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They had about a million impossible, stupid, desperate plans to get the kids back. They all failed. Crashed. Burned. Failed . And they’d come back to their scraped-together base camp in the abandoned hallways of what was once Hexside with that failure weighing on their shoulders and gritted between their teeth.
It’d been half a year since they disappeared. Stolen, ripped out of thin air, out of all their grasp, like it was something easy . Like their disappearance wouldn’t have been anything but world-bending. World ending . The collector's apocalyptic games were mere child’s play comparatively.
The kids were gone. They failed. It’s been over half a year.
There wasn’t a time limit to this. To finding them. To bringing them back home. But it still felt like a metaphorical noose tightening around their necks with each passed, wasted second. They were exhausted. And well past the point of being horrified at their situation that they were now seated, practically squatters , in the backyard of downright despondent .
The kids were gone. They failed. They kept failing. The heartbreak was something physical now. Clawing into their chests like it had a personal agenda to make them all hollow. And there was an anger there, burning and coiled tight enough to make them all feel brittle with it.
The kids, their kids, were still gone. And their millions of impossible, stupid, desperate plans kept failing.
But parents, as Darius was quick to catch on, were impossible, stupid, desperate things too. Stubbornness something etched into their titandammed bones , and it didn’t really matter that their millions of plans kept failing.
They were exhausted, and horrified, and miserable and angry . They kept coming up with a million more.
Thank Titan the little, three-man rebel army Darius first created had grown by the hundreds since the world turned upside down. There were plenty of people around now. Helping out, stepping up, leading and taking charge and doing what needed to be done to survive. Darius was particularly thankful for Steve and Bump, and their level-headedness in making sure the rest of them didn’t split at the seams with everything going on.
(He was gonna talk to someone about making sure they got raises. Or promotions. Or good retirement plans, or literally whatever they wanted when all of this was over. He didn’t know who was going to be in charge then, it wasn’t like they had a vice Emperor on stand-by. Was it a coven head thing now? Was it something he needed to take charge of? Whatever. He didn’t want to think about it right now. He made a mental note about retirement plans and then shelved it away for when he had a moment that wasn’t dedicated to turning the world right side up again.)
Because yes, the Collector was a big threat. Bigger than the Emperor ever was. Bigger than what any of them were even remotely capable of dealing with. It was gonna take everything the Boiling Isles had and then some to figure out how to put this Genie back in its bottle.
But some of them, 8 in particular, had bigger things they needed to focus on. And when they weren’t leading a scouting troop for supplies, or divvying up tasks to the survivors they’d bring back to base camp, or bidding their time and avoiding the collector's games, they were looking for their kids.
And in the spare, quiet, and fleeting moments they got to rest and eat, they’d talk about them.
“Agustus would have loved this,” Perry had stated, way back in the early days, when every failed attempt to bring their kids back felt like an ear-shattering nail through a coffin, rather than a constant, steady drumming of a hammer against wood. He had sat next to Darius on the makeshift bench of an old, fallen tree trunk they had unceremoniously dragged from the nearby woods surrounding the old Flyer Derby field for their little campout.
There was a couple dozen illusion spells hiding this portion of the school, so they didn’t feel particularly worried about spending the night under what little of the night sky was left from one of the collector's earlier games. They had all been feeling the cabin fever, and after the 8th failed plan to figure out a makeshift portal door... they decided they could use a night away from the confining walls that reminded them a little too much of where their kids spent a majority of their time in.
Well… most of their kids, anyway.
Perry handed him a hot bowl of something . Darius took it without complaint. His delicate palette was ruined the first week they had to ration out food. He couldn't find it in himself to even think to complain. There were far worst things than stale bread and tasteless slop.
Like missing kids. Like his missing kid.
“Roughing it, I mean,” Perry continued, blowing on a spoonful of the mystery soup, before taking a tentative sip. Darius didn't entertain the same hesitancy and took a giant gulp, disregarding the utensil altogether. It tasted like defeat and too much pepper, and the heat scolded his tongue and throat. It was painful, but they failed again, so he probably deserved it. He took another gulp. “Like humans do. Camping out, with no magic or potions or nothing. Building a fire the archaic way, foraging food, sleeping in nothing but a sleeping bag under the stars. The whole nine yards.”
