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No one could find Hunter after the final battle.
Missing to all who sought him yet identified by the many who didn’t.
“I could’ve sworn he helped me find my brothers in the chaos.”
“He told me that my parents were looking for me.”
“The Golden Guard? He helped me stand up while the pins and needles was still wearing off.”
“Not many civilians have ever seen him without the mask, it’s likely he used that to blend in and escape.”
“It’s been hours; he probably doesn’t want to be found.”
Three days later, he is.
The Golden Guard, maskless, is seen walking in the castle’s ruins. ‘Walking’ puts it lightly: he’s seen systematically pacing the perimeter and inside of what would have been the castle walls. Periodically standing at specific stops, ignoring the rubble with a rod-straight back and a blank expression on his face, ignoring all who call his name. When they address him with his military title, he postures himself in attention until he realises that they’re asking about his health, to which he responds firmly:
“It is not the norm or standard of the public to be involved in the Golden Guard’s personal standing. Rest assured, the emperor sees me fit to stand guard, and I will do my honoured duty well.”
The first few people to hear that response were terrified, concerned that Emperor Belos was truly back. Once they realised that he was just quoting scripted protocol, they eyed him in confusion and concern, walking away to scroll a message to ex-Coven Head Darius.
‘There’s something wrong with the Golden Guard. Come quickly.’
Hunter had not moved a step in the twenty minutes it took for Darius to arrive with beads of sweat down his face.
“Hunter?”
“Darius,” Hunter bows stiffly, at the waist. “I am truly happy to see you in good health. The regret I feel in my failure to bring in new recruits persists, and I have cut contact with those who the emperor was concerned about my relations with.”
Darius steps forward. Hunter does not move from his stance of eyes forward, chest out, hands by his side and shoulders back. What is the right approach here? “At ease, Golden Guard.”
Almost hesitantly, Hunter’s hands fell to the small of his back, slightly less tight that the earlier stance. “Sir?”
The boy looks worse than Darius has ever seen him, even during the most rigorous tests of scout training. His face is hollow, his eyes have deep, purple circles around him. His scarred hands are shaking, and he’s clearly hiding at least a twisted ankle. His clothes are torn and dirty. If Darius were to come closer, he’s sure that he’d be able to smell the stale breath of someone who hasn’t eaten in days.
“What happened, little prince? What are you doing here? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Hunter shifted from foot to foot. “As per the emperor’s request, my recent absence is confidential.”
Darius was warned about this over the calls. “Emperor…Belos.”
“Is there any other Emperor, Darius?” Hunter scoffs. “Don’t let Kikimora hear you sound so out-of-place, or rumours will spread that you had too much apple blood before your shift.”
“The emperor is dead, Hunter.”
And how quickly can one’s face shift from numb to pained to angry. “Watch your tongue, Coven Head Darius. The Titan has no use for treason or traitors.”
“Who said anything about traitors?”
An eye twitch, an inhale, an exhale. Hunter returns his stance guarding the palace rubble. “Have a nice day, Darius.”
“…And to you as well, Golden Guard.”
The past few days have been…an unorthodox series of events.
Emperor Belos ordered him to redeem himself for his failures, leading him to…
To…
…What is he doing again?
Hunter is still shaken from his interaction with the Abomination Coven head. It is honestly completely and utterly disgusting, the jest that Darius made. Emperor Belos, dead. Hunter’s uncle, dead. Impossible. The Day of Unity is nearing, their emperor would not leave them like that. Not without an explanation, not without a goodbye.
No, Emperor Belos is alive and well. His curse has actually been lighter, these days. That’s why Hunter doesn’t need to hunt palismen today. His uncle told him, himself. He told him today, after breakfast. They had pancakes for breakfast. Hunter mis-stepped, though, and asked the emperor how he was feeling better. Unfortunately, he found Hunter’s questions to be intrusive, causing him to discipline the younger. Hunter’s missing mask is evidence of the shameful affair.
He deserves to go maskless, as punishment. The Isles can now see his vulnerability bare and true. It’s uncomfortable, especially with the sticky sensation that has attached itself to his face. It refuses to go away.
Hunter’s stomach growls. He hasn’t eaten in days. He hasn’t seen his uncle in days. A punishment for failing, he knows. When he proves himself, when he keeps the Isles safe, he will get to see his uncle again.
