the spring shall return with its fruit (1)
(Very late) Analogical Week entry for Day 4, Au/Home. Also, my first chaptered fic! Look out for chapter 2 in about uuhuhhh a week or so? We’ll see!
WC: 4085
Warnings: Past minor character death, grief, repression of grief, major character feeling like he's going to die, starvation, forcibly starving oneself, depression, fear, panic, food, blood, and like 3 swear words
Ao3
1. those who are far from home
Is a man who runs from the broken husk of his home a coward?
Is it a sin to want to forget the sun when he’s spent so long in darkness?
Is the chill bleeding into his veins from the winter cold, or from something clawing, aching, empty?
Sure, the snow crunching under his feet, the wind whipping through his hair, and the numbness of his fingers could all stem from a violent December afternoon. The lightness of his bags may hint at a harsh winter, the blisters on his feet an uncomfortable trek. All of this could be the season, or the fact that such a fool would decide to travel in the middle of a storm.
And yet, Logan Croft hasn’t felt cold in a long, long time.
It’s by a distant sort of static that he registers the weather, peering through a pair of thick lenses and vacant eyes. He’s looking at the harsh snow falling around him, but only experiencing it in a way a mystery enthusiast watches the victim getting bludgeoned with a steel pipe. He could tell you which way the wind was blowing, maybe give an estimate of the temperature, but if you asked him to describe the chill, the words would die in his throat.
Another thing, Logan hasn’t felt in a long time, either.
Between the endless months of travelling, the odd jobs he took just to make a buck, between preparing for winter as the Earth continued her unrelenting march around the sun, Logan’s been far too exhausted to feel cold. Like a thick, heavy cloud in his mind, the fatigue’s been perfect enough to drown his thoughts in condensation, for him to slip away and leave someone else in his place.
That someone else doesn’t need to care about the aching cold. The stress of finding something affordable, practical, safe is enough to distract from what creeps in the defiles of his mind. That someone knows that he won’t be walking in the snow long enough to contract frostbite, that the human body is more than equipped to survive a few days without food, that...
That he’s not in any danger when he wakes up screaming. He’s not drowning when the air around him grows thick and catches in his lungs. He’s not going to die because of something as stupid, illogical, painful as grie—
Nothing.
Absolutely, definitively, nothing.
There’s no one he yearns for, no one he misses like a physical blow. The hollow, aching thing was always supposed to feel deep enough to stick his arm through. He’s fine.
It’s so much easier to forget, than to remember the hole in his chest might’ve ever been full.
There's nothing left to stop him when he does.
Wiping the sleet from his glasses, Logan looks up. A painted sign stands tall against the white snow.
Pottsfield, New Neighbors Just Around the Bend!
Logan forces himself to move forward.
~
The wooden floor of the establishment creaks under his weight. He wipes his feet on the scratchy welcome mat, streaking the warm letters in mud.
“Hello,” he says, “I would like to buy a house.”
The woman at the counter—the owner, he presumes—locks him with a fixed gaze. She’s formless, bundled up in a pile of grey flannel and blankets. A scholar could write their senior thesis on debating where her mound ends, and she begins. She straightens up, letting the blanket around her shoulders fall down to her lap.
“A house,” she repeats, testing each syllable on her tongue, “...In the middle o’ winter?”
He nods, removing the satchel around his waist and to procure his funds. “Correct. I was under the impression that you had a number of vacancies, and after assessment, I've found this town to be the most satisfactory.”
“‘Satisfactory’.” She snorts. “You’re somethin’, aren’cha? Where you from? Jersey?”
Logan stiffens for a fraction of a second, before he slides a wad of cash onto the counter. “I don’t believe that’s necessary information. What is necessary, however, is the information regarding your available residencies.”
The owner unfurls, eyeing the wad of cash with jilted curiosity. She bites her lip, and pulls a stack of papers from her desk. “Alright, hun, I'll bite. What kinda house you lookin’ for? All our fancy ones are sold, but you don’t seem like the type. We can start touring near the town homes sometime after the weather calms—“
“That won’t be necessary,” Logan interjects. “I simply require something convenient, and preferably, secluded. We can forgo the tour.”
