i thought about it for quite a while, but being here is not where i want to be in life anymore, every second i spend staring at this tumblr makes me feel worse and worse.
so im stepping away, trying to power through my emotions and stay wasn't going to work out despite all i tried.
i won't delete this blog, i promised myself that, and it would be unfair to lose all this effort i poured into this place for nearly 5 years now
Prelude : Three centuries ago, diseases, calamities and misfortunes swept the continent in chaos. The Black Tide — as dubbed by the people, seized the lands, the Old Dynasty were stripped from their glory and the ordinary folk fell prey to the monstrosities of the night. Though their cries for mercy were not unanswered : ‘The Family’ brought divine providence, sheltering the Holy City with THEIR protection and the blessed words of their Lord urged peace upon the lands once more. To chase away the wretched Black Tide completely, the Family pointed their weapons towards those deemed to be the Envoys of the Black Tide — the witches and the Witch Hunting Ordinance was issued. Or at least, that's what the stories like to tell.
Three centuries worth of history was written in the blood of thousands dead, innocent or guilty and now, you remain the last Witch standing. The world spectates in anticipation of your timely demise but, could it be that they've actually fallen right into your hands?
Characters : Phainon, Anaxa, Aventurine, Mydei, Dr. Ratio and Sunday
Heads Up : Alternate Universe - Canon Divergent, Some References to past Witch Hunts, Mentions of Misogyny, Macabre Themes, Implied Medical Malpractice, Mentions of Human Trafficking, Blood, Coercion, Themes of Obsession, Mentions of Cult-ish Behaviours, Fictional Depictions of Faith, Witch!Reader (but no gender specific terms have been used for this post).
Note : Inspired by a manhwa that pissed me off (The Scared One Speaks) and has been marinating in my drafts since April orz. This is an introductory post to the AU. All love interests will have separate endings! This story parallels many canon events but is not a 1:1 retelling. Special thank you to @mochinon-yah and @naraven for brainstorming with me in the beginning of the AU! Enjoy <3
「 Words : 6661 」
The empire's revered Holy Knight, and also the one who's managed to chase you the longest — to no avail, of course. Every soul born in this land is a vessel capable of storing either Divinity or the Black Tide's corruption and his so happens to be the most perfect of them all, a direct opposite of yourself. As such, all your confrontations have ended at a stalemate, continuously for two decades. Any saner person would've packed their sack and dropped this game of push-and-pull long ago. Not Phainon though and you welcomed his tenacity! For so easily does a soul as aged as yours fall into boredom. He's made the last few decades plenty entertaining, if nothing else.
Through the temples of the olden gods, over the arch of Castrum Kremnos and across the ocean of Styxia ; encomiums to the Holy Knight followed behind each step of his chase for the last Witch. Tales spun about the clash of light and folly, how the hero dispelled the tides of calamities in his wake and how fixed his heart was in piercing Dawnmaker straight through the cursed Witch—
“Please, let me join your entourage against the Family.”
The forest hushed, or it seemed to. You stilled on your perch on the bough of the sturdiest tree, fingers twitching as they halted sparks of a spell. For a second, not even a breath permeated the air.
Your hat tilted, a flash of the smile that'd frozen on your lips over the dipped rim of the accessory, “My, did the Black Tide finally get to you?”
You knew as well as he did that that was not the case, but at the moment, it was the only response you managed to give without laughing in disbelief.
You threw another appraising glance over the hero, as if anticipating his face to contort into the mischief you were more familiar with. But he looks entirely too sober, holding your gaze with cyan aflame with all the graveness in the world.
Have you finally lost it? Is what you want to ask, but you will yourself to focus on the more rational one, “And why should I believe a word from the Family's loyal lap-dog?”
Phainon's shoulders slump (a bewildering feat) as a sigh forces past his lips, as if he'd predicted this.
“I know it sounds ridiculous. But just hear me out, alright?”
You lean back, “Uh huh,” eyes sweeping over your nails with all the time in Amphoreus.
A vein in Phainon's hand twitches against his grip on Dawnmaker's hilt, “This isn't about my pride, nor am I affected by anything right now. This is about the citizens of Okhema... and beyond, who've lost their lives in the aimless slaughter the Family has orchestrated over the past centuries in the name of the Ordinance.”
That gets your attention.
