Work Text:
It was raining the night that Darius received a knock on his door.
Pouring, actually, if he was being honest; what Eda Clawthorne would have described as "absolutely pissing out", once upon a time. But Darius hadn't spoken to Eda in years, not since before he'd graduated Hexside, and certainly not now that she was openly flaunting her status as a wanted fugitive. He had ambitions, after all, and it wouldn't do his future political career any favours to be caught associating with a known criminal.
The point being: it was a downpour. The kind of rain that you couldn't see your hand in front of your face (not that you should be sticking your hand out into it in the first place). There hadn't been any noise from the street since it had started a few hours ago, everyone hidden away inside their homes and shops, where they wouldn't have to worry about being scalded alive.
In fact, there was only one person Darius knew who would—who could—be outside in a storm like this. And that person had been very clear about never meeting with Darius at his home, allegedly for his own protection, though from what he wouldn't say. To say nothing of the fact that that person was supposed to be away on a mission at the left Archipedalgo, not due back for at least another week.
And yet, inexplicably, someone was knocking on Darius' door, a frantic tattoo of thumps against the wood. Over the muffled sounds of the tempest outside, he heard a familiar voice call something that might have been his name.
He finished rinsing his clawfee mug and set it neatly aside, before drying his hands and briskly crossing the short distance to the door, pausing along the way to turn off the nope opera he'd left playing on the crystal ball. The peephole, Darius already knew, would be too steamed-up to be useful, so he didn't bother checking it before opening the door, bracing himself against the rush of heat and humidity that blew in from the rain.
(Titan, it was a good thing he wouldn't be going anywhere tonight, the effect that this sort of weather had on his hair was nothing short of nightmarish.)
The first thing Darius saw outside was a flash of red, streaking away into the night too quickly for him to see anything more. He might have pondered it further, if not for the figure standing, soaked and haggard, on his welcome mat. The familiar gold mask, which usually hid the man's expression, was nowhere to be seen. Nor was the similarly-coloured armour, discarded to reveal the dark undershirt and plain binder that he typically wore underneath.
Aside from the missing armaments, however, everything seemed to be in its place: same dark eye bags, same old scars, same hooked and crooked nose; a bruise blossoming on the underside of his jaw, and a handful of fresh scrapes along the stretch of his forearms peeking from the space between gloves and shirt, but otherwise no notable injuries. The only thing out of the ordinary, that Darius could see, was the tightly-wrapped bundle of white cloth that he was clutching to his chest like some precious treasure, hunched over as though he thought someone might try to take it from him.
"Carver?" Darius' eyes flitted around, looking for coven scouts lurking nearby. There were none—of course there weren't, not in this weather—and he couldn't decide if that was better or worse. "What's happened?"
His mentor didn't answer—at least, not verbally. Instead, he shifted the bundle in his arms enough to free one of his hands, which he used to pluck delicately at a corner of the sodden cloth, pulling it back to reveal–
A baby.
Darius stared, his mind trying to assemble the pieces of what he was seeing into something that made sense.
Carver had brought him a baby.
The Golden Guard, Right-Hand of the Emperor—the second-most powerful figure in all the Boiling Isles—was on his doorstep, in the boiling rain, with a baby.
'Titan's balls.'
Without thinking, Darius grabbed the other man and dragged him unceremoniously inside, the instinct to get the baby out of the boiling rain overriding his disdain for mud tracked all over his floors. Carver went without protest, and once Darius shut the door behind him he shook himself like a griffon, stray droplets of rain flying from his shaggy, rawberry-blond hair. A few landed on Darius' arm—no longer scalding, but just this side of too hot—so when he saw them land on the baby as well, he practically snatched the bundle from Carver's arms.
The little one hadn't so much as stirred since coming inside, and for a wild second, Darius thought the worst. But when he touched their cheek their eyes fluttered open, blinking blearily up at him.
Eyes a startling shade of garnet-red.
'Titan's cock and balls.'
Carver was still standing by the door, arms outstretched where Darius had stolen their cargo. His eyes—the same colour, exactly the same, what the fuck—met Darius', and he jolted as though he had only just realised the other was there.
"…I learned some things about myself today," he said after a moment, and lowered his arms. "Things I wish I didn't know."
He wasn't forthcoming with any further information, so Darius turned his attention back to the baby he had grabbed. There were no marks on them that he could see, from the rain or otherwise, which at least was a relief. Red eyes—no, seriously, what the fuck—and rumpled blond hair the shade of Knee-white that very young children sometimes had. They couldn't have been more than a few months old, though they were at least old enough for their face to have filled out from the wrinkled newborn stage into something round and soft. They had one hand poking out of the blanket swaddling them—which, Darius realised abruptly, was actually the Golden Guard's cloak—and their fingers opened and closed rhythmically, waiting for something to pass through their grip so they could grab it.