“I—“ The woman pauses, considering everything she’s done wrong in her life to end up here. Sellin’ a house to some lunatic who appeared in the middle of a snowstorm, talkin’ like a dictionary, and askin’ to skip the tour for an immediate purchase is on her list o’ things she’d thought hell would freeze over before she did. But...she gazes at the stranger's tattered cloak, his moth-eaten gloves, the exhaustion that radiated from every inch of him, and it clicks.
There’s no way this man is anything but acutely, achingly desperate.
“Alright,” she sighs. “There’s an old place down at Two Cat’s Lane.” She slides a file over to Logan, wiping the dust off it with a flick of her sleeve. “’S not a complete shitshack yet, but it might as well be. Still, it runs a good price for what ’s got. Open lawn, dense forest, nice property when it’s actually tended to. ‘S not wholly isolated, but the nearest house is still a ways away. I think you’d like that.”
Logan nods, inspecting the paper with interest. “Where is the estate?”
“Few miles from here. I'm assumin’ you got no family, right?”
Logan—
Logan shakes his head, completely calm and composed for what was a completely unremarkable question. The shopkeeper doesn’t seem notice him crack, doesn’t see him shoving old memories where they belong, six feet underground.
“I don’t,” Logan rasps.
“Then you’ll have more than enough room for yourself.” She smiles, almost genuine, before it slips off her face and something dark overtakes her features. “Although...”
Logan swallows, resisting the urge to bolt from the shadows covering her face. “Ma’am?”
“...You’re not one for superstition, right?” At Logan’s bewildered expression, she grimaces. “You're not gonna believe me on this, but...I swear to you that place is haunted.”
“I—” Logan tilts his head, because surely he misheard. “Haunted?”
She nods, her grave expression deepening. “They say there’s something stalkin’ the woods, like a vulture would circle its prey—People have seen things, too! One day their tools go missin’ and the next a basket of skulls appear on their doorstep. Mysterious paths in the forest open up the second they turn their heads. Great shiftin’ and boomin’ soundin’ n the dark, like the Earth herself opened up and came to say ‘hello’. No one knows what’s out there, but whatever it is, it sure as hell ain’t human.”
The silence sits, settling into the air like an aroma, before Logan breaks it with a cackle.
“Oh—come on!” The agent flushes at the hysterical giggle bubbling past his lips. “I know it’s hard to believe—but I ain’t pullin’ your leg! I swear!”
“I’m sure you aren’t,” he wheezes, “b—but consider, for a moment, that I’ve seen far too much of this world to think that—that—”
Logan coughs, straightening himself out before he can dissolve into another fit. Something heavy and crawling settles onto his shoulders. “I’ve seen my fair share of ghosts. I severely doubt one more would do significant harm. I would like to purchase the house.”
The woman’s brow crinkles. After a moment, she hands a pen to Logan, lips slanted. “Alright, be that way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when the wind starts howlin’ your name.”
Logan takes the pen, and the owner shows him to the dotted line. After the usual legal menagerie, she sticks her hand out, a rusted key glinting in the candlelight. “Good luck with it, hun. Take care out there.”
Logan takes the key, and his cold hand brushes against something still warm.
“Pleasure doing business with you.”
~
The house groans when he steps inside.
The seller had called it a miracle it stood after all these years. The wood rots, the dust suffocates, and the furniture is decorated with a layer of cobwebs thick enough to supersede rope. Everyone who’s ever come here has given up, decided the shelter wasn’t worth the monsters, and left for something better.
Logan plops a sack down on the creaking floorboards, and nearly chokes when a spray of dust flies into his mouth.
He doesn’t have that luxury.
He’ll be fine. He’s never been one for painted wallpaper or crown moulding. If the walls need replacing, the forest will supply. If he can’t afford tools, he’ll make them. If the open space is too suffocating or the silence makes him want to tear off his ears, then he’ll...
Logan swallows, acutely aware of the stillness around him. There’s no laughter chiming from another room, no padding of feet on the stairs, no crackle of a fire under a brick oven. The emptiness claws at him, wrenching the hole in his chest open another yard wide. He shoves the flaps closed with a painful shudder.
