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Jaime shivers in Eskender’s tent, listening to the sounds of fighting. His arms are wrapped snugly around his legs, for warmth and comfort, and his head rests on his knees as he simply—waits. It’s dark in the tent, and cold, and he wishes he dared to grab the blanket on the bed next to him.
But blankets aren’t for him, and he knows better than to use one without permission. His skin crawls with memories of how they ‘keep him in line’, and he refocuses on the noises outside the tent.
There’s shouting, commands and cries of pain, mixed with howling, and he knows wolves are here. It’s not the first time the camp has been attacked, and he imagines it won’t be the last. After the fight, the hunters are usually filled with energy, need an outlet for their remaining bloodlust, and often they turn to Jaime.
And he knows how it will go, how it will feel, and so he tries to not think of—anything.
He ignores his rumbling stomach, his aching jaws and the ache deep inside him, his scraped knees, and the throbbing bruises.
He just...waits.
There’s nothing else he can do.
It’s a shock when there’s a spark at his neck, and the collar slips off and lands on the ground next to him. He stares at it a moment, uncomprehending, and then his body is suddenly surging with magic, the power singing to him.
He’s wide-eyed, alone in the tent in the dark. His collar has never broken before, Eskender has never come close to falling in battle—
He scrambles to his feet, heart pounding.
He can’t—his collar can’t come off—if they find him and he’s not wearing one, they’re going to—
His mind shies away from what will happen. It’s not—it’s not his fault, he didn’t do anything, didn’t leave the tent, didn’t—
Please, he thinks, kneeling on the ground, scrabbling in the dark for the collar. If he finds it, he can try to—to put it back on, or give it to them, to show them he didn’t try to escape, he wasn’t trying to get it off, he didn’t do anything, please—
There’s heat growing in him, his magic surging higher and higher, and at first he think it’s the panic, and then it’s hard to draw a breath, and then a small voice in his head whispers backlash, and there’s darkness pressing in on him, but first he just needs to find the collar—no—wait—
Jaime wakes to a sharp stinging pain across his cheek, and blinks his eyes open. Bertilo never liked it if he slept too long and—
There’s a wolf’s head right above his. Jaime bolts upright, pushing himself away, only to realize he’s ringed by wolves. Wherever he looks, there are wolves, and—
Eyes are darting from wolf to wolf, heart pounding in his chest, he can’t quite figure out if he’s panicked or terrified or resigned or—he’s about to die, painfully, and they just wanted him awake for it, but nothing is happening—
Lifting a cautious hand he touches his still-stinging cheek and his fingers come away wet. Not a slap, then.
One of the wolves shifts into a tall woman and she says, “You are the mage.”
It’s not a question, but Jaime nods, fingers curling into the dirt. He can feel his magic coursing through him, available for whatever he wants without the collar, but he’s trapped by the wolves and he’ll never get a chance to use it.
It doesn’t occur to him to use it to free himself.
“Undo the spells,” she demands, and Jaime blinks up at her. She gestures to the side, her shadow shifting in the flickering firelight, and he looks, and those are—those are the cages.
The cages he made.
Wolves are still trapped in them, some of them injured, some of them dying, some of them—dead.
Jaime swallows.
Well, he never wanted to lock them up in the first place, never wanted to create cages where they couldn’t shift into their human form, never wanted any of this, and if he’s going to die, he’s almost grateful he has a chance to set things right.
“Okay,” he says quietly, used to having no choice in how he uses his magic, but unaccustomed to an order also being something he wants to do.
The locks on the cages are relatively simple. He closes his eyes and reaches out—but pulls his magic back for a moment, hesitating. Then he reaches out again, but goes instead to the wolves, not their cages. He starts with the one hovering on the edge of death, her life force flicking in Jaime’s mind’s eye, and heals her. And the one in the cage next to her, and the next, and the next; one by one he mends oozing cuts, shattered bones, shoulders bruised from slamming against uselessly the bars, paws with claws torn from frantic scrabbling.
“Did you change your mind?” the woman asks coldly, and a wolf pads closer, eyes gleaming in the firelight.
Jaime barely notices, focused on watching his magic dip lower and lower, making sure he has enough left for the locks, healing the most serious wounds, skipping over the smallest, and then—
The locks fall off the cages, a cascade of dull thuds, and the wolves flow past Jaime, shifting into humans as they head towards the opening cages. The captive wolves—the ones he could save—pad out, shaking themselves, and shifting back into their human skin while their rescuers swarm them.
All but one. The woman, and Jaime thinks she must be the alpha, is watching him. Guarding him?
He’s glad he’s on the ground, because he feels a little lightheaded from using so much magic, but there’s a curious joy in him, too. He’s drained, he’s empty, he’s done, but he’s finally done something right.
And his neck is bare for the first time in longer than he’s willing to remember.
“Why are you smiling?” the woman demands, standing over him, dark eyes suspicious, like Jaime is somehow tricking them.
“I’m—done,” he says, looking up at her, meaning more than just the cages. He’s done , with everything. He’s ready to die. “I’m done,” he says again, softly.
He finds he has overextended himself, or the backlash from the collar breaking is still affecting him: either way, his vision starts spotting with black. He tries to brace himself with his hands on the ground, but he can’t really feel his arms.
The last thing he sees through his blurred vision is the woman shifting back into a wolf, and Jaime has a moment to wonder if it will still hurt if he’s unconscious when she rips his throat out.
Lada snarls over the body of the mage, because she wants him to scream for what he’s done to her pack, the way the rest of the hunters screamed and cried and begged, and he’s passed out, again.
But he’s unconscious, and he’ll keep, and as the alpha she needs to support the freed captives.
Maybe one of them would like to get some payback.
She reluctantly shifts back into her human form and walks over in time to catch one of the newly freed captives as she stumbles.
“You’re okay,” Lada says, holding her close. “You’re safe now.”
The woman, although she’s more of a girl, clings to Lada. “I was—I was dying," she says shakily, fingers twisting into Lada’s shirt. “I was dying, and then—” She looks down at herself, and Lada can smell the blood but doesn’t see any injuries through the torn clothing. “Something healed me,” the girl whispers. “Something warm, and then—then the doors opened, and now—” Her voice breaks off in a sob, and she collapses into Lada, weeping into her shoulder, and Lada holds her tight, glancing over at the mage.
Something healed me.
Something or someone?
Narrowing her eyes for a moment, she then turns her attention back to the girl in her arms. She’s too thin, all of the former captives are, and Lada helps her over to where Elena is handing out food and water to them. Ilja is waiting with clean clothing for when they’re ready.
None of the captives seem to have any current injuries, despite all the torn clothing and blood, and wolves don’t heal that much faster than humans.
Lada turns back to the cages, only to see Khalida helping to carefully lift the dead wolves out of the cages. As Lada watches, the bodies shift back into humans when they’re outside the spelled cages. They are broken, twisted, bloodied and bruised, and they hurt to look at, make her wish she could kill the hunters all over again. The only solace she can find is that they’re finally free of pain, at peace now.
Lada goes back to the mage and studies him. A small, unassuming creature for all the damage he’s done. She’d considered giving him a quick death, but then he looked so pleased after he healed the wolves and opened the cages, probably thought they were going to spare his life. Now, she’s not sure what to do with him.
She glances at the bodies laid out on the ground, and finds she doesn’t want the mage to know that kind of peace. Not yet. Not until he’s known suffering. A quick death is better than anything the hunters ever offered a wolf.
One good deed can’t erase all the hurt that’s been done.
She moves back to the wolves building a funeral pyre for their own, and finds Rayen.
“We’re going to need a mage collar,” she says, and he looks at her a moment before nodding. They travel relatively light, but being able to disable a mage is always useful. He’ll get one from their supplies.
The reason these particular hunters caught her ire comes over to her, paler than she would like, and Lada wraps Dimitri up in her arms.
“I’m so glad you’re back with us, Dima,” she says, and he relaxes into her.
“I knew you’d come,” he says into her shoulder. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me.”
“Never,” she says fiercely. She’d never leave any member of her pack behind.
Dimitri pulls back and she lets him, but stays close enough to be brushing against him. He turns to look at the mage.
“You’re not killing him?” he asks, and he sounds—hurt.
She can’t stop herself from wrapping him up in another hug, incredibly grateful they were here in time, even though she wishes they’d been able to save every wolf.
When she pulls back, she studies his face. “Do you think he deserves a quick death?”
Dimitri leans against her as he studies the bodies in the clearing, as he studies the cages, as Lada feels subtle tremors in his limbs.
“No,” Dimitri says finally. “No, and it’s a shame you killed all the rest so quickly. They can’t pay for their crimes.”
They glance at the mage, limp on the ground, and Lada sees Rayen already trotting back to them.
“But he can, Dima,” she says softly. “He can.”
Jaime’s mouth is dry when he wakes up, and his head feels cottony. He can’t remember what happened to him, what the hunters did to him—he blinks crusty eyes open, and it feels like the aftermath of over-using his magic, but he hasn’t done that since he first created the cages—
The cages. T he wolves.
He healed them, and he freed them, and now—but Jaime can feel his magic is locked away again.