Darius doesn’t know if there are any stars left in the sky still after what the Collector had done those first few days. Testing out the full restraints of their powers when they tried to fold reality like one would fold a paper plane. Darius didn't look up to check. He didn't want to know the answer. He drank another mouth full of hot soup.
“He would love this,” Perry repeated, softer then, and Darius kind of wanted him to stop talking. They were close once. Friends back in their school days, but work and coven duties and life pulled them apart, in an unremarkable, distant way, as it sometimes does. They’re still friendly, but Darius isn’t familiar with this new Perry. This Perry that’s a dad now. This Perry that’s doughy and tired and has a bit of a relaxed pudge around the waist. This Perry that’s scared out of his mind for his kid. His missing boy. Augustus. Who's only 12 years old. Holy Titan. “He would be taking our ears off right now, about- oh gosh , I don’t even know what kind of stories. Probably something he’s read in one of the hundreds of books he’s scavenged. Almost always about the human world.”
The human world. The world that said kid apparently adores. The world said kid is trapped in. That all of their kids are trapped in. The soup churned sickeningly in his stomach. The bitter taste of pepper burned to the roof of his mouth. Darius really wanted Perry to stop talking.
He didn't. And suddenly there were more bodies around the little campfire. He had no idea when Eda or Raine showed up, taking up space across the fire like they had always belonged there. The Parks materialized on the other side of Perry, nodding warmly at them in somber greeting like they were long-time friends. They’re not. But their daughter was friends with Perry’s missing kid. Friends with his missing kid. She’s missing too.
So Darius nodded back. It was the best he could do.
He definitely took notice when Alador decided to plop down right the fuck next to him. Their shoulders brushed roughly as he crashed hard onto the dead log, like his legs just happened to conveniently give out right there, in Darius’s very personal space.
And they were certainly not friends. Not in the unknowing way he was with the Parks. Not since Hexside. Not in the distant way that Perry and he were growing out of. They weren’t casual acquaintances like he was with Eda, or an ex-coworker like with Lilith, or a comrade in rebel arms like Raine.
They weren’t brothers anymore. Not like he was with Eberwolfe now. Alador and he burned that bridge long so ago, he could still taste the ash in his mouth from the betrayal. Or maybe that’s the defeat and pepper from the soup. He looked down at his half-drunken bowl in spite. He noticed Alador didn't have a bowl of his own.
He didn't have his daughter either.
His youngest, taken, stolen, ripped from their grasps , right along with the rest of them. One of the missing. Their missing.
Darius wordlessly handed his bowl over. Alador took it without so much as glancing up. Their shoulders brushed again. It was the best he could do .
Perry was still talking, but this time, they had all started to pitch in. Eda said something about her kid. The human one. They don’t talk about King. Not really. They had a few failed rescue attempts in that direction as well. It was a very sore subject. But she talked about Luz and her face lit up like one of those silly little glyph papers she hordes in her bush of a ponytail.
The parks chirped in just as frequently, telling little facets of stories about their Willow. How strong she was. How caring. How protective. Even Alador, who hunches over in his seat and has Abomination goo caked in his unkempt beard, piped up with a story or two, and the fondness in his voice was something Darius had to actively tune out so he didn't get sick all over his boots. It was too much.
It became a tradition, after that night. After each failure.
They’d come together, just their little circle, and they’d share stories of their kids. And Darius learns a lot.
He learns that Willow would probably spend all her time outside if she wasn’t so afraid of bugs. Especially spiders. He learns that it was actually Agustus’s idea to skip a few grades, despite a worried Perry pleading every which way and that that he didn’t have to. He learns that Luz once messed with a potion that turned King periwinkle for 4 days. He learns that Amity was born prematurely, and is always cold due to her poor circulation because of it.
