TIMING: Yesterday LOCATION: Wicked's Rest State Park PARTIES: Conor & Rhett @ironcladrhett SUMMARY: A walk in the national park turns into a trip down memory lane for some, nightmare alley for others. CONTENT WARNINGS: Sibling death (mention)
In the two months he had been living in Maine, Conor hadn’t really thought about taking a look around town, or beyond. The shop was often busy, and when it wasn’t, he liked to retire in his backyard, which was beginning, day after day, to look like the disorganized, flowery, luscious haven he wished to spend his evenings in. When he didn’t do that, he generally settled with his violin in his bedroom, rehearsing for hours.
Going out was never really his priority. His garden counted as going out to him. He didn’t need to be with people to do that. His garden was fine.
He didn’t particularly seek the company of others today either.
Conor wasn’t much of a hiker, but he figured the state park would have greenery worth the trouble. He hadn’t packed much aside from a bottle of water, and he hadn’t told a soul about where he was going or for how long. It was Sunday, he didn’t need to tell the whole town about what he did on Sundays, right?
On his way toward a stream, he had to stop to look at the purple and yellow irises growing there. “Well aren’t you a beauty,” he smiled, crouching down to take a closer look.
—
Spend more time in the woods, his brother had told him. Warned him, more like. There was a reason he was trying to keep Rhett from the lake, and while the warden couldn’t fathom what it could be, he could do what Emilio asked. For a little while, anyway.
As such, today found him wandering through the state park, his posture relaxed enough that it was almost as if he was just on a stroll and not on the constant lookout for fae or fae-related activity. Still, the scabbard hanging from his hip and the rifle slung over his back told a different story—not that he cared much about appearances. He looked dangerous, and anyone that he encountered that had nothing to fear from him would do well to stay away anyway, because he was in a sour mood after failing to kill that fucking lake nymph.
A buzz crawled over his skin and he stopped dead, wide eyes scanning the area. His vision might be shit, but his fae-dar was impeccable, especially in a place like this. Crowds of people and monsters were another story.
Moving stealthily, the warden drew his sword and twisted it in his hand, his breath catching in his throat when he finally saw the source of the claws that scratched at the backs of his eyes. Some… whatever it was, crouched down admiring flowers. Cute. Those purple and yellow buds were about to get a fresh paint job, though.
He crept up behind the figure, careful with the knowledge that it might have some kind of advanced hearing, moving as slow as he could. Crouched down among the ferns, focused fully on his victim to-be, he didn’t notice the crystal poking up from beneath the foliage his palm brushed through, his fingertips dragging along its smooth surface for a brief second or two before moving on to the rough bark of the tree that stood beside him.
When the fae started to move again, Rhett moved faster, closing the distance in about a second and pressing his iron blade to its neck as his hand gripped it by the opposite shoulder. He should have slit its throat then and there, but curiosity got the better of him. “What are ya?” He could only tell a nymph by feeling alone, and this one had a different flavor of irritation.
—
Conor left the flowers where they belonged. He couldn’t bring these back to his place. They’d die there. Then, if he managed to dig a pond in his backyard, perhaps he could invest in those sorts of plants next year. He’d have to worry about mosquitoes, but he supposed there were easy ways to get rid of them.
Lost in his train of thoughts, he paid no mind to the sounds in his back, up until it became clear those were footsteps, and coming from someone way too close to him. Now was not the time to freak out, yet, Conor couldn’t stop himself from focusing more than it was comfortable on the sharp, cold yet burning thing pressed to his neck, or the strong hand gripping at his shoulder. He didn’t like strangers touching him. He knew he was tense, and yet any noise that could have helped him get help got caught up in his throat. And why was that knife burning him?
The stranger spoke. He didn’t sound nice, or from around here.
Conor didn’t attempt to take a look at him. He didn’t dare move. Still, he had to answer his question. “What do you mean?” His voice quivered as he stammered his way through the short sentence. “I’m just hiking, I’m not gonna do anything.”
—
“Didn’t ask what yer doin’, idjit. Asked what ya are. Know you’re fae, no point in lyin’ ‘bout it. Wanna know what kind afore I cut yer damn head off. Why don’tcha let that pretty li’l disguise’ah yours drop, eh? Would love tah see what ya really look like.”
As if to back up this threat, Rhett’s cutlass pressed more firmly into the fae’s neck, his grip moving from the creature’s shoulder to grab a fistful of its unruly hair.
“Come on… rude to keep a fella waitin’,” Rhett warned a final time, leaning his head down to speak directly into his prey’s ear, just in case he wasn’t being heard.
—
The hunter did a good job of exposing Conor’s neck, of making him entirely vulnerable. What could he possibly do now, to break free from his strong hold. With a whimper, Conor slowly raised his hand up, before him. He didn’t want to do the other harm, simply to get out of harm’s way.