"Beh," they said sociably.
Shaken to his core, Darius turned to the only person in the immediate vicinity currently capable of answering his many questions.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. Then, considering, "I thought you were at the Toes!"
To his credit, Carver looked suitably abashed. "I was," he confirmed. "I got back early, just this afternoon. Went to give my report to the Emperor. It…didn't go as planned."
'Obviously,' Darius thought. He pointed with his chin at the baby and said, "I assume you mean this—well, this?"
Carver's eyes dropped to the bundle. His shoulders twitched, as though he was barely restraining himself from reaching for them. "Hunter," he said, "his name's apparently Hunter."
"'Apparently'?"
Carver shrugged, his shoulders still taut. "That's what Belos had written in his notes."
"Bel–…?"
Dread curdled in the trenches of Darius' stomach. In his arms, the baby—Hunter—was wriggling and twisting, looking curiously around at this new environment with his big, tell-tale eyes.
"Carver," Darius began, slowly, "is this the Emperor's child?"
The initial silence that followed his question was wretchedly telling—as was the way that Carver's arms twitched again with the clear urge to grab the boy back.
"Carver–"
"He's not." With his hands still empty of baby, Carver instead raked them through his hair, gripping the ruddy strands in distress. "He's—he's my…I can't, it's…"
He inhaled, long and shaky. "I told you," he said, "I've learned some things today."
It wasn't an answer; it was about as far from an answer as a statement could be. Darius stared, and all at once, he realised that Carver didn't have his staff. The man couldn't do magic without it. 'How did he get here, then?' Had he walked all the way here from the Heart, through the rain, with a baby?
He looked down at Hunter, quietly begging the boy to give him some sort of answer. Hunter answered his imploring look with a spit bubble. 'Well, that's useful.'
Darius closed his eyes, breathing deeply to steady himself. He had to prioritise; he couldn't solve every problem at once. That was what Carver was always telling him when he got too wrapped up in his research: take one step at a time, and the pieces will eventually all fall into place.
Carver had a baby, possibly kidnapped. Babies needed to eat. And the leftover barnacle bisque that Darius had shoved in the back of his chiller wasn't going to cut it for a however-many-month-old.
He pushed the infant back into Carver's arms—he took him without question, almost eagerly—and made a firebee-line for the kitchen. Pots, pans, ingredients, heat. His grandmother's instructions came back to him: two parts water, one part gritroot pulp, one part capricorn milk; bring to a boil, remove from heat, cool. He didn't have a bottle, so he soaked a clean dish rag in the mixture, and twisted one end into a ratworm tail.
Carver had dropped onto the couch after Darius had passed Hunter to him, and he was still sitting there by the time he returned. He'd given Hunter one of his fingers to suckle on, gloves discarded; the scars on his hands, a latticework of slices and cuts he was usually so careful to keep hidden, were on full display.
"Here," Darius said, offering the rag. "I think he'll prefer this to whatever filth you've got caked under your nails. Get that out of his mouth, by the way," he added, "who knows what's under there, it can't possibly be good for him."
Thankfully, Hunter needed no encouragement to begin nursing—he latched onto the rag without hesitation when it was offered, grabbing handfuls of damp cloth in his eagerness and kneading. His hands were going to be revoltingly sticky by the time he was done; Darius tried not to think about that, or what belongings of his those little fingers could touch, and eased himself down next to his mentor.
For a time, there was only the sucking sound of Hunter's feeding to fill the room, broken by the occasional warble or coo. Darius drummed his fingers idly on his knee, wanting to break the silence with idle conversation, but there was a guarded hunch to Carver's posture, which he had come to learn was a sign that he didn't want to be approached. He was curled in on himself, like he thought he could twist smaller until he ceased to exist. Or maybe it was Hunter he was curling over, making a shield of his own body like he so often did with the coven scouts under his command.
Eventually, though, Darius couldn't keep quiet. Looking at the contented boy in his mentor's arms, he stated the obvious: "He has your eyes."
Carver's ears twitched, the only sign that he had heard. His head bowed, hair falling forward to hide his face entirely from view.
"Is he yours?" Darius pressed. Despite the clear resemblance, it was difficult to believe. He had been with Carver dozens of times over the past year, after all. Surely he would have noticed if the man had been pregnant—wouldn't he? The eyes couldn't be a coincidence, though; Darius had never met, never so much as seen from a distance, another witch with that shade.
His mind was reeling. Had he somehow missed this?