He’ll get through it, just like he always does: perfectly stable, perfectly distracted, perfectly alone. It was always like this.
It was.
It was.
Logan explores his new house, and tries not to feel like he’s falling apart.
~
For the most part, winter goes well.
He spent his first night on a tarp in the living room, collapsing after a failed attempt to dust off what was once the master bedroom. From there, it was planning, sighing at the cobwebs covering the cleaning supplies, and thanking the stars the walls didn't need to be demolished. Cleaning indoors busies his hands, and the dust settles into his mind like a weighted blanket, smothering his dreams.
For a time, he’s at peace.
It all falls apart, of course, when he awakes one morning to find his rations torn apart, and a pack of rats scurrying away as his shadow falls over them.
Logan stares at the remains of his food, the resources he had meticulously organized, strewn on the floor in shredded residue. He does not breathe.
Only when panic clogs his throat and the walls close in does he move.
He lunges for his coat, fishing out his wallet with trembling hands. A quick glance and a lurch in his stomach confirms what he already knew; he’s out of funds.
Logan hisses through his teeth, shaking the wallet as if some missed bill would flutter out. This—this couldn’t be it. He couldn’t have been so utterly, monumentally stupid. Why hadn’t he hidden his rations better? Why hadn’t he gathered more before the move? Why, after everything, did he not take the steps to ensure he wouldn’t perish like everyone els—?
Logan takes a breath, deep and measured. If he’d given up at the first sign of death these past long, hard months, where would he be now? He wouldn’t have even made it out of—
Nowhere.
He yanks a knife off his dresser and dawns his dirt-caked boots. He's never hunted before, but he knows how to use a blade well enough. He’ll be fine.
He returns that evening with a damaged knife and a tattered cloak. Hunger, exhaustion, and something far blacker rips a hole through his stomach.
He sighs, collapsing into the torn armchair, and begins to ration.
The next few days are abysmal. A rabbit slips from his fingers, snow obscures the remaining fauna too much to read its edibility, and his supplies dwindle. The night Logan decides to make the trek to town, he wakes up to snow piled to his knees, and the road ice.
Logan is, for lack of a better word, completely fucked.
Tighter rations would give him, what? An extra week? Even if he did starve himself, he wouldn’t have the strength to do anything but shiver. He drools over the remainders in his ice box, pondering whether to wait for the snow to clear or give in to his hunger now. Every time, he walks away, having reached forward only to realize his skin was colder than the remaining scraps of meat.
He doesn’t sleep. It wasn’t as if he slept willingly before, but between the nausea and the tremors and the gnawing, aching want, Logan finds himself too exhausted to rest.
He’s sitting on his porch—not even his for a month—when it hits him.
Logan, by the cruel fate dictates his existence, survived all these months only to die when he was safe. He clawed his way out of a ruined home, dirty streets, an ocean of sweat and pain and heartache for what? For this?
To fight with everything he had, to hang by the thinnest thread, to fall when he finally, finally reached solid ground, makes something brittle and freezing settle into Logan’s chest.
He stares down at his hands, clenching his raw, frozen fingers. The tear that slides down his cheek mixes with the falling snow. At least, after this, he’ll be able to see his family agai—
A flash of fabric catches his eye.
Logan blinks.
There, at the edge of the clearing, is a sack; stark grey in the bleak, white snow.
Logan heaves himself up, trudging over to the object as curiosity prickles in the back of his mind. It’s large, a bundle of thick fabric tied up with twine and force. From the way it creaks into the snow, it’s heavy. Perhaps someone’s hiking gear? Who would even be out here in the middle of a storm? The object’s too large to have been carried by the wind, and Logan’s neighbors aren’t exactly a stone’s throw away. A wild animal? A lost traveler? Someone like him, caught in the cold?
You're not gonna believe me on this, but...I swear to you that place is haunted.
The dry skin on Logan’s hands cracks and bleeds.
It’s just a neighbor. It has to be. A lost traveler means at best new company, and at worst, a corpse. A neighbor was curious, that’s all.
He shakes himself, kneeling down in the wet snow, and opens the bag.