As Hunter walks through Bonesborough's market, he can’t help but feel confused and disoriented. It’s like everything has been inverted. It is even more messy than usual. The food stalls are closed, as though there has been a famine. Civilians keep trying to interrupt Hunter’s patrol. Not to ask him for help, but to ask if he needs help. Not the regular thanks for his service, inquiries what he’s doing- as if his uniform is not an indicator that he’s doing his duty. They keep telling him things, but the words swim under water.
‘-kay?-don’t move-injured-head-limp-bloody-worri-’
No matter. The only relevant concern is the current disservice in the market. That’s all he needs to mention in his report.
He’ll keep the strange behaviour of the people to himself for a while.
No one is quite sure what to make about the blond boy.
Sometimes, they see him staring into space in the town square. To call his clothes rags would be generous towards the scraps stained by dirt and blood. His face is not better, with scars and open cuts.
He’s barefoot on his left half but injured on his right. Perhaps he’s a child who lost his parents on the Day of Unity, some say.
When concerned passers-by try to talk to him, he scarcely responds. It’s as if he doesn’t speak Common. More likely an unfortunate escaped experiment from Belos’ dungeons, suggest others.
There are moments where he marches in the now-abandoned market for hours on end. With people still recovering from the resistance, commerce and public outings have been minimized. There’s a curfew in place, but the boy’s gait advances onwards despite it. That’s just how the Golden Guard is, determine the ex-scouts of the throne.
Speaking of the throne…
The boy kneels at the throne for hours on end. Or, what’s left of it, to be more precise.
Volunteers for the recovery and rebuilding initiatives are told to work around him, and not to initiate conversation. The “throne room,” if it can even be called that anymore, is to be left to last. It’s been exposed to the outside world due to its fallen walls, and all nearby can see the boy’s bowed head. One would expect him to kneel like an honoured knight, left leg down in genuflection. No, not this soldier. He kneels like a curled up, injured thing. Both knees down, head so low his widow’s peak dips into the rubble. He doesn’t flinch at turns in the weather, or at the sharp gravel underfoot. His arms alternate between elbows on the floor to aid in balance or above his head to protect from a blow that will not come.
Often, the resistance leaders stop by to watch his from afar. Interactions tend to be for naught: they learned that after the young illusionist boy’s contact received a violent blow in response.
No one touches him after that.
“So, he doesn’t remember anything,” Raine murmurs, their fingertips picking at their skin. “Could it be Snapdragon’s work?”
Eberwolf shakes his head and grumbles, “Not likely.”
Luz tentatively raises her hand. “Are we sure he doesn’t remember anything?”
“Well, it’s not like there are any other explanations.”
Luz still looks unconvinced. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“Is there any chance that…” Amity starts, “Hunter might be in denial?”
“Denial?” Raine questions. “Of Belos’ death?”
“Of everything.
“Imagine how it feels right now: you’re no longer coven heads, the whole system has been dismantled. Despite that, you still have some stability: your friends and family, your hobbies, your homes, your identity. Hunter doesn’t have any of that—not without Belos.”
“He has us,” Darius protests.
“Does he, though?” Luz squints. “He knows you as Darius and Raine, the coven heads.”
“What would you suggest?”
“Follow my lead,” Luz sighs. “We’ll match his energy until he slips. Then, we’ll help pick up the pieces.”
A few days pass before Luz decides the time is right.
Hunter is pacing the hallways on the ruined castle, scribbling furiously onto torn paper. His hand trembles as he writes, and the words on the page are too curled to be genuine.
Luz approaches cautiously. “Hey, Hunter.”
He ignores her.
“Hunter?”
The teen makes an odd sound from the back of his throat. “That’s Golden Guard to you, human.”
Ah.
They’re back to that.
“Well, uh, hey, Golden Guard,” she says, trying to keep her voice light and casual.
Hunter doesn’t look up. He mutters something under his breath, his quill scratching against the paper.
“What’re you doing?” Luz asks, sidling closer.
As she leans closer to take a peek at the words, Hunter pulls the parchment close to his chest. “This is a confidential report, for the emperor’s eyes only,” Hunter replies curtly. “Urgent work. I need silence, and to not be disturbed again.”
Luz swallows hard. “Oh, yeah, okay. Super urgent, got it. But, uh…” She hesitates, then continues, “Maybe you could take a break?”
Hunter freezes mid-step, his head snapping toward her. “Why would I take a break? The emperor is counting on me.”
“I’m not saying to stop working!” Luz quickly raises her free hand in surrender. “But maybe we could talk? We kind of need to, ASAP.”
“We don’t need to do anything,” Hunter snaps, his voice suddenly sharp. “Leave. Now.”