Confirmation or denial, Carver didn't answer either way. Hunched over as he was, Hunter was nearly hidden from view; Darius could only catch glimpses of his little fists waving on occasion, and hear the intermittent gurgling around his mouthful.
He was protecting him. That much was obvious to Darius—he didn't need to know the details when he knew his mentor. The Golden Guard was inherently good, the greatest witch that Darius had ever known. If he had taken Hunter, he would only have done so if he believed it was for the boy's safety.
Which, of course, lead Darius to the most obvious problem: his one-bedroom downtown Bonesborough apartment wasn't safer than the Emperor's vast and heavily-guarded fortress. If Carver had brought the boy here for protection, it could only mean that the Castle was no longer an option. The question, then, was why?
"You said you learned some things tonight," he said. "Has there been an attack on the Emperor?" Carver shook his head. "Some other threat, then?"
Now Carver laughed. There was no humour in it; it sounded like surrender. "You could say that."
That was…concerning, to say the least. Darius hadn't heard a whisper of anything on the news, which meant the situation was either very minor and the Emperor didn't want to alarm the public, or else it was very serious and possibly a matter of imperial security. The greatest threat, of course, would be wild magic; his mind jumped to Eda, and her open contempt for the Empire.
"Did you hear something on your mission?" Another shake. "On the way back?" Another, and—okay, Darius was starting to get frustrated. "Is it some top-secret Golden Guard business that you can't tell me about?"
Now there was a soft squelching sound, which Darius recognised as Carver sucking on his teeth. "It's…complicated."
Carver had never hesitated to shut down Darius' questions. If there was something he couldn't talk about, he would say so outright. That he wasn't doing so now made a sense of danger flutter in Darius' stomach. "Define 'complicated'."
"Like I said–"
"You learned some things, yeah." It would have been easy for Darius to lean forward, push his face in front of Carver's and force his mentor to look at him. He had certainly done it in the past, whenever he was, as Carver liked to put it, "being a brat." But there was something in Carver's posture, something that went beyond his usual guarding—something strangely fragile, that made Darius not want to push too hard.
"Look," he tried instead, "I'm not trying to make you disclose the Emperor's secrets. You know you can trust me, Carver."
"It's not about trust."
"Then what is it about? If there's a threat to the Emperor–"
"The Emperor is the threat, Darius!" Carver's voice broke on the words, and there was something halfway to manic in his tone. His head was still bowed, his face still obscured, but there was no hiding the shaking of his shoulders. "He's what we're running from, I saved Hunter from him."
The quiet that followed was heavy like thickened selkidomus fat. Not even Hunter reacted, and the fact that the boy was apparently so used to raised voices that he barely even flinched should probably have been concerning. At the moment, however, Darius was too busy turning this new knowledge over in his spinning head, trying in vain to make sense of it.
"…are you certain?" It wasn't that he thought that Carver was lying—he would never, not to him—but nothing about what he was saying felt real. Carver's relationship with the Emperor was tumultuous, no doubt; there was a deeply-entrenched resentment brewing there, even flanked as it was by an almost child-like devotion. It was something Darius had never been able to make sense of, that duality of hatred and love for a single person all at once. But for all Carver had spoken of the Emperor in private—all that Darius had been made privy to, and even more that he hadn't—he had never indicated that he thought the man could be a threat.
Until now, when Carver wouldn't even look at him as he said, "I am."
Darius fell back against the couch. The feeling of danger was burrowing deeper, carving a home in the space of his chest.
"Okay," he said, "okay. Just…tell me what you can."
Carver recounted his story in a crisp, professional tone, and though Darius had never witnessed the Golden Guard give one of his reports, he could all too easily infer that he did so in much the same way as this. The mission at the Toes had been successful, and simpler than anticipated, leading to Carver's early return. Finding the throne room empty, he had ventured down to the Emperor's workshop—the place few others were permitted to enter, which certainly Darius had never seen, but imagined to be vast and orderly, the same as the rest of Belos' realm.
The Emperor, as it turned out, had not been in his workshop. No one had been.
Except, somehow, for Hunter.
Throughout the tale, Darius listened in silence, nodding along despite the fact that Carver still wasn't looking at him. But at that last part, he had to interrupt, "Why did the Emperor have a baby in his workshop?"
Carver seemed to consider his answer. "Because that's where he was" –it didn't escape Darius' notice how he stumbled over the words– "born."
Darius' eyes dropped to Hunter. Clearly, the boy hadn't been 'born' recently—it was one of the first things he'd noticed, after all. He might have been hopeless at calculating children's ages, but he could at least tell that Hunter hadn't come into the world that morning, or even within the last week.