It would be disappointing to see the end of the path today. He had just began the process of letting his brother back into his life. Disappearing would leave a bitter taste of unfinished business in his younger brother’s mouth, and Conor hated to be the sort to keep on letting him down. He had just introduced himself back to the Bostonian man, all to be murdered weeks later. What a shame.
“I’m a…” He winced. The other’s lips brushed against his ear lobe, too close, his voice too loud for his sensitive ears. With that stimulation, they turned back to their natural aspect, pointier, goat-like, and it wasn’t long before Conor’s legs took on a more hairy and complicated aspect, his bushy hair parted on his temples, revealing curled horns. “Please, I… I don’t do people harm.” He tried not to wince. That wasn’t quite right, but the other didn’t need to know it.
___
Was a divine damn thing, seeing one of their kind shed the human disguise it used to masquerade in a place it didn’t belong. He pulled back a bit as those ears changed, gaze traveling down the creature’s body as more of it shifted, then back up again to see the horns that’d appeared on its head.
“Ah.” The usual plea. “Faun.” As far as murderous fae went, faun were a little lower on the totem pole—he could recall a time when he’d have left most of them well enough alone, provided they weren’t hurting anyone. But unfortunately for this faun, those days were gone.
“No? Y’ain’t never killed no one? Find that hard’tah believe, goat. Easy t’go overboard. Never had an accident, then? Yer the pinnacle of control?” His tone carried a sharp, poisonous edge to it, not unlike the one digging into the faun’s flesh. “Be honest, I know it’s terrible painful to lie. You ever killed anyone?”
—
"You've killed before," Conor countered. No one in their right mind would walk up on someone like that with a knife if they weren't metaphorically screaming bloody murder from a mile away. "Doesn't mean you should die for it, does it?" Conor knew some of his fae pals would disagree.
He was ashamed of his feats enough as it was. He didn't need the fae police to come and slap him on the hand (or much worse) about it. So yes, Conor's tone was harsh, and the faun was once again cranky. It would be terrible to die having renounced his ideals. It would be strange for it to be any different with that damn blade burning against his neck.
With a heave of his shoulders, Conor took another calming breath. "I was raised by humans. I don't know the ways of my kin," which was why he had accidents. "I'm so sorry. I don't mean to do people harm," most of the time, he didn't. Karens and Kyles had it coming.
—
“That’s where yer wrong, bucko. I’ve killed, sure. I’ve killed lots. Fae, undead, shifters… don’t make much difference to me, so long as they ain’t human. But fae really key me up like nothin’ else, yanno? All those fuckin’ tricky ways you lot like to talk… sucker some poor human into doin’ whatever you tell ‘em to, into hurtin’ the people they love, all with yer god damn fuckin’ words…” It was getting personal, clearly. “But all that killin’ I’ve done? It does mean I should die for it. In fact, I plan to. Just not today.”
He shoved down on the faun’s shoulder to force it to its knees, sucking in a deep, wavering breath. “Save yer fuckin’ apologies,” he bit out, wondering why his throat felt so tight. “You might not mean to, but ya do. Ya do all kinds’ah fuckin’ harm all the fuckin’ time—” What remained of his vision had grown blurry, and there was a sound in his ear like a mosquito that just wouldn’t leave. “I—” His thoughts had gone foggy and he felt… he felt… oh, no. Not now. His mind abandoned him, separating from his body in a metaphorical sense, leaving him hollow and confused.
“Gonna kill ya,” he muttered, tightening the grip on his sword, almost like he was trying to remind himself why he was there. “Gonna…” His dark gaze dropped down to the top of the faun’s head and the world around him felt spinny. It felt wrong.
“Look at me,” came the command, soft but stern. He only waited a half-second before demanding again, louder and more fraught with emotion. “Look at me, goat! Look at me!” His eyes were wide and wild and brimming with tears as the faun finally met his gaze, and a choked sob was barely bitten back as he took in the other’s visage.
Fuck’s sake, he looked a lot like Desmond.
It. It looked a lot like Desmond. But it wasn’t. Dez was dead. Dead a long time ago. Not lookin’ up at him from his knees, horned and fuzzy-eared—
“Dez,” he groaned, still holding his sword out in a threatening sort of way, though it was clear that he was… elsewhere. Agony turned to frustration and he tried to shake off whatever was ailing him, but it was no use. God, why did this thing look so much like his brother?
—
The tricky ways his lot liked to talk? That didn’t speak to him. He hadn’t met many fae, but the few he did meet were kind to him, even Cass, and she had destroyed his front door. Some were scared, hiding, disgusted with themselves, some took being fae as something more than an identity, making it their duty, and some just wanted to live their life. He was a bit of that, although Conor had avoided looking at his reflection over the years.
His knees hit the ground as he reflected on his situation, how unfair it all was, and how fair it all was. It was unfair to his mother. She’d never know why he stopped writing. To his brother and to him. He expected a response from him, and he wanted to reconnect with him. But deep down, Conor knew that none of this mattered. This man was right. He was a murderer. He didn’t mean to, but more than once, he was unable to stop his feeding process and people had died. Of course it looked like heart attacks, and he was coined as the unlucky witness. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.