Luz bites her lip. “Okay,” she says softly. “But… when you’re ready, you know where to find me.”
Hunter doesn’t respond, still focused on his writing.
“Bye, Hunter.”
“Golden Guard.”
“…Bye, Golden Guard.”
As a general agent of chaos, Luz knows that she doesn’t know what she’s doing. That doesn’t mean it isn’t working.
“Oh, Golden Guard,” she sings, arms swinging by her side as she walks up to his ‘post.’
The Guard in question stands stiff. She knows he saw her coming, probably heard her with all the keychains on her backpack jingling, and knows he knows why she’s here. He doesn’t speak, keeping a poor poker face while she stops in front of him.
She’s visited him enough to know not to make any sudden movements, so she clasps her hands in front of her (and, more importantly, in his line of sight). “You’re a way-away from the palace today, ain’t’cha? You don’t normally patrol Latissa.”
He ignores her. Typical.
“I get it,” she shrugs the bag off her back, “I’d feel unsafe with what they’re doing in Bonesborough, if I were you.”
That’s where Hunter would normally be right now. Except, being there would mean acknowledging the bonfire lit by all the old coven propaganda the town wants to burn.
This is what pushes him to speak. “It’s treason.”
“It’s freedom of speech.”
He tuts. A win in her book. “Not freedom of consequence. Such blasphemy is…is…”
The shudder that interrupts him could be out of disdain, fear, or the cold weather. Luz can’t hide her concern.
“You’re going to get sick,” she mutters. That’s why she came, today. Out of her bag, she pulls a yellow sweater. “Here. It’s your size.”
“I will remain in my uniform.”
Uniform, she refrains from letting out a sigh. The same torn rags he’s been in for weeks, a uniform. “It’s clearly malfunctioning. Here,” she sticks her arm out, “Darius asked me to deliver it, and he got it by order of the emperor.”
It’s Hunter’s turn to sigh. “Luz…”
He stiffens.
She hides her reaction, but dances in the security of her mind. He’s slipping.
The victory is short as he coughs and corrects himself. “If that were the case, human, the last person Darius would trust with such a task is the enemy.”
“So, you’d believe it if it came from a coven head?”
Her brother breaks his stance to throw his hands in the air, the same way he did every time he lost a game of Mario Kart in the human realm. “Sure, yes, whatever! Leave me alone!”
She grins. “Will do!”
She gets Eberwolf to drop by, throwing the sweater at the shivering teenager. He huffs and puts it on, grumbling about coddling, meddling mutts.
Score one for Luz.
If only convincing him to face reality was that easy.
Darius brings food, layers, and hushed whispers. Hunter stares at the offerings, but only responds to the first two. From afar, Luz listens in.
“You need to rest, Hunter.”
“Come now, you’ve been working for long enough.”
A tut. “You can’t ignore me forever.”
“…Sir, I need to focus at my post.”
A sigh. “Well,” his voice lilts, “I think you’ll be pleased to hear that some of your friends are interning at the coven.”
Hunter flinches. “Darius,” his voice is steely with warning.
It brings a smile into the elder’s tone, “Oh, don’t worry. They’re merely observing different staff members for a class report.”
Hunter’s brows relax, though his lips remain straight in displeasure. He’s suspicious.
The ex-coven head leans in, “Their next assignment is by your station. Abubub-” he brings a finger up at Hunter’s protest, “Emperor Belos approved of the initiative.”
Hunter’s ears twitch downwards, and a low growl-like noise elicits from his throat. “He’d never.”
“Oh?” Unwavering, Darius pulls out a signed-and-stamped document from the emperor. His royal stamp was found in the rubble, and the CATs only kept it when they realised they could use it to get through to Hunter. After all, no duplicates of the imprint exist. Either the Emperor approved, or something happened to the Emperor that allowed them to take the stamp.
The boy bites his lip, looking younger than he has in months., before nodding once. A sharp, painful acceptance.
It’d have to do.
The Entrails were keen, eager, and the best option to get Hunter to stay in one place.
Having civilians around meant Hunter was exempt from any private ‘missions’ his brain could scrounge up for him. He dismisses them after the standard Hexside let-out time, but still. Less danger, more rest. More breaks. The strain around his brows loosen some.
It feels good.
This goes on over the next few weeks. Eventually, Hunter starts accepting any standard items Luz says are ‘under the order of the emperor.’
Emphasis on standard, though, because she starts pushing her luck.