Hunger hits him like a freight train. Logan doesn’t notice he’s salivating until a line of spit freezes down his chin. Inside, stacked together and gleaming in the winter afternoon, is enough supplies to last him weeks.
Oil. Butter. Salt. Canned vegetables and beans and fruit. A block of cheese and a loaf of bread. Even the frozen blood of venison seeps into its own plastic bag. All right there, all ripe for the taking.
Logan bites his lip. Surely, whoever left these goods wouldn’t mind if—
The trees groan.
Logan, pauses, peering up into the snow-blanketed woods, only to throw himself back as the forest begins to move.
It’s a storm in motion. Trees whipping, bending under the weight of something. The violent rustling gives way to heavy, rhythmic booming, reverberating through Logan down to his core. It’s like the woodland itself has come alive, earth-shattering shaking and groaning pronouncing its newfound consciousness. Logan’s heart jams into his throat as for one, heart-stopping moment, the rumbling seems like it’s coming towards him.
Suddenly, the trees snap back. The resulting silence blares.
Logan has never quite felt so small.
He swallows down a mouthful of bile, pushing off the ground with frozen fingers to a shaky stand. He takes a step. Another. Blood roars in his ears.
The forest stays still.
Logan sinks to his knees and chokes on a scream.
He lost it. He’s completely lost it. Ten months of starving and two months of hell and he’s finally gone mad, because there is absolutely no way to describe the forest suddenly coming alive unless his mind’s as dead and gone as—
Logan slams his teeth down on his tongue. He tastes blood.
The fog and the trees and the eye-searing white are too thick to see anything, and even something as—as earth-shattering as that would have to be visible. It was an earthquake, or a hurricane, or a hallucination. People hallucinate from sleep deprivation. He’s had, what? A combined total of six hours this week? That's as good as three days, right? Right?
That’s all it was: a trick of the mind. Nothing a dreamless sleep can’t fix. He’s safe, he’s alive, and most importantly, he’s alone.
Logan shakes himself, shuffling backwards. The sack is someone else’s. It’d be wrong to take it in, even if the mere thought of reaching forward didn’t turn his stomach to ice. Perhaps a traveler left it, figuring it would be safe in the yard of a rotting house. Perhaps one of the locals dropped it, fishing for a debt to hold against him.
Perhaps it’s a gift, an aid someone gave him in good will.
He turns away and marches back to his house.
He doesn’t need it. There’s always a price to these things, and this time, Logan’s not going to be foolish enough to ignore it. He’ll figure—something out. His stomach may be burning a whole though his flesh but he’ll be fine. Fine.
All these months, and Logan knows his curse is to keep living.
~
Five days later, Logan’s storage grows bare, and his patience is running even thinner.
The bag stayed where he abandoned it, frozen in the early January snows. No one’s come to claim it—the thought that there’s no one to makes Logan’s stomach lurch—and it appears no one will. It sits, a dim grey against the snow around it. A hope of survival in a field of cold.
The snow piles up to his knees. Once, he stepped outside in an attempt to forage, and almost collapsed with exhaustion. He can only spend his days indoors, chugging his last bit of bone broth, huddling under every blanket in the house in an attempt to keep warm.
Logan’s out of options.
Some part of Logan’s mind finds it funny he could think he ever had any to begin.
The bag slams against his back as he heaves it over his shoulder, the last of his strength dwindling away with every trudge back to his house. He can already feel his gut churning with hot, blazing, want. But...Logan stops, ignoring the roar his stomach lets out in protest, and turns to the woods.
He stands there, alone in the cold winter snow, and stifles the urge to throw the sack behind him and sprint somewhere safe.
“Thank you,” he says, voice reverberating through the clearing.
No one answers, and Logan shoves down the relief that threatens to clog his throat.
His legs carry him back inside. His hands find his stash of firewood. His arms bring the food out and onto the fire.
He eats.
Cranberry sauce and venison, vegetables and cheeses, stale bread that melts in his mouth. His self-control flies out the window the second his hands are on the platter. All these months, and he could never quite convince himself that good food was going to stay on the table the moment he turned his back.