His eyes fell on the flowers. If he was gonna die, he might as well be looking at something beautiful. The thought brought a sad smile to his face.
And then that cruel man demanded he looked at him. And that’s when he saw his face, at this awful man calling him a goat. He was not a fucking goat. The faun’s lip quivered and he wrinkled his nose in anger, in disgust.
“What?!” he spat. Who the fuck was Dez. “Why are you doing this? You don’t need to do this. Please.”
__
Something was wrong. This wasn’t the usual bout of dissociation, something else was happening and he didn’t know what. He felt furious and tormented in the same breath, like there was some terrible, heavy truth weighing down on him that he’d been hiding for centuries.
But that was ridiculous. So what, then? Why did he feel like the world was fucking ending? He was just here to kill a goddamn goat. Kill the faun. Focus. Focus. Breathe.
“I do need to,” he argued, unsure why he was even bothering talking to it. Just cut the head off and be done with it. “Y’don’t understand… I gotta.” Why? Because he’d been raised for it? That hadn’t mattered to him back when Dez was still alive. In fact, he’d often been the one sticking up for fae when his brother wanted to kill them.
But that was why, wasn’t it? Because his trust had been misplaced, and it had gotten his brother killed. And the one who did it—she’d gotten away. It was her fault. Her fault. The fault of all fae, just like this one. But if he hadn’t made that promise—
Fury decorated with a golden filigree of sorrow wrapped around him like chains and he gasped for breath. He couldn’t do this. The faun was begging for its life and where that would normally delight him, now it made him feel ill. He tried to think about what could have changed. He retraced his steps in his mind, as serpentine as they were and as much as his thoughts wanted to fully disconnect from themselves. None of it made sense.
“Get out of here,” he snarled, unable to combat the feeling of damnation that had taken his whole person in a vice-like grip. Fuck it. Fuck it, he needed to be alone, and killing this thing felt like too much effort for arms that refused to work, to do what his brain tried to tell them. “I said git!” Again, the command was barked louder and only a half-second after the first. Rhett took a step back, his sword thudding to the forest floor as his hands rose to instead tangle themselves into his mane of silver hair. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this, not ever. Not anymore. He didn’t feel shit anymore. He needed to ground himself. Needed to do his steps, run through his routine, until this went away.
____
"Why? Who told you that?" Conor's eyes would have rather looked anywhere else than at that terrible, terrible man's face, but he could feel a change and maybe this would be his only chance. “I don’t fucking understand, no, but… you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Please.” He felt like every single time he pleaded, the clock just ticked closer toward the inevitable, and yet he couldn’t stop saying that damn word. If that man allowed him, he would say it again.
Around them, things were undisturbed. Perhaps could he find solace in being surrounded by such beauty for his final moments ?
The water was still streaming next to him, and the scent of the flowers still perfumed the ambient air. Soon, there would only be the smell of blood, but the calm would last because all in all, he knew he was insignificant and that the neighborhood would be more disturbed by the absence of a florist than by the absence of the florist. Hermetic to the torments that shook the hunter, the faun was about to leave, but certainly not in such a literal way.
The bad man barked, and Conor didn't immediately understand what that meant. It didn't make any fucking sense, and he stood for a moment, a second at most, staring at him, looking confused as well as offended. What the fuck, he thought.
And yet, it didn't take long for him to do exactly what was asked of him, once again. Conor didn't necessarily have much affection for authority figures, but he preferred not to upset assholes who carried a sword behind their backs. The sound of metal hitting the floor. He remembered covering his ears then, almost mirroring his opponent, but not for long. Before the hunter regained his composure, the faun would be long gone.
—
It was illogical, what he was doing. There was no reason that beheading the faun should feel so fucking difficult, but it did, and he was telling it to leave before he’d taken care of things. Stupid. Stupid.
Who told you that? Everyone. Everyone he’d ever known, even though he’d not believed it for the first twenty-some-odd years of his life. They didn’t all have to die, he’d argued. The ones that weren’t hurting anyone on purpose, they didn’t have to die. They needed tools, that was all. Tools to help them control what the universe had given them, to make their own choices. Like he was making his own, despite what he and his brother had been taught growing up.
That was a time when ‘it’ had been ‘she’, and she had been the love of his life. The one that showed him nothing but beauty and a kind of grace that he lacked, but had aspired to. She was everything, until she took everything. His love, his family, his unborn child. Gone in a second. Gone like his choice to spare any of them, ever.
Except for now. Because there were voices in his head screaming at him to stop, voices he’d never heard before. Phantom hands, not real in any capacity but still able to grasp him as though they were, dragged the warden to his knees where he wept. He wept for some unknown anguish, foreign to him but coursing through his bloodstream like it was his own.
The faun was gone, but that didn’t stop the feeling. It went on, and on, pulling him to the forest floor where it would keep him for the better part of two days.