“And what makes you think the Family is in the wrong?”
Phainon suppresses a flinch, the mockery in your words not lost on him. “I can see the reality. If witches are the reason for all the misery of this continent, then how come the Black Tide can be systematically repelled through certain technologies, which have no connection to Xipe's powers?”
You tilt your head down, that look that Phainon would never admit titillates his nerves taking over your visage. You rest your cheek against your knuckles, apparitions of cogs churning flickering in your eyes set unblinkingly on his.
Phainon blinks as you suddenly vanish, gripping Dawnmaker as though to strike.
“For centuries you've burned innocent women, left children to starve by deserted fields all while singing praises to THEM.” your whisper is low, deadly calm against his ear. “And now, you're saying you finally see it?”
Phainon inhales sharply at the incredulity in your tone. His hand clenches, once, twice, before relaxing against the hilt of Dawnmaker.
He meets your gaze head on, “Trust me. I know better than anyone how it feels to see everything you once treasured crumble right before your eyes, all while you can do nothing but watch.”
You weave around his form slightly, only the hem of your clothes touching the forest ground from where you float. “Oh? Do you now?”
One of your brows quirks at the unwavering flicker of determination that paints him at the topic at hand, “You can always test me. Verify whether I really mean it or not.” he offers smoothly instead of answering the jab.
A thin veil of fog forms between you from the proximity of your breaths. A cricket dares to buzz in the otherwise weighted silence.
And then, you smile, breaking the unofficial staring contest.
“Follow me.”
—
Phainon blinks owlishly, in utter disbelief of where he stands. Dawnmaker momentarily set aside.
You brush past him, even humming a little tune. A snap of your fingers and the lanterns flicker to life, illuminating the interior of what he now knows is your cottage.
You turn back to his gaping form as if remembering his existence, “If you stay still any longer, you might just become a furniture.”
Phainon can't decide whether you have the survival instincts of a newborn or if you really have no care about the fact that you invited your arch-nemesis to your home.
Phainon clears his throat, though he does not offer a rebuttal, suddenly very interested in the blackened flame flickering in the hearth.
You were having none of it though, a startled yelp left Phainon as he scrambled to catch the object thrown his way.
“What is—?” he's not given the chance to finish as the scroll unravels in a smooth wave from his hand, sliding all the way down and halting right before your foot.
His face scrunches as his brain processes the words scribbled on the parchment : Prepare tea by sundown, dust the shelves, pick exactly six angel's trumpets—
“You wanted a test, didn't you? There it is. Complete the tasks listed on this scroll throughout the following week flawlessly, and I'll take you on my team.” your smile turns sickeningly sweet as Phainon's eyes flit to-and-fro over the words in increasing panic.
His lips part with the beginnings of what can only be assumed is an incredulous retort but you're already a step into a portal glimmering like the night sky (when did you make that?).
“Wait! You're just going to leave me here? All alone? In your home??”
You pause your dramatic escape at his exclamation. Hair shifting as you turned to address him—
Only to be halted at the soft pitter patter of steps coming from the inner hallway.
Phainon goes still, clearly not having expected to have company besides you in your home. (And his mind immediately chimes, wait that sounds weird.)
“You have a... roommate?” Phainon says, very uncertain about the choice of word.
To his confusion, your smile softens with the traces of something genuine. The realization horrifies him even more.
“Ah yes yes, meet the true master of this house, the most gentlemanly of all—”
The hero finds himself holding his breath by instinct, clutching the scroll like a lifeline now. His brows furrow as he scrutinizes the direction of the approaching footsteps, leaning ever-so-slightly closer as a shadow given feline form struts into the room.
... Huh?
“Mr. Whiskers!” Phainon jumps as you all but leap ahead to meet the cat, allegedly Mr. Whiskers' happy pounce.
“Did you miss me, my little demonnnn?” a trill fills the air as ‘Mr. Whiskers’ rubs his little face against your cheek, his way of affirming.
The breath Phainon was holding onto heaves out of him. It's just a cat, just a cat. It must've been too loud though, as your eyes flicker back to him.
“My darling Mr. Whiskers here will be your examiner and judge. Consider yourself lucky!”
Cyan eyes sweep over the addressed feline, a twinkle appearing in them as he sees the distinguished red bow tied around Mr. Whiskers' neck and the monocle now slightly askew over his left eye. Cute, he can't help but think.