He learns all of this, and so much more. Every embarrassing, humbling, wonderful fact about these missing kids that these parents love so, so much. Who would tear every world apart for them. And it makes him dizzy with nausea.
It’s too much .
They don’t talk about the other missing kid. Darius can’t talk about him. Every time he tries, every time he wants to add a story or fact or a word of his own, his jaw clenches up, and he feels bile in his throat and he can’t. He just can’t .
He has no right to. He’s not like these parents. No matter how close or distant they are to their kids, no matter if they’re blood-related or not, they’re still their parents. They still raised them, loved them, protected them.
Darius hadn’t done any of that. He hadn’t raised him, loved him, protected him. No matter how much he wanted to then, no matter how much he wants to now. Darius didn’t. He wasn’t the parent the kid needed, wasn’t anything close. And he brushed and pulled away every attempt and olive branch the kid gave him.
Because he was terrified. Terrified of getting too close, too attached, too everything good, and having them both suffer at the hands of the Emperor because of it. He’d been through it once before. He didn’t think he could go through it again.
He was weak. And pathetic. And a bunch of other self-deprecating crap because it cost him. Titandamn , did it cost him. Because he got close anyway, way too late in the game for it to have mattered much to the kid, but it meant everything to Darius and it cost him.
He still lost the kid. His kid. Really. Even if he can’t force himself to say it out loud, to acknowledge it with anything tangible or of worth, Darius has a kid. A scrawny little brat, built like a dying tree with his long, muscley limbs he hasn’t grown into yet, and wild, straw-like hair that never seems to want to stay in place. A kid that has bags like bruises under his eyes from too many late nights studying and old, terrible scars he hides underneath too many layers because he sees them as a sign of weakness, rather than incredible perseverance. A kid who was smarter than he was ever given credit for, and has a yearning thirst for knowledge that was bright and shining like the sun on the surface of water.
A kid who’s shy and awkward and has a big, undeniably kind heart that he doesn’t know how to hide very well on his sleeve. A kid that burrowed his way into Darius’s heart without barely trying. A kid he now, absolutely and for all the world to see, wants to raise, and love, and protect. A kid. His kid.
It’s the giraffe around the campfire they don’t force him to announce, but they all know it anyway. They haven’t kicked him out of their little impossible, stupid, desperate parents club yet. Darius knows now he’d be too stubborn to go if they tried.
So they tell stories around him, fill in the gaps he can’t quite yet. He doesn’t really have any stories of his own anyway. He doesn’t even know what the kid's favorite color is. But Darius listens, and learns, and makes up a collection of questions he’s gonna ask the kid and carve the answers into his bones the first chance he gets.
He’s exhausted, and horrified, and miserable and angry. Mostly at himself. But he’s gonna ignore the sick feeling in his stomach, and work with the other stubborn parents to make a million more plans to get their kids back home.
They failed again. But their kids came back all on their own anyway.
The moment wasn’t grand or anything of the sort. There was no breathtaking shot of light through the sky. No horrible blast that rocked them all to their knees. No visible portal shaking open and close in a single breath. They were just there, at the edge of the field, walking to the remnants of the school that they couldn’t see through the illusion on steps that were slow and weighty.
It was Perry that first noticed, like a titandammed Direwolf, his head shot up like he knew his boy was there, and he was on his feet faster than Darius could even try to comprehend. It was Eda then who took off towards them, running hard enough to make Darius’s own knees ache in sympathy, and then everyone was getting up and running towards them, Darius being the last to scramble behind because he hadn’t noticed yet. No one had said anything.
Not until Eda’s kid had taken a step over the illusion line and noticed them back.
It was pure chaos after that. The best kind.
It was like a jolt of lightning had shot through them all, as the kids, their missing kids, had bolted at the sight of them. Running hard and fast and colliding bodily into their respective parents with shouts of pure glee.