Was it a dream?
He lifts a hand to rub at his eyes, and when his vision clears he’s in a room he doesn’t recognize, and there’s a different collar around his neck. Not a dream, then.
He’s been left on a bare floor, and there’s no food or water. He thinks that maybe he should be upset that there’s another collar on his neck, but all he feels is a quiet resignation.
Sitting up, he wraps his arms around his knees, back against a wall.
He’s sore, inside and out, but not any worse than he’d expect from what he remembers. No one hurt him, or used him, while he was unconscious.
A quick death was too much to hope for, but he doesn’t know what to expect now. Are they going to hurt him before they kill him? Do they want him to use his magic for them? That would almost be a relief; they’ll want nothing as twisted as the hunters wanted from him. Maybe he’d even get to do something good , like supporting a dam or helping a garden grow, or—he dares to hope—maybe they’ll want him as a healer.
He could spend the rest of his life in slavery if he only got to heal.
The sound of the door opening makes him flinch, and he debates getting to his feet but—it hurts to be kicked down, and he might as well stay down.
So he looks up to see a vaguely familiar dark-haired man, heavily muscled, staring down at him.
“Mage,” he says, and his voice is deep. “You’re finally awake.”
It’s not a question, and Jaime’s learned very painfully to only answer questions, so he stays quiet, waiting.
The man paces into the room, and some deeply buried part of Jaime is screaming predator and his heart rate picks up. There’s no point in fear, but he’s never quite been able to get rid of it, and he doesn’t know the rules here, doesn’t know how to please his new captors so they don’t get angry.
“You opened the cages. You healed us,” the man says, and Jaime hears us and realizes why the man looks familiar.
Jaime locked this man up, knowing he would die.
Surely that should spark some worry or something in him, but he just can’t quite feel it. He’s used to just—accepting what he gets.
And it still wasn’t a question, but the tone was so expectant that Jaime hesitantly nods. He did open the cages and heal them.
“Why?” the man asks him, a straight question Jaime must answer.
“She told me to,” Jaime says, but—it was more than that, he would have done it even if no one had asked, once he realized what was happening. But he wants to show that he can be good, he can listen, he can do as he’s told. Just—tell him what they want. He doesn’t know how to resist, not anymore.
“She told you to open the cages,” the man agrees softly. “She didn’t tell you to heal us.”
“One of you was—was dying,” Jaime says hesitantly, even though it wasn’t a true question. He wasn’t going to let any more wolves die, given the freedom to stop it.
“We were all going to die, mage,” the man hisses. “Every one of us you locked in one of your cages was never getting out alive.”
That’s—that’s true, but Jaime didn’t have a choice , he had to that, he never wanted to hurt them and—
“And you thought healing us was going to be enough to earn our mercy?”
It’s a question but it doesn’t feel like a question, and Jaime hopes staying quiet is the right answer, trying to figure what the man wants him to do or say.
“You’re a hunter," the man spits out, pacing around the room. He’s furious, and he’s furious at Jaime, and somehow Jaime doesn’t think saying sorry is going to help. “How many of our kind have you locked up to be tortured and killed, to be turned into pelts for some rich person’s living room?”
The man’s hands squeeze into fists at his side. This isn’t building to anything good. Jaime doesn’t think there’s any way he’s getting out of this without getting hurt, no matter how much he complies.
Even that thought doesn’t make him afraid. He’s just—empty.
“Not anymore,” the man says tightly. “Not. Any. More. Lada, my alpha, she and our pack killed all your friends.”
Jaime does not think now is the time to point out he had no friends in the camp, and his arms tighten around his knees. He drops his gaze back to his knees, away from the anger he can’t do anything about.
“You’re going to know what it feels like,” the man says, voice vibrating with emotion. “Know what it feels like to be locked up like an animal, to be treated like you’re less than human.”
Jaime doesn’t look up. He doesn’t—he doesn’t think the hunters ever treated him like a person. He was fed their scraps, slept outside more often than not, and they certainly never cared what he wanted, and—but it doesn’t matter.
He made the cages the wolves died in, he forced them immobile while the hunters shoved them in, he kept their bodies shifted long enough for the hunters to skin them—he was complicit in everything.
At least now he knows what they plan to do to him. They’re not going to use his magic, they’re just going to—
A hand roughly grabs his hair and lifts up his head. He is crouched in front of him, and Jaime hadn’t even noticed him approach.
“Nothing to say, mage?” he hisses.
“No,” Jaime says, numb, thinking he really should be feeling something. There’s a wolf, an angry wolf, and Jaime can’t do a single thing about it. But he’s never been able to do anything about anything, his former life a blurred and faded memory he never looks at. Whatever this pack plans to do to him—Jaime won’t be able to change that.
“Not even going to beg?” the man asks, eyes narrowing. “Not going to plead for mercy?”
“Do you want me to beg?” Jaime asks, feeling empty, knowing his life is just going to be more and more suffering. But he can beg, if that’s what the man wants.
“You should,” the man says, releasing Jaime’s head. Jaime keeps his eyes fixed on him; he thinks the man probably wants that. “You should beg me for a quick death. Beg me to end it now, instead of later, when I’ve decided you’ve suffered enough.”
The words crack something in Jaime, and finally he’s feeling something. He knew there wasn’t an end date with the hunters, there was just his life, stretching out without end, pain unceasing, until they accidentally went too far one day or Jaime just got—used up, worn away into a shadow so slight there was nothing left.
A promise of an end, even after more suffering—Jaime wants that, more than he wanted to be free of the hunters, more than he wanted to stop watching wolves die, more than he wanted anything, he wanted to be done.
Emotion is building up in Jaime, seeping out through the cracks in a wall he didn’t think would ever fall, but instead of the terror he thought he should feel, it’s just a rising, desperate hope.
“Please,” he says, and his voice cracks. “Please.”
“You think we should let you go?” the man asks softly, something satisfied in his face now that Jaime is begging. “You think you did enough, healing those of us who were left, letting us out of the cages you built?”
“Please kill me,” Jaime says, and the man’s face shutters. “Please,” Jaime begs, because the hunters never would kill him, he was too useful, but if the wolves just want him to suffer, then there’s a chance— “Please,” he begs again, and he can hear how desperate he sounds. “Just—please kill me.”
The man stands, his face smooth and closed off, and there’s a long silence where Jaime dares to hope and then he says, “Not yet, mage. You haven’t suffered enough yet.”
Jaime drops his head back down onto his knees, huddling into the wall, because if not now , then maybe soon. And maybe not as soon as he’d like, he’s sure the wolves have a lot of ways to hurt him, but sooner than the hunters would kill him. And that’s something. That’s a hope he didn’t have before.
Dimitri feels hot, staring down at the mage at his feet. He thought the man would be desperate, would want to beg for his freedom, but he was smart enough to know death was the only way out.
And Dimitri is not letting him off so easily. He can still see the hunters, skinning the dead wolves and throwing what’s left onto a fire. He can feel how it hurt to be beaten, to be cut, body throbbing while he waited for his turn to die, desperately hoping Lada would come. He remembers what it was like as bits of his faith in her slivered off at each new dawn with no rescue.
And this man isn’t even afraid, he just—sits there, and asks to die, as though he can get out that easily? As though it was a courtesy offered to any of the wolves, as though the hunters didn’t enjoy hurting them until their bodies gave out, as though any of it would have been possible without the damn spells, as though—
He takes a deep breath. Lada said it was up to him what they did with the mage, and he just—he just wants the mage to know what it’s like to be locked up, to not be seen as a person. Wants him to feel the terrible helplessness, knowing he can’t do anything to change what’s happening to him.
But they’re not monsters, not like the hunters. He’s not going to beat and torture the man, break his body.
No. Dimitri just wants to see him suffer. The mage thinks he wants to die now? Let’s see how he feels in a week.
The mage is quiet, head bowed at Dimitri’s feet, and Dimitri was going to drag him up and out into what he’s prepared, but—
The hunters never let them shift and stand as people.
Why should Dimitri let him?
“We’re leaving,” Dimitri says, and his voice is almost a snarl. He watches the mage unwrap his arms from his legs and go to push himself upright. “Don’t bother to get up,” Dimitri adds, and the mage tips his head up to look at Dimitri.
His face is—almost expressionless, but he must find whatever he’s looking for because he drops his head back down without a word, getting on his knees, putting his hands on the floor, and crawling after Dimitri.
Crawls, like the animal the hunters all thought Dimitri was. Well, he’s not the animal, and look who's on the floor now.
There’s a vicious satisfaction sliding through him, and he increases his pace to hear the mage struggle to keep up.
“Don’t fall behind,” Dimitri says casually. “Although I can make you keep up, if you’re struggling.”
He’s got a leash. He wouldn’t mind dragging a hunter behind him, just for a bit.
Jaime crawls as fast as he can after the man, gaze firmly fixed on the ground, ignoring the way the scabs on his knees are shredding, ignoring the way every movement reignites the ache deep inside him.