A chuckle tumbles out of him before he can hold it back, “The honor is all mine.” he shifts the scroll onto his other hand to free one hand, extending it towards Mr. Whiskers for a greeting.
And promptly regrets it as a vehement hiss pierces the air. All of Mr. Whiskers' dark fur spiked comically to deliver the message that he did not appreciate Phainon's presence, at all.
Your lips form an ‘O’, the hand not holding the cat rising to press against the smirk now blooming on your lips.
“Ahh, I seemed to have forgotten to mention, Mr. Whiskers... really doesn't like dogs.”
The Black Tide gave birth to many such creatures of the night. Some knew how to wield its powers, some could only suffer from its affliction and others relied on it for sustenance. Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany traverses the pages of history, seeking the truth of all things. Among generations that came and crumbled within a blink he's lived, unsuspecting, searching the answer to the question of what he truly is. Between his audacity to challenge the faith of the Family and to parade around under the open sun, one and one thing alone aided him onward — an apparent lack of bloodlust.
“Boo.”
The Sage watched with a face more blank than the sheet of paper spread on the table, the fingers of exasperation already creeping up his spine as you dangled upside down from seemingly nowhere a mere breath away from his face.
His visible eye caught the purse of your lips at his utter lack of reaction and a hypothetical chain of events were already being illustrated in his mind : you'd vanish for two whole seconds, muttering something about him being ‘as fun as a boulder’ before appearing again, this time perched right atop his desk, the heel of your shoe resting snugly on his thigh.
And that's exactly what happened.
The aqua of his eyes caught the dim lantern light as it swept over the scene, “Did you come here just to get on my nerves again?”
The rim of your hat tilts back as you cross your legs, increasing pressure on the heel just to spite him and your lips twitch upon noticing how he still made no attempt to pull away.
“You have such little faith in me. As much as I'd love to play with you—” a futile flash of warning in those magenta pupils, “I've come to inform you that I did it since you're on your monthly reclusive phase again. Your beloved student is now cleaning my cat's litter box, exactly as I said he would.”
Anaxa had a hunch that that was case, but that still didn't make it any less of a feat. Keep the true Holy Knight distanced from Okhema long enough until he's completely ridden of the brainwashing of the Family, so that he'd join you by his own volition. You were worth every stubborn promise you made. The scholar didn't let the surprise show though, crossing his arms, “And you just left him alone in your home like that? You aren't worried he might set a trap?”
You tutted, wagging a finger, “Oh please, he has a soft spot for animals. He wouldn't dare try anything with Mr. Whiskers there.”
(Anaxa didn't argue with that.)
“But that's not exactly why I'm here.” you looked directly at him now, suddenly devoid of mischief. “According to my estimates, he should've approached me two days later.”
A corner of Anaxa's lips twitched, of course you'd catch up, before being smothered by the firm grip you had on his chin.
“You gave him a little push, didn't you? ...Why?”
His lashes fluttered as he looked down at the way the nails of your thumb and index fingers dug ever so slightly on his skin, before settling pointedly at the pulse that thudded at the juncture of your wrist. It was so close, if he just leaned in towards that titillating scent, he could bury his fangs into the flesh.
You noticed his point of interest, grinning as you realized.
“Pity,” your thumb swiped over his bottom lip, bringing your wrist closer for just a millisecond, “I was actually planning on offering you a taste today. But you've disappointed me.”
With that, you withdrew, settling back with a sudden reasonable distance with deliberate poise. It never ceased to dizzy Anaxa how easily your moods swung.
He cleared his throat, turning his head away almost petulantly, “Do not flatter yourself. I don't offer you my valuable help for sustenance. I'm only interested because you swore that you knew the truth behind my origins.”
You twirled a lock of your hair, “And that, I do.” your words are almost sing-song as you note the traces of fluster in his otherwise unflappable countenance.
“But, I'm not going to tell you~” Anaxa turns to you so quickly that you almost get whiplash, the lock of hair you were twirling falls back, “Until you perform the ritual to bring the Holy City's barrier down, that is!”
That relaxes him and you're more than glad to see that flash of pure murderous intent no longer in his eye, “You keep on telling me that, but have you forgotten that an alchemical ritual of that scale will require a sizable sacrifice?”