That’s what causes him to crack
“Human, there is no way that I’ve been granted access to such frivolities.”
She shakes the lunchbox in her hand. “Food? I’ve given you snacks before.”
“A warm meal,” he clarifies. “One that would require me to leave my post and eat in a relaxed setting.”
“I mean…” Luz trails off. Did she really want to push her luck today? “Why don’t you ask him the next time you see him?”
Hunter doesn’t respond.
“Hunter?”
“The emperor…” he hesitates. “The emperor has been busy.”
“Busy, huh?” she kicks the rocks closest to her. “That’d explain why no one else has seen him, I suppose?”
Don’t react, Hunter.
“Or, you know, you could face reality.”
I’m so tired.
“Hunter, you’re shaking.”
“Go away.”
“Not until you-” she moves towards him, grabbing both his elbows in a gentle attempt at nudging him downwards “-sit down for a second and breathe.”
If it’ll get her away from here sooner, he’ll cut his own arm off. He sits on the floor, knees to his chest, eyes staring into nothing as Luz kneels down next to him.
“Why are you pretending like he’s still here?”
Don’t react.
“The emperor is busy.”
“Busy being dead.”
Oh, for Titan’s- “He can’t be dead, Luz!”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t exist in a world where he doesn't!”
Her jaw clicks shut in surprise.
“Hunter…”
“I give up, Luz.” Hunter cuts her off, moving his eyes to stare into her own. “You want me to admit it? Fine, Belos is dead. Are you happy?” His voice cracks as he speaks, and she can’t celebrate getting through to him when this is the fallout. “I was supposed to die that day. But I’m alive, and I don’t know what do.”
“What’re you talking about?”
He huffs, pushing his hands outwards. “Out there, Luz? There are survivors. People who didn’t deserve what Belos put them through, people who deserve to heal and never suffer again.
“Those people are innocent. They’re pure. They’re family. They’re friends. They have lives to live, untapped potential.”
Not people like me. People made as a crutch to a murderer, a replica of his first kill.
“You have a life to live, Hunter; you’re going to go to Hexside, you’re going to fly with the Emerald Entrails, you’re going to-”
“I’m going to do what I was made to do: guard the Isles. I’m going to do my duty and die when I’m no longer useful or needed.”
He watches his human process the information. Her eyes cycle over his weary frame for minutes, before she tries to speak.
“You can’t do this any longer. Please, Hunter. Let’s go home. Whatever it is, I promise we can help you.”
“That’s just it, Luz. I don’t want help anymore. I’ve given up. I want to do my duty, and then be done. I’m tired.”
He shuffles until he’s lying down on his back, now staring at the sky.
“I just want to sleep. To dream in a world where everything’s okay.”
He closes his eyes, and a hand presses on his forehead. He lets it.
“At least sleep where it’s warm. Let me take you home. The Isles can take care of themselves, for a while.”
“…Okay.”
Hunter doesn’t know when the denial got to him.
All he knows is that one day Belos died, and the next he was in front of him.
Every time Hunter closes his eyes, he sees his uncle.
He just wants to sleep.
The others are treating him like glass.
Every day, they ask him questions. Who he is, where he is, how he’s feeling, when he last ate…
They sound like cicadas.
They learn he’s been sleeping in the throne room, eyes drooping as he prays in the same kneeling position they’d often find him in during the day.
He isn’t allowed to do that anymore. To kneel, or go to the palace.
Too bad he escapes every house they put him in.
He sneaks past Hooty, Darius’ abominations, even the Bat Lady’s palismen.
They decide that it’d be best for him to move to the human realm, temporarily.
‘That way we’ll be notified if he tries to get to the Isles,’ he heard them discuss among one another.
‘And if he runs in the human realm?’
‘Where would he go? Camila’s house is the closest thing to the pal- to the Isles he can get, so that’s where he’d want to be.’ He shudders from where he eavesdrops, behind the door. They know him well. ‘He’ll be fine, as long as he’s away from here.’
Away from the ashes.
Away from the rubble.
Away from his people.
Away from his uncle’s grave.
Hunter knows that it doesn't get better for a while, not by a long shot.
But it got easier.
The Human Realm was calming, and humbling. His identity here is that of a foster child who slipped through the cracks of the system, the same as Vee.
It isn’t a straight path, but it's a start.
At times, he spirals.
“I’m sick of it!” he shrieks, pulling at his hair. “I can’t do this anymore!”
He paces the room, slamming his hand onto his desk thrice. Anything to feel, anything to get the badness out. “Every day, every moment, trying my best and failing!”
