “I didn’t lie to you, Hank. You can live with this, I can help - ”

“How about I’m the one who decides if I can live with this, huh?” Hank stood. He was

a chill on the air when he opened the door and walked out, but Connor didn’t stop him.

And maybe that was what stung most.

—

There were three nights a month a werewolf would turn. Connor had hoped Hank would come back that first night, if only so he provide what little he could now promise. He supposed that restless night was precisely what he deserved, being a witch.

A liar.

A coward.

Now,

perhaps, with blood on his hands.

It was only once first light peered over the trees that Connor left his vigil outside the cottage. Almost in a daze he walked down the hill with a yolk over his shoulders and two buckets to gather water from the stream. His mind, as it often

would when dragged into its own little private hell, compartmentalized and assigned the practical tasks. Whatever happened next, he would need water. Then to bring it up the hill. Then to boil. Then to drink. Then midmorning, and he would go to Hank’s homestead to check on Sumo

and the chickens - and perhaps find whatever remained after a werewolf tore through such a lovely prize without -

No. Down the hill. To the stream. Except he found himself already there, without realizing it. The yolk clattered to the grass and Connor’s legs found they could no

longer support his weight. He wept bitterly, rinsing off the hot tears with splashes of bracing river water.

Though the stream rushed by, surface constantly changing, a reflection could resolve itself through the noise. It was here that he first saw himself, all those years ago.

Even in all his self-loathing Connor could confidently say he did not look as bad as then - only since, no matter how bad things got, Connor was always rising, crawling from that pit. Literally and figuratively, being a dead man brought under the thrall of a necromancer and

freed from that same thrall for reasons he still could not understand.

He had not returned to the despair of realizing the things he had done under the thumb of the warlock Kamski, but he felt closer to it than ever. But here, he’d met Amanda. Learned all she had to teach, kept

up her little cabin, and, once she transitioned to the dirt and worms and new life of the world, kept to himself there, in that little cabin.

Connor knew he only had himself to blame. It was a moment of weakness, the pain of exile being continuous but almost unnoticeable after

so long. Now he had been alone again one night, and now look at him.

Look.

In the maple woods, where the trees stood far apart and rose out of patches of long grass encrusted with carmine read leaves, a shape moved. It staggered, nightclothes torn and bloodied. Connor did not

ave time to feel guilty at how joyful the sight of Hank, even in such a state, made him. He ran across the water, the magic performing itself - his bare feet barely sank into the skin of the fast-moving stream.

The force of Connor’s full-tilt embrace had Hank stumbling a bit,

but Connor held him up, held him close. With a mixture of relief and deep sadness, Connor could smell that the blood everywhere was Hank’s own.

With something to brace against, Hank’s considerable weight sagged against Connor. With the hand that wasn’t braced against Hank’s

back, Connor grasped him by the jaw and their eyes caught. “It’s me. We’re going home.”

Tears dragged through the blood on Hank’s face.

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