That brings a wicked gleam in your eyes, you lazily sweep a look over the various sketches of dromases littered everywhere on Anaxa's desk, leaning your weight on one arm.
“No need to buzz like a mosquito yet,” you graciously ignore his scowl, “The sacrifice for that ritual, will be the Herald of Xipe.”
—
Phainon stares at the cauldron of water boiling over the fire for the past twenty minutes. Your home, still littered with traces of the Black Tide, caliginous in its glow, seems to be oddly lively now. He could faintly hear a muffled hoot from the owl (who he definitely did not discover while exploring for escape routes) that guards the backdoor— Ms. Hoot — as he later came to know. Phainon would've laughed at how witchy your cottage was, if he wasn't in as much disbelief as he had been.
“Uhm... I have a question.” his voice is almost pushed aside by the crackles of the water.
You hum, brows furrowed in comical concentration as Phainon shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “How... did you live through more than two centuries without ever learning how to crack an egg properly?”
A splat echoes as the 7th egg meets its demise in an ugly splatter over the kitchen counter, all because Phainon made the mistake of throwing the challenge that he was a better baker.
You muttered a curse at the increasing mess, “Magic, obviously.”
Mr. Whiskers decided to hop on the counter and cast his judgement on the scene, taking one small sniff of the splattered remains of unborn chickens before turning his head away in disgust, trotting away with his fluffy tail held high.
“And what about before you learned the magic on how to crack an egg?”
You shrugged, reaching for your eighth victim, “I had other people do it for me.”
The knight straightens up in alarm, “Stop!” completely unwilling to let you waste more food.
He takes a step closer, big mistake, as his foot slides on the massacred egg that'd fallen on the floor in the third attempt and which he completely forgot about. His reflexes kicked in and he reached an arm out to prevent himqself from crashing, a sound echoed as his hand braced against the counter right beside your waist, trapping you between him and the wood without intention.
And the door swings open right then, an exclamation of Ta-da! resounds, making you both freeze in place.
The footsteps halt abruptly and Phainon turns his head slowly slowly slowly, halting as startled cyan meet with pink-blue hues painted in equal alarm.
The uncrowned king of the seas, whose ships glimmer even from a distance from the hoards of gold weighing on them. They say he's traded his life in exchange of eternal reign over the ocean, but only a handful know that once a upon a time, even this king was forced to kneel. You first met the man on your way back to Okhema after two centuries of self-imposed banishment, and since the stars clearly love you so much, the ship you were on fell prey to pirates.
You had been in the middle of an experiment in your chamber when the commotion on deck reached you, the clashes of steel and the passengers' panicked screams had you immediately scrambling for your broom. But the pirates had reached your door too fast and you ended up misspelling a word ; resulting in you getting trapped in a fallen stone as all went dark.
When you came to, the first thing you noticed through your now green tinted world was the hunched figure of another person right next to you.
It took a considerable effort to make the details out of the person through the absence of light, but one look at the shackles around the person's wrists and their tattered clothes told you all you needed to know.
“Hey! Psst!”
The person jolted, dirty blond hair ruffling as they whipped their head around in search of the voice.
“Over here!!” you called again. After some more searching, at last, the person's eyes fell on the stone beside them half-covered by your fallen hat.
You felt your world tilt as the person lifted the stone up in their palm, “Yes yes! I'm here!” you affirmed again, the person blinked in incredulity.
“A... talking stone...?” by the timbre of the voice, hoarse from disuse, you could make out that it belonged to a man.
“Not a talking stone! I'm a— uhhhh, a magician!” you tried not to let how much you despised saying that show, “I accidentally got trapped in this stone!”
The man observed the stone with an odd look, most likely questioning his sense of reality. Fearing that he might just throw you aside as a hallucination, you rushed to add, “Those pirates took over this ship, right?! And you're one of their hostages, aren't you? If you free me from here, I'll take them down!”
A flicker of interest passed by his eyes and you held you breath. Gotcha, the thought echoed in your mind. The nameless hostage held onto the stone for a bit longer. There was no reflection matching the voice coming from within it, but an undenial weight of something he could feel from it as he furrowed his brows.
“No, tell me how I can take them down instead.”
You could feel your smile falling as you processed his refusal, the concept of a prisoner denying an easy way out to freedom shaking you off. “W-what? You?”