Self-control seems like a funny concept, now, considering Logan crawled back from the brink of death, considering he doesn’t even know if he’ll see the morning sun.
A taste of adrenaline, one he hasn’t felt since his wounds were fresh, threatens to cloud his mind.
He lets it.
He scours the house, finding the sturdiest cloth he owns and tying it in a bundle. He gathers good fabrics, thick rope, old leather, soft wool, and a pair of shears. He heaves it all to the edge of the clearing, before setting it onto the ground, and facing the unknown.
“Thank you,” he says, and this time, it almost feels like someone’s listening. “I...believe you have just saved my life.”
Logan’s mysterious benefactor, whether it be a generous human, conniving Good Neighbor, or—Logan shudders at the memory of the forest groaning—that living earthquake, would hopefully be pleased with his offering. Gifts were always paid for, and though he didn’t have much, Logan would be a fool to ignore what people expected of good will.
At least after this, things might go back to normal, and Logan could continue his life the correct way: unbothered, uninvolved, and alone.
He turns his back to the forest, oblivious to the glowing violet gaze that watches him retreat, and hopes his payment will be accepted.
~
Of course, nothing in Logan’s demeaning existence could ever be easy.
He awakes the next morning to the offered bundle gone, and figures that’s the end of it. He replaces the pantries, triple-checking to make sure his rations are sealed, and freezes the perishables. All the while, he relishes in the warmth seeping through him, comfort enveloping his body from head to toe.
Life goes on.
With his new-found energy, he continues his work, stitching up the re-opened holes in his heart and furniture. All the while, the forest stays silent. It’s when he’s shoveling the snow from the dirt path that leads up to his house that he notices anything different.
Another bundle, this time wrapped up in a battered blue tarp, rests in the same spot as the last.
Logan walks over to it, feeling a familiar curiosity prickle his mind. He’s already explored one of these gifts, and despite the damage to his nerves, he’s still alive.
He peers inside.
It’s not a divination, or a bind, or any magical curse that reaches up and grips him, but the waft of fresh, juicy meat.
Logan blinks.
The display here is similar to the first, the only difference being the unfrozen meat and a few spices. Unlike the haphazard arrangement of the other gift—which Logan hadn’t noticed until after his first can of beans and few nights of good rest, anyways—every object here is organized, set in a way that feels almost...tender?
Beneath him, the bag begins to rustle. It takes Logan a moment to realize his hands are shaking.
There’s no heaving of the earth, trees cracking like thunder and the ground rumbling like the rolling of clouds. The only thing in the clearing is him, the bag, and the pounding of his own heart.
He doesn’t need more food. His rations are planned out to avoid making the same mistake. He’d be a little hungry, sure, and some days he might not have the energy to work, but he’d be fine.
He’s more than prepared to spend the rest of winter cold, hungry, and alone. Logan wouldn’t live, per say, but he’d survive. Isn’t that enough?
But...it’d be nice to have a back-up supply, just in case things another incident occurred and he found himself a few stumbles away from death. It’d be more than relieving to know he wouldn’t have to starve himself to make ends meet.
Logan tries to imagine leaving the bundle to rot, and his stomach churns.
It’s just a polite gesture, a courtesy he could decline at any time. He’d repay his debt again when the spring comes, and the need for a transaction will have passed.
And if his mysterious benefactor leaves a gift after this, wrapped up and waiting for Logan’s to offer his own then...He wouldn’t mind. Neighbors should be kind to another, shouldn’t they?
And if what lies deep within the forest, the rumbling that Logan grows more and more convinced wasn’t a hallucination, comes and reveals its true form with a howl and a tremor, then...
Well, he’d supposed he’d have an answer to the question keeping him up at night.
Maybe he should feel more than this, fear or anger or mortal terror at the thought of being so close to an end.
He twists the loose flaps of the tarp shut, heaving the bundle over his shoulder.
Nothing he hasn’t felt before.
It was good for the living storm to intervene when it did. Otherwise, Logan might’ve found some other way to make his own demise.
At least now, a Croft grave won’t come from an uncaring wind.
Logan carries the gift inside, and feeling a strange sort of peace wash over him.
He doesn’t smile, but it’s a near thing.