He doesn’t have a choice. The man opens a door and then Jaime is outside, on softer grass, but he can’t slow down. He doesn’t want to be made to keep up, he wants to do as he’s told and avoid pain, avoid punishment, avoid giving them an excuse to do even more.
As though murdering hundreds of wolves isn’t all the excuse they need.
He almost runs into the man’s legs, stopping just in time, and pants for a moment, catching his breath, trying to ignore the throbbing pains.
“Here’s your new home,” the man says. “What do you think?”
A question. Jaime lifts his head and looks.
It’s—it’s a pen. There’s no other word for it. It’s a small, fenced enclosure, with a feeding trough, and a stake in the middle. They really do want to treat him like an animal.
He looks up at the man, and isn’t sure what to say. The hunters wanted him to thank them for everything they gave him, wanted or unwanted.
The silence stretches and the man swings the gate open.
“Go on in,” he says, and Jaime crawls into the pen. There’s not another option, not really.
The man follows him and picks up a piece of chain that’s attached to the stake in the middle.
“Can’t have you trying to get away,” he says, clipping the free end to Jaime’s collar. As though a collared, barefoot mage had a chance of escaping a wolf den in the middle of the woods.
“We’ll feed you, of course,” the man says, falsely reassuring. “But you’ll need to remember to not use your hands.” Jaime glances at the trough. “If you can’t remember, we can help you,” the man adds.
Jaime doesn’t want to think about the various ways they could help him remember to not use his hands.
Doesn’t want to think about anything.
He just wants to get this over with, so he can die.
With each pained gasp for breath the mage makes behind him, Dimitri feels more settled in his skin. More—right, more comfortable. This is how it should be. The hunters paying for what they did and how they hurt him, and their mage is paying.
If only the rest of them were still alive to suffer with him.
But at the enclosure, where Dimitri wants a flicker of apprehension, a lip curled in scorn, some resistance, some sign of disgust that this is how they want the man to live, some break in that fucking façade, he gets—nothing.
The hunter is almost placid, quietly crawling into the enclosure, letting Dimitri chain him up like a dog, not objecting to being told he needs to eat like an animal. He’s just—accepting.
Dimitri wants to get some kind of reaction, and for a moment he’s tempted to snap a bone, rip open some skin, get something from this hunter, but he reigns himself in. They’re not like the hunters; they don’t need to uselessly hurt and torment.
This is—this is a lesson for the hunter. So he doesn’t die thinking what he did was right, die not knowing what it’s like to be treated like an animal, so he can feel some regret for all the harm he caused.
So Dimitri can remember that he is not the animal, he’s not locked in a cage.
Dimitri just knows the mage needs to suffer. Lada said he could do what he wanted, extract the payback he needed, and this is—this is what he needs.
A hunter chained up outside, wherever everyone can watch him, forced to eat like an animal, humiliated, degraded—
But Dimitri is back in his human skin, and he’s safe. He’s safe, and he’s home, and he’s not locked away, and he’ll never be locked up again.
This mage will suffer, will know the suffering he’s caused, Dimitri will get to see the pain and regret on his face, and then—then he’ll end it all.
The man leaves and Jaime is left alone in his pen, still on his hands and knees.
He’s not sure he’s allowed to get up and walk, and despite being in a pen, nothing bad has actually happened to him so he just—doesn’t get up.
The trough is empty, no food, and Jaime hadn’t really expected food, but he’s hungry, a little dizzy, and isn’t sure when he last ate. Isn’t sure how long he was unconscious, between backlash and overextending himself. Long enough to be brought somewhere else, but—it’s not like it really matters.
There’s a bucket next to the trough, and he crawls over, trying to move slowly enough to minimize his pain, and is relieved to see water in it. He’s—he’s not supposed to use his hands, and he doesn’t even think anyone is watching him, but he doesn’t really care to test that. He can do what they tell him to do. He sticks his head in the bucket and figures out a way to drink.
He drinks enough to try to trick his stomach into believing that he’s full, and then sits back to look around. The chain isn’t long to reach the fence, there are no trees to provide shade from what seems to be the afternoon sun.
There’s just grass, and a stake in the middle, and Jaime crawls over to the stake, water sloshing unpleasantly in his stomach, and sits against it, wrapping his arms around his knees, trying to make himself as small as he can.
He doesn’t think about the fact that there’s nothing resembling a bathroom out here.
He feels—he’s not even sure. There is a faint flicker of apprehension at what will happen next. What will happen when they come back, and when they decide to use him—
Will they make him crawl back into the building? Jaime can see it from his pen, see people moving in and out, hear distant noises, and he can’t suppress a shiver.
At least some of the hunters were disinterested in him, other than the magic he could provide. Only a few of them enjoyed hurting Jaime, and Jaime feels a twist of satisfaction and relief that they’re dead. They’re all dead.
But now he’s with the wolves, and no wolf is going to be disinterested in the mage who made it possible for hundreds of their kind to be tortured and skinned. He’s not going to be left alone for very long.
He bows his head to his knees, but—he’s too exhausted to cry and tears never bring him anything good. The hunters enjoyed it when he cried, mocked him, just got worse—
He’s just ready for his life to be over.
Dimitri watches as the mage lifts his head when food is dumped into the trough. Slowly he crawls over to the trough, and sticks his head in.
Somehow, it’s not quite as satisfying as Dimitri imagined. He thought the mage would be furious, spitting curses, he thought they’d have to bind his arms, force him to act like an animal, shove him down and watch him fight.
The hunter hasn’t even bothered to try standing up.
Something is twisting inside of Dimitri, unpleasant and uncomfortable, and he just needs this man to suffer so he can kill him, so he can put all of this behind him.
He can remember being out in the woods, running free, when a net crashed down on him. Weighted, steel-cored, he couldn’t bite through it, couldn’t rip it, and then a cold drug spread through him, making him sluggish.
“What a pretty pelt,” one hunter said, laughing as he ran his hands through Dimitri’s fur.
Dimitri wanted to shake him off, wanted to bite, wanted to snarl, but could only manage to make his flank ripple.
He vividly recalls the rising panic as they dragged him back to their camp, as he saw the cages full of other wolves, smelled the blood and fear and death, and he still couldn’t move .
Being shoved into a cage of his own, and slowly realizing he couldn’t shift. It wasn’t the drugs, or the shock, there was something blocking him, he was trapped, in a cage, in his wolf skin—
And that small curl of fear—what if his pack didn’t rescue him?
But they did rescue him.
Lada comes to him now, where he’s sitting shifted in the woods, watching, and her wolf sits next to him, pressing close. She stays as the shadows lengthen, as the hunter does absolutely nothing, before she goes back to the main den.
When it’s fully dark, Dimitri is still sitting there, watching, reminding himself he’s not in a cage. He holds the power here. The mage has curled up around the stake. The night air is chilly, and Dimitri has a warm coat of fur, and the man has nothing. He just curls up tighter, huddling into himself for warmth, and eventually Dimitri thinks he’s actually sleeping.
Sleeping, chained to a stake outside, without a word of complaint.
A feeling akin to horror bubbles up inside of him, and he lets anger wash it away. The anger fills him, and he stands and pads softly towards the enclosure. When he’s closer, he lets a low rumble wash across the clearing.
The mage jerks, sitting up, looking all around. Dimitri makes use of his wolf’s night vision to watch the hunter strain to try to see what’s near him, enjoying his worried uncertainty.
Dimitri growls again and the mage goes rigid, back pressing into the stake. Dimitri moves closer, and steps on a stick, and watches the mage flinch at the loud cracking noise. Then he silently goes back to the woods, to watch.
The mage stays awake a while, heart beating too fast, but eventually lays back down, shivering in the cold night air.
When Dimitri thinks the man’s fallen back asleep, he pads forward again.
By the third day, Jaime is almost—relaxed. He’s cold, he’s hungry, he’s exhausted, his body aches from crawling and being curled up tightly for warmth at night, but—he’s being left alone.
Against all his expectations, the wolves are not taking advantage of a vulnerable hunter.
Sure, they’re growling at him during the night, and he gets chillingly hateful looks when they dump food for him, but—they’re leaving him alone. It seems to be enough to chain him up in a pen and dump slop in a trough and make him drink from a bucket.
He has no privacy, no comfort, but—being left alone is a comfort. The ache inside his body has almost healed, and he’s less and less expectant the wolves want him in that way. They don’t even seem willing to actively hurt him; treating him like this seems to be enough for them.
And although he’s a bit hungrier and a bit colder than he was with the hunters, it’s not that much different.
Except.
Except no one is making him hurt anyone else. He doesn’t have to hear screaming, he doesn’t have to smell the burning bodies, he doesn’t have to face the rows of angry eyes slowly hollowing out, he doesn’t have to try to not think about how many more he’ll be forced to help kill.
He’s done murdering wolves, and the wolves won’t make him hurt anyone else, and that part of him is just—done.
His hand traces his collar as he lays on the soft grass, and he recalls how it felt to have his magic surging freely through him. He liked it, he wants it again, but—
The sky is blue, far above him. It’s quiet in his pen, and the breeze is carrying the smell of plants, not fear and pain.
He’d give up more than his magic for this kind of peace.