“Yes, me.”
“And what makes you think you can go against those hulking men?? They'll slice your throat before you can even blink!”
His shoulders tensed slightly at that before straightening again, “If you can take them down by yourself, as you say, then you can teach me how to do it as well.”
“Still no!”
He tilts his head back, loosening his hold on the stone, “Then consider yourself forever sealed here.”
Panic seized you at that, “Wait wait wait!”
He listened to your desperate call, halting from whatever he was about to do with the stone. You let out a long suffering sigh, “Look, it really is too dangerous for you, kid. I can feel it, they have weapons imbued with traces of the Black Tide.”
A silence takes root at your words, it's difficult to gauge if he understood the meaning of your words through the shadows covering his eyes.
“... I have a personal grudge to settle against them. They took my sister from me.”
The words are said in a whisper, but they weigh on the air with the bitter fury simmering just beneath them. It's your turn to fall silent.
After what seemed like an eternity but could've easily been half a minute, “... There's an ‘empty’ vial in the satchel over there. It's a type of poison that only has to be inhaled. If you can get them all in one room and uncork it, they'll drop like flies without any trace of what had happened.”
And against all odds, he'd succeeded. The agonized screams of the pirates still echo in your mind when you brush by the edge of the sea now.
When all was said and done, you returned from the stoned prison to the waking world once more, more than ready to leap out of the cursed ship, you'd paused as the nameless youth called.
He looked at his hands, like how one would seeking penance, or reveling in the chaos they'd caused, likely both. “What do I do now...?”
You tightened your grip on your broom for a bit, “I don't know? You have a whole ship to yourself now. Make do with this however you'd like.”
An exhale that sounded like a ‘huh’ left the blonde's lips, you were already muttering the spell to get yourself out of there when he noticed.
“Wait! Just a moment.” you tried your best to not let your irritation show, tilting your head to acknowledge him.
“At least tell me the name of the stone you were trapped in.”
Confusion crept in your eyes, of all things, he asks this? You do one last once-over to see if he's just taunting you, which ends in a sigh as his very serious pink-blue eyes stare back at you.
“Aventurine.”
—
You hold a piece of polished ruby to the lantern light, eyes narrowed in clinical observation, “Are these all you have for me this time?” the tip of your shoe brushes by the medium sized wooden chest on the floor, filled with gems and gold coins. “Are you getting stingy, or poor?”
Aventurine laughs at your tease, “Please, do you know how difficult it is to find you? I had to bribe lady Bonajade first, then that murder of crows by the southern post.”
You hummed, tossing the agate back into the chest. “Besides,” the pirate drawls, “It's not as if you are going to indulge in these. I know you spend everything for the Black Cat Sanctuary instead.”
By the kitchen, Phainon whisked batter in a bowl, pretending not to listen to the conversation taking place between you and the pirate he'd thought only existed in exaggerated tales.
Aventurine's visible eye flickers back to Phainon upon feeling his pointed stare, “I must say, I wasn't aware that baking skills were essential to be blessed by Xipe.”
His lips curl in a smile, which Phainon eagerly reciprocates, you raise a brow at the flash of vitriol passing by through the exchange.
“You'd be surprised. Baking is quite effective in developing skills such as skewering, mixing, measuring... and of course, learning how to maintain harmony.” Phainon chimes, every beat hit perfectly.
Aventurine drawls a very curious ‘ah’ sound, a muscle twitching on his forehead. You interrupt him before he can get a response out, not at all interested in a passive-aggressive quarrel, “Report on the situation on your end?”
The pirate turns to you, the glow of the lantern light intenerates his expression, “Everything is set. My crew already have the list you gave me memorized. Worry that pretty head of yours less, alright?”
You blink in surprise as Aventurine taps your nose, “The ocean will be your dance floor on the day of the Charmony Festival.”
Once upon a time, you too dreamed of shining princes who could sweep one off their feet in a flurry of courage and chivalry. When the days were simpler and fairytales seemed reachable, when your mother still hummed berceuse tunes to coax the restless young you to sleep. Somewhere along your journey away from the Holy City approximately one hundred and eighty years ago, you encountered one such prince. Though by then, you were far too disillusioned to the lies you were fed at the tender age of ten and he, Mydeimos, the Undying was the farthest thing from the dreamy princes in the stories.
