Quiet moments were rare, almost nonexistent, when Valor visited the Collector. Usually the Collector was talking a mile a minute, and when he wasn't, Valor was the one talking all about the Isles, his missions, and, especially, the beasts that called it their home. But right now? Now, for once, they were quiet, watching as a flock of flying snakes passed beneath them outside. Valor was kneeling at the window with his arms crossed on the sill and his head resting on them. He'd already spoken to the Collector all about their migration patterns and feeding habits and parental care and natural defenses, so for now he was content just to watch.
There had been something . . . off about Valor in the past couple times he'd visited. Less excitable, more quiet . . . sadder? Dismissive of any questions about the missions he'd gone on since they last met. And today seemed even more so.
He'd never brought it up before. Never dared to vocally question his lord and uncle, the person that had raised him, the person that had given him everything, the person that hurt him whenever he took just a single step out of line. But the more he got outside on missions, the more encounters he had with witches and demons that weren't directly under Lord Belos' thumb - afraid, just as he was, to make a single slip lest retribution fall down upon them harshly - ones that were free to do their own things, whatever they wanted . . . then the more he found his staunch beliefs in their cause - in Belos' cause - starting to fade. Because "whatever they wanted" seemed to be . . . helping people. Being kind. Fixing up wounds and offering food and having fun. Being happy. Far happier than he'd seen anyone in the Lord's Coven. Far happier than he himself had ever been.
And he was so, so scared.
He was scared that he'd slipped too far. Scared that he'd been enchanted, that they were trying to lure him away, that the thing his uncle had always warned about was starting to happen to him. Scared that it was going to lead him to ruin.
But most of all? He was scared that it wasn't. That there was no enchantment, that this was just how witches and demons were when they didn't have the fear of an all powerful leader quashing them the moment they held any sort of defiance against his wishes. Because that meant they were nice. That meant they were good.
That meant he'd been branding perfectly innocent people for death for nothing other than existing.
It meant he'd dedicated his entire life to a horrible cause.
It meant he'd suffered and caused suffering for nothing.
And the kindness they'd shown was to him, yes, but it wasn't just to him. Far more often it was to their fellow witches and demons. And what reason would they have to enchant their own kind? They were supposed to all be in on it, right? They did it even when they didn't know he was there.
More than he'd like to admit, he found himself wishing he'd had a life as simple as theirs.
Valor's eyes slid over to look at the Collector. His first, and only, friend. He felt like that sometimes with them. Happy, unconcerned. Free.
How ironic. He felt most free in a room the Collector couldn't escape and under constant worry of Lord Belos or Philip returning and finding him there doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing.
He'd been too scared to broach the topic with them before. Too uncertain in these thoughts, too worried they'd tell on him. But . . . they'd made a pinky promise, right? They wouldn't tell Philip, and Lord Belos didn't know they even existed, so if they kept their promise then there was no way for it to get back to him.
But promises were so easily broken. He'd watched Lord Belos break several of them, after all. But the Collector had said pinky swears were . . . the extreme of the extreme kind of promise. They even had to do a physical gesture to complete it. He hadn't noticed anything at the time, but maybe there was some magical effect to it.
Regardless, he couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't take the guilt of branding people with a death sentence, of hunting down wild witches and dragging them back to the Conformatorium, of watching Lord Belos strike them down before his eyes.
He had to talk to someone about it. To either confirm or deny his thoughts. Anyone else in the coven despised him enough to out him to Lord Belos the moment he expressed any form of doubt, but the Collector . . . Maybe the Collector wouldn't.
So he took a chance. One that could either send him to certain doom, or . . . well, he didn't know what. But not that. Just give him someone to talk to about it, maybe.
He looked away from the shadowed form on the wall, casting his gaze once again towards the flying snakes below them. The flock had mostly passed by now. And, quietly, he asked, "Collector? What if . . . What if Lord Belos is wrong?"