Of course, it’s the next day when his quiet existence is changed. Someone opens his pen, not at the usual feeding time, and when Jaime turns to the look it’s the first man.
“Get up,” he says, and Jaime hesitates. Up, on his knees? Or up, on his feet? “On your feet,” the man clarifies, clearly annoyed as he heads for Jaime, and Jaime hurriedly pushes himself up.
His legs are sore, and he grabs the pole for balance when standing up that quickly makes him dizzy.
“You might as well be useful,” the man says dismissively, unlocking the chain. “If you’re going to sit around all day and eat our food.”
Jaime has the stray thought that he’d asked to die, and they’re the ones keeping him, but knows better than to say it. He follows the man out of his pen, down a small path in the woods. He’s weaker than he’d realized, not having stood up or moved for several days. There’s a buzzing in his ears, and his legs don’t quite listen the way he’d prefer, but he manages to keep up.
They end up in a clearing, filled with several yearling wolves.
“We’re doing training today,” the man says, crossing his arms. “Tracking. They’re going to track you.”
There’s a pause where Jaime has an urge to shake his head to make sure he understands. They want him to go—out into the woods, for the wolves to track down?
“You have ten minutes,” the man says, and something cruel slips across his face. “Who knows? You might even be able to actually escape.”
Jaime stares at him blankly. He’s collared, with no shoes, literally wavering on his feet, and they’re acting like this is a chance to escape?
The man makes a shooing motion, and Jaime turns for the woods. What else can he do?
It’s quiet in the woods, the bird song dying as he clumsily moves through the woods, leaning up on trees when he feels unsteady, his hearing starting to fade in and out, his vision blurring. He tries to step carefully, but the forest floor is not smooth, and his feet hurt every time he missteps.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been when suddenly there’s a wolf in front of him, snarling, and he freezes.
Game over.
For a moment, he thinks this really is game over, is how they want to kill him, as the rest of the yearlings surround him, softly snarling as well. One darts forward, nipping at his leg, and Jaime stumbles back.
And then they’re herding him back towards their den. Every time his pace slows from fatigue, or he struggles to stay upright, they’re nipping at his heels, making sure he knows to keep moving. He’s keeping his head down, all his attention focused on staying upright, staying moving, one foot in front of the other. Do as he’s told, and they won’t use their sharp teeth and claws to hurt him, because somehow he doesn’t think they’d make it quick right now.
He’s really hoping his death will be quick and he’s really hoping it comes soon.
It startles him when he breaks free of the trees back into the main clearing, and he lifts his head. The man who seems to be in charge of Jaime is standing there, and he raises an eyebrow at Jaime in a silent question.
Jaime closes his eyes for a heartbeat, just a heartbeat, his hope that this was his would be his time to die slipping away. And then, wordlessly, he drops back down to his hands and knees to crawl back to his pen, to be chained up again, and, hopefully, left alone.
They do leave him alone, just dropping off food and water, but after a couple more days Jaime can feel himself starting to get sick.
Maybe it’s deliberate. They must know they’re not feeding him enough. And surely they know a human left outside with not enough food or water, and no shelter, will eventually weaken and die. It’s a slow death, but if that’s what they want—
He doesn’t get up the next day, when they drop off the food. He’s not even sure he’s hungry, shivering with a chill he can’t shake even in the bright sunshine, head pounding. Curling up around his stake, he closes his eyes, and just hopes it will all be over soon.
Dimitri stands at the gate with Lada, watching the hunter shiver. He didn’t eat yesterday and hasn’t moved at all today.
“He’s only human, Dima,” she says practically. “So we can either heal him and you can keep going, or we can let him die.”
Dimitri doesn’t want the mage to die. He wants the mage to suffer, to beg, to hurt , and all the man has done is just—submit. And he’s submitted almost willingly , without protest, without argument, without fear—and all the terror that Dimitri felt in the cage rises up and chokes him for a moment.
“He’s not dying,” Dimitri gets past a tight throat. Not until Dimitri is satisfied, and when the mage gets better—maybe he’s been too kind to him. Maybe he should make the hunter bleed, make him know what it feels to hurt so badly you can’t help but scream. At least he’d be able to scream in a human voice, instead of being trapped inside his own fucking skin.
It felt like Dimitri clawed himself raw inside, trying to claw out of his own skin—
“Okay,” Lada says, breaking into his thoughts. Dimitri is grateful her voice isn’t soft or pitying or anything that would grate on his raw nerves, but simply—practical. “Then you’ll have to get him to the infirmary.”
She touches him softly on the shoulder, offering quiet support, before turning and leaving Dimitri alone with the mage.
He unlatches the gate and approaches the man. He hates that he feels a small swell of pity; the mage’s clothes are damp, his face is flushed, his hair sticky with sweat. Dimitri has sat with friends and family who look exactly like this, and he tells himself that’s why he feels sympathetic for the hunter. It’s because he’s a good packmate, a good person , not because he truly feels sympathy for someone this evil.
“Get up,” Dimitri says, nudging the mage with his foot. The man doesn’t stir. “Get up,” he says, louder, locking down any feeling that isn’t hate or anger, and the mage twitches before shoving himself abruptly up, eyes wide.
His fear makes heat coil inside Dimitri, and he contemplates not healing the man. Just tearing him apart right here, keeping that fear on his face, getting him screaming until he’s hoarse, keeping him screaming until Dimitri finally feels sated and lets him die.
But the mage’s eyes look up at him, now glassy and unfocused, and Dimitri wants him to know what’s happening when he’s ripped apart. And for that, he needs to get him to the infirmary.
“Get up,” Dimitri snarls, not bothering to hide the rage coursing through him, and the mage stumbles to his feet. He takes a step and then another, and then crashes down to his hands and knees. “Get up,” Dimitri snarls again, and the mage flinches on the ground before trying to get back up again. But the hunter can’t get up, body trembling too hard, limbs too weak.
Dimitri watches him struggle a moment, burning satisfaction pounding through him, and then says, “You really are absolutely useless.” He drags the man up by one arm. “I’ll show you what you’re good for,” he spits out, imagining blood running hot, and screaming.
The mage goes rigid under his hand for a moment, and then chokes out, “I’m sorry.”
He’s sorry? He’s sorry for this? What about the hundreds of deaths on his hands and the torture and the cages and—and this is when he says sorry?
Dimitri drags him, enjoying the way the man’s heartbeat is pounding too fast, the way he’s struggling and can’t quite keep his feet.
Ash is in the infirmary, and he looks up with surprise when Dimitri opens the door.
“He’s sick,” Dimitri says, shoving the mage at Ash. “Fix him.”
Ash catches the man carefully. “Of course he’s sick,” he says irritably, gaze darting over the shivering mage. “You’ve kept him outside for a week and hardly fed him. He’s human, Dimitri, hunter or not. Look, even his clothes are wet.”
Dimitri doesn’t care. He deserves it.
“Do you even know his name?” Ash inquires acidly, as the hunter sways on his feet.
For a moment, Dimitri flushes hot with shame. He plans to kill this man, and hasn’t learned his name? Then again, the hunters never bothered with their names, never even saw them as people, so why should he care?
“No,” he answers carelessly, watching Ash guide the mage over to a bed. “He doesn’t need a name.” He’s only here to suffer.
At the edge of the bed, the mage stiffens. “No,” he says, trying to pull away. It’s the first time Dimitri has seen him fight back. “No, please.”
Ash stops and rotates the man so he can look him right in his face. “You’re in an infirmary,” he says quietly. “Do you understand? We’re going to help you feel better.” His tone is sincere, no sign of the truth that they’re healing him so Dimitri can pull him back apart.
The hunter is gripping Ash’s arms, fingers white-knuckled with how tight they are clenching. His breathing is rapid, and he isn’t answering, eyes unfocused. Ash shoots a narrow eyed glance at Dimitri, before turning the mage back to the bed.
“No,” the mage begs. “Please, Eskender, not—I don’t feel well, please.”
Dimitri drifts closer, enjoying his fear, and trying to understand it.
He wants to recreate it, when the man isn’t sick. Wants to hear him beg Dimitri like that, desperate and afraid, knowing Dimitri has all the power the mage has none.
When Ash firmly pushes the mage down on the bed, the man’s chest heaves with a sob, and something in his face crumples.
Another flash of unwanted sympathy, ruthlessly stomped out, and Dimitri avidly watches the mage tightly close his eyes, body going rigid.
Ash grabs a penlight and lifts one of the mage’s eyelids. When the light hits his eyes, he starts to fight again. Pinning him down with an arm on his chest, Ash looks at Dimitri.
“Don’t just watch,” he orders. “Grab his arms so I can finish this.”
Dimitri steps forward and easily pins the mage’s arms above his head, while Ash keeps his hand on the mage’s chest. The man is thrashing under them, but he’s no match for werewolf strength. And he doesn’t stop pleading with them, or whoever he thinks they are, to stop. Ash murmurs quiet reassurances.
“Stop what?” Dimitri finally says, frustrated, even though the mage can’t see or seem to hear him. “We’re not doing anything.” He doesn’t want the mage to beg some unseen assailant; he wants the man to be afraid of him.