Grappling with the loss of a happier childhood and the struggle to form a Resistance, you two found common ground to exchange thoughts before brewing battlefields and conspiracies, unexpectedly. Per your request, it was never written in the Kremnoan textbooks that the dethroning of the tyrant king Eurypon by the Kremnoan Detachment was aided by a witch — in exchange for Mydeimos letting you experiment with his body. The fruits of those experiments would later be used to prolong Mr. Whiskers' lifespan and any sillage of feelings crossing the bounds of friendly transaction would be buried in the past.
He'd asked once, when his mind was riddled with caution, “Why do you seem so intent on helping us?”
And that was the only time in your life where you're certain you used all your brainpower to form a response, brushing past ‘I just feel like it’, shoving aside ‘I just want a sample of your life force’, ducking under ‘You'll be useful to me in the far far future’ before finally settling on something even more ridiculous.
“Because... I harbor affections for you, my dearest axolotl!”
And the issue is, Mydeimos took it seriously.
Phainon stood as still as a statue beside you, you tsk-ed at the trails of blood painting rivulets on the grass of your backyard. His widened eyes flitted to and fro over the heap of unmoving flesh, a flash of light reflected from golden armor told him what exactly he was seeing here.
Soldiers. Fallen in the latest conflict that was subdued by Castrum Kremnos.
“Looks like he found out my hideout again. I thought I made it clear last time that I no longer need human bodies for experiments!” you huffed.
Slowly, Phainon turned to face you, his bewildered expression in place. “You... what? Who? What is— what are you going to do about this?” he sputtered, questions eager to tumble out all at once.
You shrugged, “Feed it to the crocodiles of the lake, I guess.” and your fingers were already moving to cast the spell.
It's not that Phainon was unacquainted with the sight of dead bodies, it's the fact that you were treating this as though Mr. Whiskers had brought you a dead mice instead of being offered fallen war soldiers as tribute which unnerved him.
“Wait!”
You halted, raising a brow, “Do you have a better proposal?”
Phainon took a deep breath, “These are soldiers, not ordinary men. Don't you think... that they deserve a proper burial at least?”
A most curious look took over your face, you tapped your cheek with a finger. “Have you... ‘properly buried’ every soldier you've killed?”
Phainon's mouth opened and closed the next second, a brief stretch of silence followed. Not even Ms. Hoot who was perched right by the nearest tree made a sound.
That was all you needed, “I thought so.”
“Answer me this at least,” a muscle just at the dip of your jaw ticked at being interrupted again, “Who sent you... this?”
You let out a long-suffering sigh, contemplating and inevitably deciding that there was no point in gatekeeping this fact. “That King of Castrum Kremnos.”
If Phainon had a gold coin for every shock he's gotten since he joined your side, he'd be able to buy an entire house. “You mean Mydeimos? He's in on this too?”
You waved a hand quickly and Phainon could've sworn you were flustered back there, “No no no no. He's not in on it— well, not exactly... ugh, it's complicated, alright? Don't ask.”
A snap of your fingers cut through the air, only the blood soaked earth stood testament to what had previously been laid out on it. You turned on your heels and rushed inside with an uncharacteristic hurry, leaving Phainon to ponder alone the weight of this discovery.
The passage of the Ordinance has seen many interesting turn of events. Once a man dared to oppose the witch trial and was crushed under the weight of his own defiance. At one point, an idiot came and wrote a book with the catchy title of ‘The Hammer of Witches’ and contrary to its name, it was not talking about your fondness for hammers at all. Though later, the book was debunked by one scholar, which was then buried by the concerned gentlemen of the Family. The marvels of society, really. Trouble began to stir again when the same scholar singlehandedly repelled the epidemic that'd seized thousands of life. That kindled the mass's disillusionment towards the Family, though the famed Doctor who can heal the dead remained a mystery.
You gingerly made your way to the backdoor to investigate the knocks, outside, winds stirred the beginnings of a storm.
The hinges of the door groaned as you swung it open and a bolt lighting descended close by just then ; setting the tall figure of the person standing still alight, shadows flickering over the ridges of pointy beaked mask.
You just barely managed to suppress a flinch, “Doctor! How many times have I told you stop wearing that hideous mask?!”