The Park’s kid had nearly run her dads over, sending them all flying into the mud with looks of sheer joy, tear streaks dancing around their stretched grins. Perry was cupping his little boy’s face with gentle hands and smothering kisses on every square inch, causing the boy to break into hysteric giggles. Alador was practically hunched over his youngest, wrapping her in a tight hug that seemed to dare the world to try and force him to ever let go again. Eda had sprouted feathers in her excitement, swinging her kid around and causing a small tornado of laughter and tears and short, fluffy harpy feathers, as Raine and a woman Darius didn’t really bother trying to recognize piled in around them.
Everyone was laughing. Everyone was crying. Everyone was talking over each other, hands grasping at each other like they didn’t believe each other was tangible. That they were real. That they were really here . Their kids were back home.
In all the noise and commotion and chaos, Darius almost missed him.
But he’s had a half year with the image of his kid burning, engraining itself into Darius’s very psyche. He couldn’t miss him now even if he wanted to. Which he absolutely did not .
He was standing a ways off, barely walking towards the rest of the group, having not joined in the breakneck run the rest of them did once they had crossed the border of the illusion. He was rubbing his chest in tight circles, not really looking out at the field in front him as he inched slowly forward. Not really looking at anything at all, as he kept his face slack of all emotions, and it sent a pang of guilt ringing hollowly through Darius’s chest.
His kid didn’t look like he was in any hurry to catch up with his friends. Didn't look like he was expecting any sort of welcome-home celebration of his own. He kept to the back, waiting patiently for everyone else to get their hugs and kisses and desperate, parenteral love in, rubbing hard circles into his sternum, and that just wasn’t gonna fucking fly with Darius at all .
“ HUNTER! ” He shouts, much louder than he had meant to, trying not to feel a sort of disgust building in himself with not having used that name in well over half a year. But Darius doesn’t let it dwell, because it does its job in pulling Hunter out of his own thoughts. His eyes, his brown eyes , cleared enough for him to flinch his head up in response, scanning the surrounding area with a taut alertness, before, finally , settling on Darius.
Their eyes meet. And hold for what feels like a million years. A year for every failed plan that they didn’t bring them all back home sooner, and Darius soaks in every wonderful second.
Hunter looks, somehow, better and worse than what Darius had been imagining.
He looks better, because at least it looked like Hunter was being fed, where ever he was in the human world. His clothes didn’t look like they hung off his shoulders anymore, having to skip meals just to keep up with his rigorous schedule. He looked like he grew into his limbs too, his arms looking more like solid tree branches rather than thinning twigs, and Darius doesn’t think he was imagining the few extra inches to the kid’s height, despite the wild length his hair was at now.
He looks worse, though, because… because… Holy Titan.
There are scars. New scars. Scars that look like they hurt, lengthy and stretching and fucking carved into his skin in long strokes across his face and disappearing down his neck and under his shirt collar. He sees small peaks of more scars on his arms and ears and… more scars . That sentence in and of itself is something that's tearing Darius's heart into horrible little pieces. The kid already had too many scars to begin with. And now they were plastered all over his entire body. A giant, colorful, bruising sign of hurt that Darius was once again, not there to protect him from.
Another failure Darius will keep with him for the rest of his days. Another thing he’ll never, ever , forgive himself for.
His eyes are brown now. Darius doesn't have a single idea what that’s about. Can’t even begin to process that because those big, brown, searching eyes are now piercing him down in place. Neither of them makes a move towards the other and Darius’s heartbeat feels like a pulsing, rapid conga line in his head.
He’s hurt. His kid is hurt. But he’s alive. He’s alive. His kid is here and he’s alive.
And he wants to think nothing else matters. Wants to tattoo the words on his heart and his skin and let the world know that his kid is alive and here and Darius takes a step forward on pure, heartbreaking relief because he doesn’t want to be away from his kid for even one second more and he’s here he’s here he’s alive he’s back he’s home he’s-
Hunter’s face crumples. And it’s like a knife through Darius’s chest.
It’s like a wall breaking. Hunter’s face crumples in anguish as huge tears run out of the corners of his eyes and down his cheeks and whatever curse had Darius’s feet sewn into the ground is broken because suddenly he’s sprinting like his titandammed life depended on it.