'How long was he in Belos' workshop?' And who had brought him there in the first place—Belos himself? Perhaps the Emperor had rescued some poor pregnant witch, hidden them away in the Castle, where they had eventually given birth in his workshop.
A chill ran down Darius' spine, then. "The Emperor is the threat." That was what Carver had said, and despite the impossibility of it, Darius believed him. Carver would not be so frantic if Hunter had come to be in Belos' care under benign circumstances.
The natural progression of what Darius knew—what he saw, what he was being told, and everything he could imagine thereafter—all of it congealed in his mind's eye to paint a foul, ugly portrait, and his bile sac sank as he realised the most likely answer to his question.
The Castle wasn't safe; the Emperor was dangerous. The closeness of Carver's relationship with him against the duality of resentment and reverence. The initial hesitation when Darius asked if Hunter was Belos' child, coupled with the sheer vehemence with which Carver had then denied it. The protective way that he held him, the unmistakable resemblance, the eyes.
"Carver," he began, then halted. How could he ask this question? "Did Belos" –the words caught in his throat– "were you" –he couldn't force them out–
Carver was still, waiting for Darius to continue. He took a breath, and braced himself. "Is Hunter yours? And…" He swallowed; there was a foul taste in his mouth. "…and the Emperor's?"
The response was instantaneous: Carver's head snapped around to look at him a little too fast, his eyes a little too wide. He had spent so much of the conversation avoiding Darius' eyes that the sight of them now was startling, and Darius flinched back from the sheer intensity of it.
It was the kind of look that he saw on the faces of the student interns he'd been put in charge of this semester, when they realised he knew they were using their scrolls under the table—the look of someone who had been caught with a secret that they thought they'd been hiding well.
Darius' mouth was dry. When he opened his mouth to speak, he swore he heard his lips crack. "Oh, Titan." He felt ill. It felt like treason even to consider the Emperor could be capable of such cruelty. Belos was Emperor of the Boiling Isles. He had lifted them out of the Savage Ages, into an era of reason. He had imposed civilisation and order upon a lawless land. Being taken under Carver's staff had introduced Darius to the knowledge that Belos was not the immaculate figure he projected across the Isles, but he never imagined–
Now that he had started, it was impossible to stop picking apart every time Belos had come up in conversation with Carver. It was a matter of public record that the current Golden Guard had served the Emperor for nearly two decades, and from what Darius had gleaned over the years, they had had some manner of relationship even before then, possibly going as far back as Carver's childhood. The off-handed comments that prickled a sense of danger at the back of Darius' mind, that made him question—he must have misheard, or misunderstood, because that would mean…
"No." Carver's voice snapped through the air like a whipcrack, startling Darius out of his spiralling thoughts. "Hunter isn't my son." Carver was still looking at him, but his expression was less manic now; he looked more like the mentor that Darius knew, the man he relied on so deeply, who reassured him when the world was mad. "I found him down there. That's all."
Later, when the rain had stopped and the sky was clear, Darius would realise that his mentor had never answered the question at the root of his suspicions. But in the moment, he felt only relief—both to hear that his mentor hadn't brought him the fruit of his own assault, and, quietly, that he himself hadn't somehow over-looked an entire little witchling growing right in front of him for months.
But that still begged the question of where Hunter had come from—from a witch, no doubt, as was typically the case, but who? Did the Emperor have some hidden paramour? Or—Darius' thoughts returned to his awful earlier suspicions—had the boy's origins been something more sinister? 'Titan, what the fuck is going on?'
In Carver's arms, Hunter had taken to gnawing gummily on the rag, and Darius noticed that no more liquid was seeping out to dribble down his chin. He prised the rag from those tiny fists—Hunter gave a small "uh!" of protest—and cupped one hand underneath to catch any sticky drips that might threaten his hardwood floors as he stood.
"He needs more," he barely mumbled over his shoulder as he turned to flee. "I'll be back."
The kitchen was only separate from the living room by technicality, but at least there was something in there that he could do. The mixture in the pot had gone truly cold, so he heated it again, just enough that it started to steam, before dipping the rag in to soak. The cloth didn't hold much fluid; he would have to fill it at least once more before the night was over. How much could one baby eat, he wondered. Did he have enough capricorn milk, in case he needed to make more?
Even as he turned to check the chiller, Darius wanted to laugh at the fruitlessness of it. What would he do if he didn't? It wasn't like he could get to the store until the rain stopped, and it was supposed to go on until tomorrow afternoon. He couldn't do anything until then.
He couldn't do anything, period—he was as useful here as toes on a hand dragon.