The figure's boot thumped heavily against your floor as he steps inside, shutting the storm behind him. Droplets of water from a distant rainfall cling to his coat, a gloved hand raises to pull the mask away just enough for sunset dyed eyes to lock with yours.
“And how many times have I told you that it is not ‘hideous’, but efficient?”
You scoff, crossing your arms, “Efficient in spiking my blood pressure, you mean.”
His fingers sweep off some rain-water from his shoulder, without missing a beat, “A taste of your own medicine, I would say. Consider it... a part of the treatment.”
—
You watch from where you reclined against the headboard of your bed as Dr. Ratio goes over the routine check-up, lips pursed in displeasure because he still has that offending, ugly bird-mask perched on one side of his head.
Your thoughts drift to other things to distract yourself from how much you want to yank that thing away, like how Phainon is completely passed out in the room adjacent to this, defenses crumbled against one cold wind and cozy blankets.
“Pulse is stable, the flow of Black Tide is tempered within... or at least, that's how it appears to be on the outside.” Ratio breaks the silence, you tense ever-so-slightly.
“Can't hide it from you, huh?” you jest by instinct.
“Obviously.” he states simply, eyes fixing on you with sudden clinical precision. “What did you expect to happen in the proximity of that man?”
The question is rhetorical, belying the subtlest condescension. Your fingers fist against the bedsheets for a second, “It's not him, Ratio. This has been going on for longer than he was born. You know that.”
Ratio blinks, and you wonder if you imagined his surprise in that gesture. Because he's just as quick to recover, clearing his throat.
“Of course. I was merely... proposing hypotheticals.”
You hum, folding your hands atop your lap calmly. Your eyes follow as Ratio reaches for the familiar vial of medicine in his suitcase that usually mitigates your aches, only for a shadow to dart between the vial and Ratio's outstretched hand.
Mr. Whiskers stands, fur poofed up as his hiss of indignation echoes through the air. For once, the cat's eyes are open, heated golden meeting with the sunset orange of Ratio's.
Right. There's that, too.
“Well well, it appears that your feline is happy to see me again.” Ratio mutters dryly.
You reach out to take Mr. Whiskers off the table before his claws can strike the man. For some reason, Mr. Whiskers absolutely hates the doctor. You think it's because of the time the doctor gave him a shot, not worrying too much, considering that the cat's list of tolerated humans was very short to begin with. The only problem is that it creates awkward moments like this.
“Sorry...” you offer, shifting a bit further away from the doctor with a very disgruntled Mr. Whiskers cradled against your chest. “I think it's because he doesn't recognize your scent. It has been a long time since you last visited.”
It's Ratio's turn to hum like he isn't convinced but won't voice it out either, strands of purple swaying as he tilts his head.
“Well, in any case, my work here is done.” he smoothly puts the vial in the drawer beside your bed, getting up from his seat.
The click of his suitcase closing shut mixes in with Mr. Whiskers' muffled meows. You also rise to walk Ratio towards the door, maintaining careful distance for the sake of Mr. Whiskers.
Suddenly, “I do hope you know the gravity of what you're getting yourself into.” he says without turning back at you.
You slow down your steps and even Mr. Whiskers falls quiet, as if sensing the shift in the air. You don't need elaboration to understand what exactly he's hinting towards.
Though he may never say it outright, Ratio has always cared, enough to listen to the plea of the ghost of your mother, enough to remind you to reconsider your rebellion against the Family without fail each time he visited.
The corners of your lips pull, tiptoeing the border of a smile.
“Thank you for the reminder, but let me make something clear one last time, Ratio. This rebellion isn't just about the Witch Hunting Ordinance anymore. Everyone has woken up, they're conscious of all the atrocities committed by Gopher Wood and his underlings and they will not stop until THEY have been dethroned.”
Ratio pauses right in front of the door, a gloved hand resting on the knob.
“... In that case, I offer you my best wishes instead.”
He doesn't turn all the way, merely shifts his head enough to catch the smirk now rooted firmly in place on your lips.
“Do stay alive... doctor. We will need you in the Age of Enlightenment.”
Oftentimes, you have a dream. Of days when it was alright to be ignorant, to not know about the slumbering malice hidden deep in the human heart, to think of the Black Tide as the single most terrifying curse cast upon the earth. Running through the halls of the Marmoreal Palace, chasing apparitions of those who you once called friends and having the privilege to crash into the arms of your family should you stumble along the way. When the most pressing concern in your mind had been how many more sweets you could hoard with Robin, or which performance you'd pick for the upcoming social season.