“Hunter-“
He turns to Camila, tears streaming down his face. “Let me go back, please,” he clutches her hands with both of his like a lifeline, and she winces at the clamminess. “I’m begging you, Mrs. Noceda, let me go back to my home. To being what I know what I am.” He collapses into himself, kneeling. “I don’t want to be here. I want to know things again. I hate this.”
His pleadings fall on…not deaf, but unmoving ears. They know what he wants. It's difficult, but it would pass.
Clouds eventually part, no matter how thunderous the storm.
“Ai, mijo, I’m getting old. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Hunter hums. “You have five other kids, mami. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Mrs. Noceda tuts. “I need my boy to cook and sew with me. None of the others have the same passion as you.”
“They have other interests that align better, though.”
“They don’t have the same knack for animals that you do, baby. Nor do they watch my shows with me, and they all have their own lives as witches that I just don’t understand. You keep me grounded, love.”
Hunter stands straighter at that. “Mama, if you’ve been feeling lonely or sad, maybe we should-”
“Not like that, nino, I just appreciate your company. I love all my babies, of course, but you keep the house a home all the time.”
His mother leans on the kitchen aisle. “When Luz and Vee left home, it became an empty nest for the first time. It’s difficult, for me, and I wouldn’t want to chain them down or make them feel like they have to come see me more. I know that they would sacrifice everything for me - all of you would, I know- but that’s not what I want for any of my children. You like the Human world, Hunter. You feel safe and happy here. I want that for you, and you being near helps me make sure it happens.
“You don’t have to stay here, baby. You don’t have to volunteer at the clinic, or pay rent, or do the yard work. You could leave, and I’d be happy for you if it made you happier,” she emphasized. “But I love you, and I love having you here. I love feeding my boy, and reminding him he’s loved, and going on walks with him, and window shopping with him, and taking him to conventions.
“You are so loved here, baby. You’re my boy, and I don’t want you to forget that. I cherish you, and nothing could change that.”
Hunter can no longer see the chopping block through his tears. “I’ve hurt so many people, mama.”
“I still love you.”
His shoulders begin to shake. “I can still hear their screams.”
“I’m sorry you have to live with that, nene.”
He can’t hold his head up. “I killed for him, mama.”
“Oh, Hunter.”
He drops the knife onto the countertop with a clatter as his mother takes him in her arms. He sobs as she holds him, whispering into his ear.
“I’ve got you, love, you’re safe and I care about you so, so much. Nothing could change it, nothing in this world or any other. You’re my boy and I love you more than anything. Anything, Hunter. You’re my everything.”
He wails. “I’m so tired, mama.”
“I know.”
“It hurts to wake up.”
She guides Hunter to the floor as his knees buckle. She cradles his head on her neck now that they’re sitting at equal heights. “You’ve gone through so much. You’re still a child. You can be anything you want to be.”
Trembling fingers grasp warm arms. “I want to be okay.”
A mother kisses her son’s temple. “You will be.”
A kettle whistles.
“I’m a terrible person. I want my uncle back.”
“You want the good moments. You want the good person you thought you had.”
“I don’t care if he’s good or bad!” Hunter chokes on a sob. “I need him back.”
“I’m sorry, baby.”
If there’s one thing Hunter can appreciate -but, oh, there are many things- it’s that Camila never shushes him. She lets him air out his troubles and never tries to placate him with empty words.
“He’s never coming back, mami.”
“He isn’t.”
There’s darkness.
But there’s light.
“Belos is never coming back, either.”
The statement is heavy on his throat. On his heart, too.
Uncle and Belos. Two sides of the same coin.
“Never.”
Hunter opens his eyes to look at his light, his home.
“The fight is over, you know,” he whispers. He needs to verbalise it, to confirm it.
“You’re right.” She knew just what he needed. “You don’t need to fight anymore, baby. You can be yourself.”
A shaky exhale encourages a tighter hold. “I don’t know who that is.”
His mother (and he’s reminded in this moment that he never thought he’d be a loved nephew, much less a loved son) tilts his head up by the chin. Her eyes shine with something so full that Hunter can feel the overpowering emotion go through his frame as he shudders.
“You get to choose, baby. You can be whoever you want to be.”
“I…”
“You don’t have to choose now, or ever. Just live, nino. Live every day, little by little, and that can be enough.”
Hunter swallows a lump in his throat. “I’ll try.”
He pushes himself further into his mother’s arms and repeats it, a promise. “I’ll try.”