For as long as Darius had known him, Carver had always been the person with all the answers—the one he could turn to in a crisis, who would knock him on his head and say, "don't worry, we'll fix this." It was a favour that Darius wanted desperately to return now, that ability to be certain in the face of uncertainty.
But there was nothing in his life that could have prepared him for this. He'd only just turned thirty, for Titan's sake! And he spent most of his days in a lab or behind a book! What could he possibly do, if the Emperor found them here?
What use was he, for whatever it was that Carver had planned?
Darius inhaled deeply through his nose, steadying himself. Pushing back from the chiller, he retrieved the rag from the pot, and wrung out the excess liquid over the sink. 'Get it together, Deamonne.' Regardless of what he could or couldn't do, it would do nobody any good to fall to pieces.
When he got back to the couch he only said, "I have enough to feed him for now." He thought so, anyway. Passing the replenished rag, he continued, "I can go to the store tomorrow, maybe get him some actual food?"
"We're not staying." Carver rushed the words out, and Darius' mouth clacked shut. "It's not safe—I wouldn't do that to you. I just needed someplace to…come up with some sort of plan." He looked down at Hunter, who had resumed his nursing now that he had a food source again; he reached for one tiny, sticky fist, touching with his scarred finger, and the hand opened like a flareflower around its prey, wrapping the digit in hungry petals.
It was a sight that made something warm twist in Darius' chest. "Where will you go?"
"Somewhere that Belos can't find us." Again, Carver laughed humourlessly—he was doing a lot of that, tonight. "If there is such a place."
Absurdly, Darius thought of Eda again.
"I think," Carver continued, "it'd be best if we set out tonight—get some distance in while it's still raining. It'll be harder for anyone from the Coven to follow us that way, and it'll wash away most of our trail. He'll be fine," he added when Darius opened his mouth to baulk, "the rain doesn't bother him, either."
As if in agreement, Hunter popped the rag out of his mouth and warbled tonelessly. And now Darius was sure: even if the boy wasn't Carver's son, they must be family somehow, because like the eyes, he'd never known another witch who could stride casually through the boiling rain without harm. There was some connection between them, by blood or bile—one which also, perhaps, tied them both to Belos.
Darius let his eyes drop to Hunter, who was nursing happily, utterly unaffected by the tension surrounding him. "You're really going to do this," he said, pointlessly stating the obvious. "You're really just going to…what, run away into the wilderness? With a baby in tow?"
Carver exhaled. "My only other option is to die."
Despite himself, Darius huffed a laugh. "I feel like that outcome could have been avoided."
Carver stared down at the baby in his arms, and in the quiet of Darius' apartment, the man looked almost painfully weary—the scar that carved the left side of his face deepened to a trench with shadow, the gnarled stump of that ear a dark pit; the zig-zag of a thrice-broken nose; his pupils glowing in the dim light, a shine Darius had long since gotten used to, now inexplicably as strange as the first time he had seen it.
"No," he said, softly, "it couldn't have been."
In all, Hunter ended up needing three more rags-full of the milk mixture before being satisfied. The boy's voracious appetite was far from reassuring, and Darius had to wonder how Carver was planning to feed him on the run. He could give his mentor the recipe, of course, but acquiring the ingredients would be another story. After all, Carver's anonymity as the masked Golden Guard wouldn't last if Belos decided to reveal his face. How would he purchase basic supplies once the Emperor raised the alarm?
Darius wanted to help. He wanted to offer shelter (his apartment wouldn't keep them safe), he wanted to offer snails (he was living paycheck-to-paycheck), he wanted to offer support (he couldn't do anything).
(He couldn't do anything.)
As soon as his belly was finally full, Hunter quickly began to drowse. Darius caught the rag before it could fall from his flagging grip, and hurried it away to the sink where it wouldn't endanger his furniture or floors. He covered the pot and moved it to the chiller—it wouldn't do to leave it out where it would attract grootflies—and took a moment to wipe down the countertops of any stray spills.
By the time he returned to the living room, Hunter was well and truly asleep, quiet and still and unresponsive in Carver's arms. Titan, it barely looked like he was even breathing…
"I'm going to tell you something," Carver said, Darius' eyes snapping to him, "that you're not going to believe. I scarcely believe it myself, even after I saw…"
Carver's finger was still clutched in Hunter's grip, and he didn't seem inclined to take it back. With his free hand, he stroked the boy's hair, scarred lips twitching in a sad smile. He looked suddenly ancient, like something out of a witchling's fairy story. Darius settled next to him and waited—knowing that whatever fantastical nonsense his mentor said next, he would, somehow, believe it.
"Tell me," Carver began at last, Hunter slumbering against his heart, "have you ever heard of a 'Grimwalker'?"