“Really?” Ash asks, raising an eyebrow at him. “You can’t think of a reason why someone would be afraid of being forced against their will into a bed?”
Dimitri scowls a moment. “He doesn’t even know it’s us,” he argues, the mage’s wrists shockingly fragile and slender under his hand. A little more pressure and they would just—shatter.
“No,” Ash says quietly. “He doesn’t.”
There’s a heavy pause, and something is unfurling inside Dimitri that he can’t quite stomp out. Maybe he won’t try to recreate this particular fear after all.
“So he’s had a bad experience,” Dimitri snaps, covering the churning in his stomach. “Doesn’t make him not a hunter, it doesn’t undo what he did.” A pause. “And we’re not going to do—that to him, so he doesn’t need to be afraid.”
“Of course,” Ash says dryly. “I can’t imagine why he’s afraid of us.”
Dimitri glares at him, but Ash is focused on the mage. There’s an extended silence, and the mage finally stops fighting back, his body limp and trembling on the bed.
Somehow, the silence is worse than the frantic struggling and begging.
Ash listens to the man’s heart, takes his temperature, checks his pulse, and then says, “Help him sit up. We need to get him into clean clothing.”
The mage’s clothes are thin, the same things he had on when they brought him back from the hunter’s camp. He doesn’t need clean clothes, or dry clothes; he’s a monster in human form. Dimitri frowns.
“Are you sure—”
“Yes,” Ash snaps. “He’s not going to get any better in wet, dirty clothing. If you want him to heal, Dimitri, you have to let him heal.”
Dimitri scowls but pulls the mage up, and then just rips the shirt in two, tearing it off.
“There,” he says to Ash. “Are you hap—” The words die in his throat.
The mage’s back is covered with scars. Whip marks, shiny scars that can only be from burns, scars with jagged edges and Dimitri—Dimitri doesn’t want to know what would make a scar look like that. He swallows hard.
Without thinking he reaches out a hand and traces a finger across one of the scars. The mage’s body jerks under him, and he gasps, “Please, don’t, please. I’m sorry.” Dimitri snatches his hand back like he’s the one who’s been burned, his mind white static.
“Looks like someone got to him before you did,” Ash comments, and Dimitri flinches back. He wasn’t—he wouldn’t—
But his only defense is he wasn’t going to give the mage a chance to heal what he planned to do into scars for others to see, and that’s—that feels like—
That doesn’t feel like a great argument.
The mage’s head is bowed as he shudders on the bed between them, the collar stark against his skin.
Dimitri doesn’t want to be here anymore.
They lay the mage back down, unresisting, tears slipping down his face. Dimitri follows Ash to the sink, where the healer is getting a washcloth wet with warm water.
“Do you need me here?” he asks quietly, shifting on his feet. He needs to—those were a lot of scars—but the man is still a hunter, still made those cages, still helped the hunters torture and murder and burn—
Dimitri is better than the hunters, he needs to be, he is—
“Don’t want to face him?” Ash asks, equally softly.
“I think I faced enough hunters for a lifetime,” Dimitri snaps back, still quiet, and Ash sighs.
“Dimitri,” he starts, turning back, and then he falls silent.
Dimitri turns to see what’s caught his eye and the mage isn’t on the bed anymore. He’s slid off the side and has wrapped his arms around his knees, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Dimitri wants to shake him, tell him to get over it, to snap out of it, that he’s still a terrible person, a hunter, who murdered hundreds of wolves—
Ash goes over and starts silently wiping the grime off his body. The mage flinches and looks up at him, and his eyes clear for a moment.
“You’re in the infirmary,” Ash says softly, carefully wiping his face. “You got sick.”
The mage’s eyes dart around the room and widen when they see Dimitri, and then he drops his gaze. Something twists inside Dimitri when the man won’t even look at him, and he tells himself it’s rage.
“Can you stand up?” Ash asks.
The hunter shakily stands up with Ash’s assistance, and Dimitri quashes the urge to lend a supportive hand.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” the mage says quietly, but his apology is—muted, compared to his feverish begging, and Dimitri’s skin crawls at the difference. What happened to this man? “I didn’t mean—to get sick.”
“Of course not,” Ash says briskly, handing him clean pants. “No one does. Change into these, okay?”
The mage’s eyes dart around the room, and Dimitri finds himself turning his back. It’s not like a sick human could overpower Ash, anyways. And Dimitri is not like the hunters; he knows how to be a decent person. And if the mage is afraid they’ll—do that to him, Dimitri can at least turn his back.
“Now, into the bed,” Ash says encouragingly, and Dimitri turns around to watch the hunter silently settle into the bed. His eyes are a shade too wide, and his pulse is faster than it should be, but he’s still lucid.
Dimitri wants to leave, but he can’t quite make himself turn away.
When the mage is given a glass of water, he takes it carefully and drinks it, and then hands it back. When Ash tries to hand him another one, he suddenly tries to shove it back.
“No,” the man says, pushing at Ash wildly, and Dimitri starts to move forward to help. “No, I’m not building you cages!”
Dimitri and Ash freeze.
“Stop—No—I won’t—these are people,” he says with unexpected ferocity, and Dimitri feels like he’s barely breathing. “I won’t—you can’t—”
There’s a sick feeling in Dimitri’s stomach, because it sounds like—
Ash carefully sets the water glass down.
“I won’t—” The mage’s body jerks, and he lets out a short, anguished shout. His hands fly up to his neck, to yank at the collar, claw at his skin. “No—take it off—you can’t make me—” Another jerk, and a bitten off cry.
Somehow, the pained sounds don’t give Dimitri the satisfaction he imagined, but that might just be the pit in his stomach.
“Please,” the mage pleads, the fire abruptly draining out of him, and his voice slices into Dimitri. “Please, don’t—these aren’t animals—” The hunter whimpers, his body rigid. “I don’t want to,” he whispers, eyes wide in terror at something only he can see. “Please—not cages—”
Ash quietly opens a cupboard and pulls out padded cuffs.
“What are you doing?” Dimitri asks, and his voice sounds unsteady. He feels unsteady, mind flickering as he tries to comprehend what he’s hearing.
“I’m restraining him for his safety,” Ash replies, going back to the bed.
“Is that really necessary?” Dimitri demands, as the mage makes a low, pained sound he wishes he could unhear. The mage’s hands are still clawing at his neck and collar, red lines vivid on his pale skin, and Dimitri has the sudden, absurd urge to take the collar off of him.
“He’s delirious,” Ash says, voice clipped, even as he pulls one of the mage’s hands from his neck. “He’s trapped inside his head, and I haven’t even had a chance to get an antipyretic in him, let alone any food. God knows what you were feeding him out there.” Dimitri swallows at the accusation.
“He’s a hunter,” he says, but his voice sounds weak even to his ears.
“Doesn’t sound like he wanted to be,” Ash says, moving to secure the mage’s feet. The man pulls wildly at his wrist restraints, and his body freezes for a moment before he lets out a strangled scream.
“Can’t you do something?” Dimitri demands, feeling useless, wanting it to—stop. He wanted the mage to be afraid, but now—
“Didn’t you want this?” Ash asks him. “You don’t even have to do any of the work yourself.”
Dimitri swallows, remembering the desire to sink his claws into human flesh and tear—
“I can’t—” The mage’s voice cuts off suddenly, body going slack, and Dimitri watches him blink in confusion. He tugs on his arm, realizes he’s restrained, and bites his lip as he looks around.
Dimitri is—glad he’s lucid. The man might need to suffer, and Dimitri hasn’t quite decided—but no one should be trapped in their own head and suffering like that.
It’s possible no one should ever suffer like that at all.
“You’re in the infirmary,” Ash says gently. “You’re sick and you’ve been delirious; you're restrained for your own safety.” The mage doesn’t respond, stress lines visible around his eyes, his body unmoving but for residual tremors.
Dimitri wants to grab him and demand to know what is going on, demand answers to the questions churning in his mind, leaving him uncertain and unsteady. He thought he knew—
“Can you swallow this?” Ash asks.
He releases one of the mage’s hands, holding out a small cup with medicine. Dimitri watches as the mage drinks slowly and carefully.
“Excellent,” Ash says warmly. “That should reduce your fever and help you sleep.”
The mage nods, and closes his eyes, exhaustion written plainly on his face. Ash doesn’t move to undo his remaining restraints.
“Can you tell me your name?” Ash asks softly, and for a moment Dimitri thinks the man won’t answer.
But then he opens his eyes, and Dimitri finds himself leaning forward to catch the soft answer. “Jaime,” he says, and even his voice sounds tired.
“Try to sleep, Jaime,” Ash says. “Your body needs rest.”
Jaime darts a glance over to Dimitri, and for a moment Dimitri can see him thinking rest for what but then he obediently closes his eyes.
Resigned to his lack of options, accepting his fate like he’s been all week.
And Dimitri thought it was an act, thought it was—knowing he’d lost, knowing fighting wouldn’t make a difference, wanted to break him down.
He’d thought he needed to break the mage’s will with fear and pain until he was willing to do anything a wolf said.