It did. It really did. Because he’s never seen Hunter cry before. The kid doesn’t cry. Period. Darius has seen Hunter fall out of trees and staffs and open windows. Has seen him break skin and bones and teeth and noses. He’s seen the kid spill more blood than he’ll ever feel comfortable with. And the kid never cries.
He was stubborn like that. Stupid in the face of hurt only a kid bound with the drowning weight of the Golden Guard position could be. He shouldered it all. Shrugged off every broken nose and bruised rib and punctured lung and fractured wrist and never let himself crumple with the pain. He kept everything buried and hidden and never let himself falter as the perfect soldier to the Emperor.
But the kid was crying now. Fat, crescendoing sobs being wrenched out of his chest like they were something forced and against his will. He doesn’t move, doesn’t make any effort to meet Darius halfway but Darius doesn’t care. The kid has done his time putting in the effort to meet them in the middle. It was Darius’s turn now, and he didn’t mind making up all the distance himself, sprinting hard enough for his knees to pop. He almost slips on some loose dirt but he doesn’t let it slow him down because he just needs to get there. He needs to get to his kid.
“ Hey ,” Darius says stupidly, in a breathy greeting that sounds more like exhausted gasps than anything else, but Hunter doesn’t seem to take notice. His head is dipped low, his face creased into the curve of his arm while his other hand is gripped so tightly to his side that his knuckles are turning a horrifying color of white.
He’s shaking, hard, his cry wracking his entire body in pitiful wails and Darius can’t wait another half year. He can’t wait another half second. He wraps his arms around his kid and pulls him into his chest.
He is taller, is the first thing that Darius thinks. Followed closely by, he’s sopping wet, which takes him completely by surprise. His skin is like ice, his hair still dripping, and Darius has a distant thought that maybe his shaking isn’t entirely due to his crying. He pulls the kid in tighter. “Hey, hey . Ok. Ok, kid. I got you.”
Darius doesn’t say that it’s ok. He doesn’t say that he’s ok, because he very clearly fucking isn’t. But it’s the best reassurance that Darius can give and he keeps whispering it until, finally, in what feels like another million years, Hunter puts his arms around Darius in return.
And if Darius thought Hunter was crying before, then he really wasn’t prepared for the sob that nearly breaks his kid in half.
Hunter clutches the folds of Darius's shirt in his fists, holding them tight enough to probably leave permanent wrinkles in it. Darius absolutely doesn’t care. And he doesn’t care about the snot and saliva and tears staining the part of his chest where the kid has pillowed his face against, or how his own clothes are getting wet by proxy of the kid’s. He absolutely, positively, can’t even begin to care about that.
He pulls his kid in impossibly close, raising a hand to gently cup the back of the kid’s head, carding his fingers through the weirdly patchy and overgrown parts of Hunter's hair, and a million questions burn in his mind.
How did you get here? Why are you wet? Why are your eyes brown? Who gave you these scars? What happened to your hair? Where’s your palismen? Who hurt you? What happened? What happened? What happened?
But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he says, “Ok. Ok, I got you, Little Prince . I got you. You’re safe now. I got you.”
He hums it a million times. A reassurance for every failed plan. For every moment he wasn’t there. He figures he’s got about another 2 million stored up, ready to go, because he wasn’t there for Hunter for a long time.
But he’s here now. He’s here. And his kid is here. And they’re here together.
And he’s still exhausted, and horrified, and miserable and angry . So, so angry. But he’s got something new to direct it at.
Because he’s an impossible, stupid, desperate dad that just got his hurt kid back. And parents, as Darius is quick to catch on, are stubborn things when their kids are involved.
So he’ll keep humming comforts to his kid until he calms down. He’ll lead him over to warm up and get some dry clothes. He’ll get the story of what happened from any of the other kids, because the only questions he wants to ask his kid are questions like ‘ what’s your favorite color? ’
Darius doesn’t know what’s gonna happen next, or how they’re gonna do it. But he’s got his kid here, tucked safely at his side, alive. He’s never gonna fail his kid again.