But alas, dreams woven by the strings of Xipe are so often fragile.
It's been a little more than a week since Phainon ‘betrayed’ the Family and joined your side. Well, ‘joined’ might be a stretch considering that he's still undergoing his trial.
Throughout the past week, Phainon has diligently completed every test you've given him. Your shelves are sparkling, your tea time is not disturbed, Mr. Whiskers' meals are provided sharply on time and he's even figured out a way to pick angel's trumpets without having an aneurysm all while keeping his sanity in tact.
Yet, there is not a trace of your so-called ‘master plan’ taking place besides that blonde pirate that came and went away. Not to mention, there isn't much acknowledgment from your end for his efforts, Mr. Whiskers still slaps him when he's passing by in the hallway and more concerning than that is how accustomed he's getting to your peculiar way of life with each passing day.
“The plan? It's quite simple, really.”
Phainon leaned against the wall, arms crossed as he watched you twirl without a care in the world. It took him days of hyping himself up to ask the question, and here you are, answering it like it isn't supposed to be state-secret level information.
A graceful step back, “On the eve before the Charmony Festival, you will resign officially from the Family. Every other knight and soldier will follow after you, save for a couple of die-hard brainwashed fools.” the skeleton's bony fingers almost slipped off from yours before you caught it back with a giggle.
“Anaxa will cast the alchemical circle to bring down the barrier that protects the Holy City.” cyan eyes traced the strands of your hair thrown in tune with the next twirl, “And then, the Kremnoans will ambush Okhema, which I'll leave to Aglaea to settle.”
Your body moved as though you've done this a hundred times before, steps tracing the memory of a song echoing only in your mind. “Aventurine will be waiting with his crew by the docks, ready to capture the fleeing Family members.”
“And I,” Phainon let go of a breath as the dance came to an end, “Will be there to collect Gopher Wood's head.” the skeleton's skull tilted to the side as you dipped it, as though signaling the finale of a symphony.
The plan did seem simple enough, at least from how you said it. But there was another question that Phainon has wondered since he found out your true motives of overthrowing the Family from the Holy City, that which you have avoided tactfully every time he'd asked.
“Can I ask another question?” you hummed, putting the skeleton back in a closet with exaggerated care. “Is making Gopher Wood pay... your only objective behind this rebellion?”
Phainon knew and he knew that you knew as well, there is no reason for a person to wait two hundred years with the utmost patience, only to see the downfall of one person who you could've easily killed in other, easier ways.
You went quiet, and it was the longest silence you've ever taken to form a rebuttal throughout the twenty years he's chased you.
“No, there's... something else.” you pressed your fingers atop your heart, or where should be a heart, “There is someone who betrayed me a long time ago, and... he needs to feel the same pain as I did all those years ago.”
A chill trails down from the nape of his neck to the ends of Phainon's spine. Not because there's fury in your eyes, but because there's a genuine, humane flash of hurt simmering just beneath the rage reflected in your eyes.
It reminds Phainon of a memory, one he now wonders how he hadn't remembered sooner.
Years ago, before Phainon embarked on his campaign to capture the Last Witch, the Herald of Xipe himself had called for him in his chamber to bless his journey.
Back then, because Phainon has never quite succeeded in stomping down his curiosity and since the Holy Emissary's benevolence had been apparent, he had asked.
“Is there... a specific reason behind your determination to eradicate the Witches this fiercely, Your Holiness?”
Sunlight filtered through the stained glass of his chambers, making silver feathers shimmer. The Emissary's golden eyes seemed to be fixated on the painting in betwixt the two large windows right behind his grand oak desk, the one that was always half covered.
The fingers of the hand that was clasped behind his back twitched in contemplation, the ivorine fabric stretching with the motion. At last, Sunday spoke, words fragile.
“I fight the Witches not because they're envoys of the Black Tide — though, there is no lie in that fact, but because they took someone I treasured from me. Someone I had a promise with.”
A breeze waltzes by just then, as if by divine decree or premonition, stirring the curtain aside just a little more.
Cyan eyes widened.
For the winds swept the veil, revealing measured brush strokes taking the shape of your eyes and smile.