But it looks like the hunters might have done that first.
He slips out of the infirmary, trying to ignore the sickening feeling of rising guilt. He needs to find Lada.
Lada stares at the mage on the bed, arms folded across her chest.
He looks small like this, restrained and unconscious, curled in on himself like to avoid harm. Not that—well, not that he’s ever looked particularly big. In that pen Dimitri designed, he was always pale and weak, empty-eyed and hunched over. Nothing like the powerful mage they all kept waiting to see.
She glances over at where Dimitri stands at the foot of the bed. His arms are hanging stiffly down at his sides, eyes locked onto the unconscious mage. He looks slightly sick, eyes troubled and mouth pressed into a thin line, which Lada supposes she understands. He did, after all, just learn quite a few things about a man he hates that he’d probably rather not know.
He’s spent a week doing his utmost to break the mage—Jaime, Ash said his name was—and see him hurt the way he hurt Dimitri, and that hasn’t been a... satisfying venture for him. He wanted pain and fear, and instead received docile acceptance, obedience without having to work for it.
Jaime just got on his knees from the first day and crawled, and has not stopped obeying since. Not a single flash of anger or indignation. No sign of biding his time. Just...compliance.
Lada hasn’t said a word, though. Dimitri needed this, probably more than any of them could ever understand. And if Lada is honest, she wanted it, too. She can still see the bodies and smell the blood and fear, and vengeance felt right.
Dimitri needed to be in control of someone who had controlled him at the most base level, and Lada wasn’t going to take that from him. She was going to let this run its course, and the entire pack was taking their own satisfaction from treating a hunter the way he treated them.
And then the mage got sick. The mage got sick, and suddenly the mage is Jaime. The mage has a name and a history and Dimitri is nearly vibrating where he stands with helpless fury.
At himself, at the hunters, at the world. Lada doesn’t think Dimitri’s anger is discriminating right now, and considering what he described to her about what Jaime said, she doesn’t blame him.
From what Dimitri described from what he saw, as well, the mage’s back is supposedly covered in scars, and, looking at his chest, Lada believes it. There are burns and even what looks like a bullet wound and jagged lines like someone took a knife to him just for the hell of it—
Lada draws in a slow, deep breath, and releases it on the same count. She suppresses her nausea; later, when she’s alone or with Khalida, she can let out all the things she’s feeling. Right now she has to be strong for her pack.
And, strangely enough, for the mage, too.
“Verdict?” Lada asks, voice startlingly loud in the silent room as her gaze flicks over to Ash where he leans against the wall, arms folded over his chest.
The healer’s lips thin, gaze heavy and dark as he looks at the vulnerable body lying in front of them. A blanket has been drawn up over Jaime’s lower half, bunched up around his waist where it was pushed down in order for Lada to get a look at his chest and see a portion of the damage Dimitri told her about. She wants to pull the blanket back up, cover the tortured body once more, but she can’t bring herself to stop tracing the scars with her eyes.
“Years of abuse,” Ash tells her. “This is...He has still-healing wounds as fresh as two weeks ago, and the oldest scars are somewhere around seven to nine years old I’d say. His scar tissue has scar tissue, Lada. And, if I’m being frank, the state of his body isn’t even what I’m most concerned about.”
“What is?” Lada asks softly.
“His mind,” is Ash’s blunt response. “You don’t experience things like this and just come out the other side okay. Not to mention the shit he said while he was delirious—way it looks, Lada, is that he was raped and tortured and forced into servitude. That doesn’t exactly make me think Jaime is okay. This last week certainly hasn’t helped matters.”
Dimitri flinches, hands curling into tight fists. His eyes are burning into the unconscious mage, as if willing him to wake up by looking alone. Or maybe trying to will away the abuse painted across Jaime’s skin. Or maybe will away the past week.
Probably all of the above.
“How sick is he?” Lada asks next, because she needs something to focus on other than the roaring in her ears, the feeling of intense failure gnawing at her gut and screaming at her that she’s a bad alpha.
It’s her job to look after her pack, but that doesn’t just mean physically. She rescued Dimitri, but then she just—let him be. She thought this would be good for him, thought he needed to defeat the fear in his own mind by taking down the mage.
But she was wrong. And her decision to let Dimitri keep Jaime in a pen for a week until he was deliriously ill was the wrong choice. Because now Dimitri is distraught and sick with guilt and full of rage he doesn’t know where to direct, no longer having a target and yet now with twice the despair.
Dimitri has always been so full of heart, so bursting with compassion. It was inevitable that it would turn to their damaged mage eventually.
God, listen to her. Jaime isn’t theirs. They put him in a collar and held him prisoner, transferring him from one hell to another. As soon as this is all sorted—as soon as Lada is sure—they are helping Jaime get wherever he wants to go and then going to be far more careful and thoughtful in the future.
But first, Jaime has to actually wake up.
“He’ll recover,” Ash says on a sigh. “Humans are fragile, but they’re resilient, too, and mages more than most. Keeping him warm and fed will do all the work, but I’m going to keep a close eye on him just in case.”
Lada nods, relieved. She can see some tension—just a tiny fraction of it—release from Dimitri’s shoulders, too.
“You don’t need the restraints anymore. And call for me when it seems like he’s starting to come around,” Lada instructs, and Ash nods. Lada knows better than to order a healer in his own infirmary but she needs to feel like she has some part in freeing Jaime from the hell they put him through.
She turns for the door, expecting Dimitri to follow her, but instead he shifts into his wolf form and paces in a quick, restless circle before lowering himself to the floor, resting his head on his paws as he stares up at the mage’s unconscious form.
Ash meets her gaze, and then gives a grave nod, promising to keep an eye on their distressed packmate along with the sick maybe-prisoner.
So Lada strides out of the infirmary, hands shaking as she heads to track down Khalida.
When consciousness begins to tug at Jaime, he resists.
He doesn’t want to be awake. The blackness around him is soft and comforting, like floating on his back in a peaceful lake. It’s safe here, and he doesn’t yet remember why consciousness isn’t safe but he doesn’t want to find out. It’s better to just stay here where he knows he’ll be okay.
But the world has never really cared about what Jaime wants.
Bodily sensations filter in first. His limbs ache, but honestly that’s like saying the sky is blue, it’s just a fact of life. Has been ever since the hunters first caught him and beat him into the ground.
It’s slightly less right now, though. More of a low throb than an ever-present burn. As if Eskander and the others hadn’t touched him in a couple days. Which is—extremely rare, but not...impossible, Jaime supposes. And he’d really rather not question a good thing.
His chest is a little tight, his throat thick like when he was little and would get colds. His sinuses are stopped up to match it, and he wrinkles his nose, sniffling faintly.
He’s...warm, too. Cocooned in something soft, surrounded by fluff and padding. Jaime can’t remember the last time they allowed him more than a sheet, the last time they actually gave him blankets.
And it’s—it’s not just padding, it’s a bed, and beds never mean good things never mean Jaime is going to be okay no no no—
Jaime’s eyes snap open, and he flails, attempting to push himself upright. It’s useless—the blankets on top of him are heavy, and apparently he’s weak enough right now that he loses the fight against them immediately, collapsing back against the bed and trembling, vision spotting as dizziness rolls through him.
After a little while he’s able to regain his bearings, and when he does so it’s to see a man stepping up to Jaime’s bedside. He’s reaching out, and Jaime flinches before he realizes the man is offering a water bottle.
It all comes back to him then.
The collar falling off, the woman in Eskander’s tent, healing the wolves, opening the cages—
And then the collar and the pen and the crawling and please just let me die but somehow it was still peaceful somehow it was still okay because they were leaving him alone they weren’t touching him he just had to eat out of a trough and let them stare at him and it was all going to be okay because they weren’t touching him—
But now he’s in a bed.
He didn’t think they wanted...He got complacent. He got stupid. And now he’s been out of it and—and shirtless and—and who knows how many have—have—
“Breathe,” the man, the healer, says levelly. His eyes are a soft, steady brown, and he captures Jaime’s panicked gaze. It’s...calming, somehow, and second by second Jaime finds his breathing slowing to match the healer’s until his chest doesn’t feel like it’s going to burst anymore, until he can actually think around the fear.
What’s the point in being afraid, anyway? He can’t stop them from doing whatever they want. Could never stop the hunters, either. And at least the wolves have been—nicer, so maybe they won’t get off on hurting him. Maybe if he behaves they won’t make it hurt.
Jaime trembles in place, briefly closing his eyes in an attempt to center himself. He knows how to do this, how to accept what’s given and endure what’s forced and placate those in power as much as possible.
Only, he expected to die in that pen, expected the wolves to not touch him that way, and he can’t quite resign himself to being wrong.
He does his best to shove his fear and despair back down where he can’t feel it, and reopens his eyes to look up at the healer.
Once he’s sure he has Jaime’s attention, the healer lifts the bottle to Jaime’s face again. There’s a straw bending out of the top, and the healer guides it towards Jaime’s mouth.
Under watchful eyes, Jaime follows the unsaid instruction and closes his lips around the straw, then draws in. He’s braced for all manner of things, but what he gets is blessedly cold water, and he sucks desperately, his body screaming at him how badly he needs it.
How long has it been since he had clean, cold water like this instead of the stale bucket left for him in the pen? Or before then, even—he can’t remember the last time Eskander just gave him a water bottle. Tools don’t get fresh water. Toys don’t get fresh water. They take whatever they’re given and say thank you.
The healer pulls the bottle away far too soon, and Jaime whimpers before he regains control of himself, swallowing back any more protests. He knows better.
But the healer doesn’t chastise him for the noise, or look even slightly irritated. Instead he simply sets the bottle down on the table next to the bed and says, “If you drink too much too fast you’ll only throw it back up. The past day or so you’ve been keeping stuff down far better, but now that you’re awake I want to be cautious. So once I’m sure you aren’t going to vomit, you can have more, okay?”
Jaime blinks at him. There’s a lot to process in there. Caring about Jaime throwing up? Readily offering to give him more? Keeping stuff down the past day?
How long has he been here? How long has it been since he closed his eyes in his pen thinking—hoping—that he wouldn’t be opening them again? He has vague flashes of coming to the infirmary, of being spoken to, but it’s all so blurry.
And they’ve been feeding him? They’ve been—they brought him to the infirmary to help him get better. They want him to recover. So that they can keep—punishing him. So that the man he was responsible for hurting can keep hurting him in turn.
He squeezes his eyes shut. Why couldn’t they just let him die? What more do they want? He’s not—he already begged, he’s debased himself, he’s followed every single order he’s been given without complaint—what else do they want from him?
You’re in a bed, his mind whispers back to him. Why wouldn’t they take advantage of that? Who’s to say they haven’t already?
The door opens suddenly, and Jaime’s eyes fly open, panic flaring briefly before he forces it down deep. Not like fear is going to help him. Not like it’s ever helped him. He needs to remember how to endure.
The woman who enters is the one who was in Eskander’s tent, the one who told Jaime to release the cages. Jaime’s seen her around, knows she’s the one in charge. Unease rises in Jaime’s gut at being visited by the alpha.
There’s movement out of the corner of Jaime’s eye, and he freezes when he realizes he and the healer hadn’t been alone. There’s a wolf who was lying on the ground beside the bed, and has now pushed himself up and wandered over to the woman, head butting against her thigh before turning to look at Jaime, yellow eyes gleaming.
It’s the wolf from the hunters’ camp, the one who has been—in charge of Jaime, here at the den. The one he hurt. The one who isn’t going to stop until Jaime’s body completely gives out. And Jaime deserves it all.
The wolf shifts, growing into the man Jaime has become extremely familiar with after the past week. His arms fold stiffly over his chest, his eyes sharp and—angry, and Jaime cringes, heart pounding. He’s only just woken up and already the man is furious with him. They’re going to start right away, aren’t they?
The woman steps forward. Her expression is serious, her body language strong but calm. She looks at Jaime with the same steadiness the healer did, and for a moment she seems to do nothing but study him, room frozen in tense silence.
“I’m Lada,” she says eventually, dark eyes somber. The man next to her flexes his jaw angrily. “That’s Dimitri,” she adds when she sees him looking, and Jaime snaps his gaze back to her. “We have some questions for you.”
There’s a lump in Jaime’s throat, and he nods his agreement. Not like there’s any other option.
“Ash said your name is Jaime?” Lada says, more of a statement than an actual question, and a flick of her gaze tells Jaime that the healer is Ash. He vaguely remembers telling the man his name, and he nods again. Lada nods back. “Jaime, then. How long were you a member of the hunters’ camp?”
Too many memories for Jaime’s brain to even make sense of flood through his mind, all the years spent under their control, all the pain, all the fear—
And he doesn’t even know precisely how long. Sometimes they liked to mock him by telling him how much time has passed, pointing out a Holiday that came around again, or some date they remember from around when they first got him, but that wasn’t often. Eskander had him “celebrate” his seven year anniversary by helping them skin a whole pack, but he doesn’t know how long ago that was.
It’s his best bet, though, so he forces his voice to work and says, “Seven or so years.”
Lada nods, acknowledging, expression not changing. Dimitri’s jaw flexes again, and Jaime eyes him warily before dropping his gaze, trying to not seem defiant or anything like that. Defiance only brings pain, and Jaime is just...he’s just so tired. He wants to be done with—everything.
“How did you end up joining them?”
Jaime hesitates, tongue thick in his mouth. This isn’t—a fun story, and he doesn’t want them to think he’s...trying to get sympathy, or anything. Or worse, they might think he’s lying, and then they’ll hurt him—
But lying isn’t an option. That will only make everything worse.
“I—they—” He clears his throat, trying to stay calm. His voice shakes anyway. “They...I was with my—my sister in the woods by our village. They were passing through and they—saw me use magic so—well, mages are—are useful, and hard to find, so they—took me with them.”
He remembers Shamira sobbing, screaming for their mother, the taste of blood in his mouth as the hunters pinned him to the ground and wrapped a collar around his throat, his ears still ringing from whatever tool they’d used that exploded—
He remembers all that, but he barely remembers his sister’s face these days. He hopes she’s living a happier life than he is.
Lada’s mouth twists. Dimitri’s lips curl back in a wolfish snarl. Jaime’s eyes sting with fear and despair; how can he have already said something to make them so mad? He just—he was just telling them what they asked.
“Took you,” Dimitri echoes angrily.
Jaime is too exhausted for this. He doesn’t—he’s too fucking tired.
“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. He has no idea what else there is to say, what will make them happy. What will make them let this end.
His breathing hitches, and he tries to even it out again, but he doesn’t manage it. It’s all he can do to not break down sobbing. He fixes his eyes on the ceiling and just waits for whatever they’re going to dole out.
When Lada speaks, her tone is soft as a feather, a strong contrast against the extremely blunt words— “Did they rape you?”
Jaime’s vision blurs, and he begs his body to not cry, to not be so pathetic. He knows better. Sometimes the hunters loved when he cried, it—it excited them, and he doesn’t want—if he can keep them from doing that—
“Yes,” he croaks, not because he wants to, but because it’s the truth. Because there’s no other answer other than lying and then they’ll know and they’ll hurt him.
But maybe this is their excuse. Maybe...maybe knowing he’s already been used that way, maybe that’s the—the permission they’re looking for. The assurance that Jaime knows how to—to take it, as Eskander always said.
Dimitri growls, long and furious, and the tears finally slip down Jaime’s cheeks as he shakes with fear and despair and helplessness, unable to do a single goddamn thing to protect himself if something bad is about to happen. Collared and physically a thousand times weaker than the three people in the room with him, he’s the fucking definition of helpless.
And he’d thought, for just a moment in the pen, he might finally be free.
“They’re responsible for all your scars?” Lada asks next, something uneven in her tone Jaime doesn’t know how to interpret. Jaime, unable to make himself speak again, just gives a jerky nod.
Footsteps approach the bed, and Jaime braces himself for someone climbing on top of it, ripping away the warm safety of the blankets—
But Lada only perches on the edge, her dark eyes sad, not angry. She reaches out, and when Jaime flinches she actually hesitates before reaching out again. Her hand goes towards Jaime’s neck, and he feels her fingers briefly brush over his jaw before—before—
Jaime stares up at her, confused and wary and afraid, as the collar slips away from his neck. She pulls it off completely, and tosses it off somewhere Jaime doesn’t see.
“I’m so sorry they did that to you,” Lada says, voice so deeply sad just like her eyes, and Jaime doesn’t—he doesn’t understand. “You’re safe now, Jaime. I promise. You’ll never be hurt again.”
There’s not a collar around his neck. There’s not—when was the last time—he had a few blissful minutes of freedom when Eskander died but then it was over and he hasn’t—it was like it never even happened and—and seven years and yet—what—
“Please,” Jaime says hoarsely. “Please don’t—please just make it quick, please.”
Because this has to be further torment, doesn’t it? This is a game of some kind, and he doesn’t get it but he doesn’t have to in order to know it will end badly for him. There’s a catch here that’s going to hurt and he just—he just wants it to all end.
Lada releases a shaky breath. “We’re not going to hurt you. I know it—I know you have no reason to believe me. But you are no longer our prisoner. As soon as you’re well, we can take you anywhere you want to go and you’ll never have to see us again.”
Take him somewhere? He doesn’t...All of his adult life has been spent with the hunters, he doesn’t have a place. Do they—do they mean the village he mentioned? His family? Do they want to destroy it? Is that the revenge they’ve settled on, tracking down the people he was stupid enough to mention?
“No, please,” Jaime chokes. “Don’t—don’t go after them, just—just hurt me, I’m—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for everything—”
He breaks down then, sobs overtaking his body, rough and ugly. He turns his face into the pillow, trying to muffle himself, to make himself stop before they make him stop, but he—he just can’t.
The bed dips with a heavy weight, and Jaime can’t help the hard sob he gives when he feels a large, furry body press up against his side, wet nose pressing against his shoulder. The wolf whines, soft and pleading, but Jaime doesn’t want to know what the wolf is asking for. He just wants it all to be over.
“You’re free,” Lada repeats, but it sounds like it’s coming from very far away. “You’re safe, Jaime, I promise. No one will ever touch you again, as long as I’m alive.”
Surrounded by predators who should rightfully hate him, Jaime has no idea how he’s supposed to believe her.
They let him out of the infirmary as soon as he’s able to stand steadily on two feet.
Dimitri takes him to a room, tells him it’s his and just his, that he can stay as long as he likes. Dimitri emphasizes that he gets to decide who gets to enter his room, that he can say no to absolutely anything he wants, and Jaime nods along absently.
That’s what he feels, mainly. Absent. Numb. He’s “free” and “not a prisoner” and has his magic back but nothing really feels real. He feels like he’s underwater, everything muted and not as real as it would be on the surface.
He doesn’t use his magic. Part of him is afraid of what they’ll do when they actually see him use it, when they’re forced to look at what Jaime being a mage actually means, and the other part...the other part of him just. Doesn’t care to try.
He wanders around, mainly. He’s been told that he can go anywhere he wants as long as it’s not someone’s room, and his mind is filled with enough static that he actually tests it.
Every place in the den he enters, he keeps waiting for an angry snarl, for someone to tell him he’s crossed a line, waits for the punishment surely going to be sent his way. But he just gets curious looks, mainly. Some worried. A few of the people even offer to help him find things, if there’s something he’s looking for. They sound sincere.
Jaime drifts off without saying much, the muted world thankfully not making him feel guilty for just ignoring someone who spoke to him.
He’s drawn to the outside more than any place in the den, drawn to clean, green spaces. He gets anxious the first time he heads towards the exit, but no one tries to trap him, the only thing following him Dimitri’s ever-present concerned frown.
It’s slightly better outside. Quieter, more calm. He wanders around the property, never going too far just in case that encourages a chase. He finds himself back at the pen he was kept in for that first week, and he stares at it, eyes squinted against the bright sun.
It wasn’t...the best of existences. But it was—peaceful. Simple. He just had to sit there and do nothing. No fear, no touching, no hurting anyone. Just quiet exhaustion. Isolation. Wasn’t all that bad, really.
He enters the pen, meandering aimlessly around the small perimeter before stopping by the stake in the middle. He crouches down and leans back against it, tilting his head towards the sky and breathing out slowly.
Right here, it’s easy to imagine that there are no bad things waiting for him. Just stale water and crappy food and staying put. Easy. Everything was easy.
Jaime doesn’t know how long he sits there before Dimitri appears, frowning at him. It almost makes fear spark in Jaime’s chest—the sight so familiar, Dimitri scowling at the trapped mage in the pen—but it fades quickly, sliding under the nice numbness that Jaime far prefers.
“What are you doing in there?” Dimitri asks, voice gruff but eyes maybe something like gentle. Jaime shrugs a shoulder listlessly. Dimitri’s frown deepens. “Come out of there.”
Jaime doesn’t argue, doesn’t protest, getting to his feet and walking back out of the pen. He stops when he’s in front of Dimitri, and the man’s jaw works for a minute like he’s gearing up to speak before saying, “You don’t—you don’t need to stay in here anymore, Jaime. You’re not...this was never the place for you. Let’s go back inside.”
Jaime nods pliantly, following the man back towards the den then through the halls. Dimitri brings him to one of the communal spaces, and Jaime doesn’t fight when he’s encouraged to sit with some of the pack as they play some sort of board game. He watches absently, and gives a fleeting thought to how he used to play games like that with Shamira.
The next day, he wanders again. He goes a little further into the woods and then returns, once more finding himself at his pen. He stares for a minute, but it feels very weird to be on the outside so he enters, reclaiming his spot against the stake.
The timing is much shorter this time than it was the day before. And this time it’s Mirza who comes to get him, not Dimitri.
Jaime likes Mirza. She’s kind and cares without reservation, and has two very adorable children who make Jaime’s heart ache with something that might be positive if he let himself feel it for more than half a second.
Mirza puts her hands on her hips, looking at him with that firm gentleness that is always directed towards her pups when they’re doing something she doesn’t approve of. Jaime doesn’t know how to handle having it directed at him.
“You know you don’t have to go to this wretched place anymore, right, Jaime?” she asks, voice filled with so much concern that for a moment Jaime can only blink at her. “You can...Anywhere else, anywhere at all—is there somewhere you want to stay, Jaime?”
Jaime blinks again, and then shakes his head. He doesn’t want her to keep being so worried, so he gets to his feet and walks back out of the pen, throat thick at the relief that passes through her expression, a relief that deepens when he allows her to take his hand and lead him back inside.
But he finds himself out there again the next day, drifting around the edge of the pack’s clearing until he reaches the side with the pen.
Or, the side that had the pen, because when Jaime arrives at the familiar territory it is gone.
He stares, almost not comprehending the loss, the absence of something that felt so factual just a moment ago, and then he notices what’s been put in its place.
Between the two large trees, a hammock has been strung up. It’s made of a thick material, and secured tightly in place, nicely shaded by the leaves up above. There are a few cushions on the ground beneath the hammock, and what looks like a pile of blankets as well.
Ten minutes pass before Jaime’s feet actually move, drawing him closer to the new set up. He runs his fingers over the hammock, and finds it’s extremely soft, warm under Jaime’s touch because of the sun.
His breath shakes as it rushes out of him, and he slowly climbs up into the hammock, grabbing a blanket off the pile as he goes.
It’s—it’s nice. He sways faintly back and forth, the leaves obstructing the worst of the sun but letting in enough that it warms Jaime from the inside out. There’s a faint breeze rustling through Jaime’s hair, and he feels—calm, in a way so unbelievably different from the pen that it’s almost laughable that he thought that was true peace.
Someone brings him food, at some point. He’s not really aware of it, too focused on the feeling of sunlight on the back of his palm until there’s suddenly a plate of orange slices in his lap.
He eats them slowly, sucking on the juice, and thinks maybe he can actually call this peace.
Days pass like that.
They get—easier, as they go along. He spends most of his time outside, often in his hammock. No one ever tries to make him leave it, though sometimes they will come and join him. Sometimes a wolf will nap beneath the swing of the hammock, or a man will lean against the trunk of a tree, or a pup will roll around in the grass.
They never ask him for anything. They leave him be and bring him food and encourage him to sleep inside but never actually push. They seem—content, with this aimless thing Jaime feels like he is.
It’s maybe a week into this new pattern that a commotion startles Jaime out of his calm, head jerking up as shouts of alarm reach him from across the property. Dimitri, currently in wolf form a few feet away, gets to his feet and takes off like a bolt immediately, heading in the direction of the shout.
Jaime stares after him for a moment, and then hesitantly lowers himself from his hammock, following.
His heart is pounding as he comes upon the scene. It’s Khalida, the alpha’s wife. She’s lying on the ground on her back, face scrunched up in intense pain as she writhes and her packmates try to hold her still, voices shaking as they attempt to say comforting things. She was out hunting, wasn’t she? Jaime thinks he remembers someone saying that.
There’s a long gash across her chest. It’s—it’s deep, a serious injury. She’ll live, of course, between their healer and the fact that wolves already have accelerated healing. She’s not in any danger, they just—they’re waiting for Ash to arrive to help.
Khalida groans, eyes squeezed shut in agony, and the people around her exchange helpless looks, unable to do anything to ease her pain.
Jaime bites his lip. It—it’s not a lot of magic, nothing fancy, he—he doesn’t have to commit to always using it again. It’s just to make her feel better. Khalida’s always been nice to him. Whenever she brings him food outside there’s always a chocolate croissant on the plate (or two or three). And she’s in pain and Jaime can do something about it and—
It’s just a tiny, infinitesimal unfurling of magic. It still makes him gasp, a feeling he hasn’t experienced in a long while. His heart is pounding in his chest as he reaches out, and the world gets a little less muted, a little more real, and suddenly the world around him exists in a way it never did with a collar around his neck. A way that only exists when there is magic underneath his skin.
And, for the first time in too many years, Jaime breathes without a tremendous weight on his chest.
His eyes are closed, but he can hear the clearing go silent, every person and wolf falling still. But he pays them no mind, too focused on Khalida’s wound, on stitching the gash back together and then fixing all the other little injuries she sustained, making sure she’s good as new.
By the time Jaime opens his eyes again, he feels more real than he has since waking up in Eskander’s tent with Lada standing over him, and it’s—good.
And everyone’s eyes are on him.
Khalida is sitting upright now, one hand presses against her now-healed chest. Her shirt is split open and bloody, and yet there’s not even a scar left behind, like the injury never happened at all.
Uncertainty, sharp and sour, lurches in Jaime’s gut. “I—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
But Khalida grins at him, and then everyone is grinning and laughing, and someone slaps him on the back, and there’s no—no greed, over the use of his magic. No disgust or fear. No malicious looks now that he’s proven he really is a mage.
They’re just. They’re just grateful. And happy to see him.
“Thank you, Jaime,” Khalida says, heartfelt and warm, and for the first time in too long, Jaime actually smiles. It’s hesitant and small, maybe, but it’s real.