Not the Hero (4/4)

And here‘s the final part! I had a lot of fun writing this though it was hard to decide how it would need. I actually ended up writing three separate endings—if you all are interested in what could have been, let me know! This ended up being the longest part by far since I didn’t want to keep adding on lol. Hope you enjoy reading!

—

You get a headache on the way home, but you can’t tell if it’s from your antlers straining against your skull or from the tangled snarl of your own thoughts. Your hands reflexively curl into fists, then relax. Curl, then relax. You try breathing out of your nose and in through your nose like the nice lady who came after your mother died told you to.

It doesn’t really work.

What was the point of the ground giving someone like you a vision about the end of the world? Clearly Cam’s got this in the bag, no need for you. He doesn’t care if you die tomorrow or not. If he did, he’d answer any of your increasingly frantic texts. 

That’s not fair, the little voice in your mind says. He called you his best friend.

Childhood best friend, you snarl at that voice. You burst into the empty house, charging back to your bedroom. I’m just his bully now.

You didn’t mean to be.

Like that matters.

You throw yourself onto your bed, burying your face in your pillows. You hate feeling like this, out of control and so, so angry. You barely notice as your antlers burst out of your head, instinctively shifting down the bed so your prongs don’t get stuck in the headboard.

There are too many things out of your control. You don’t want Daryl to come here when you can’t make sure it’s safe. Your fingers claw at your pillowcase and you’re only mildly surprised when you hear ripping. For all you know, you’ve grown talons on top of the antlers.

There’s a part of you that wants to blame Cam. He’s the mechanism Genevieve talked about. His powers and his awakening are why you nearly died and still might. He’s the reason Daryl is breaking out of the institution, putting himself in danger with more than just your dad.

But as much as you want to blame Cam, you can’t. You’d heard the tone of his voice in the Old Forest when he refused to be a “sacrifice.” You saw the hurt in his eyes when he thought you didn’t think he was strong. You know he’s strong and righteous. Unlike you, he’s a hero.

And you’re the guy who gets killed.

Eventually you have to stop smothering yourself with the pillow in favor of breathing. You flop onto your back, pressing a forearm against your eyes. You’re slow and stupid and powerless. There’s a hundred voices in your head telling you that you’re going to die, that you’re going to watch your brother die, that you’re going to somehow mess up Cam’s duty to save the world. Maybe you already messed up by telling him about your vision. You don’t know.

It’s not optimism that makes you sit up and will your antlers away. The light is dimming outside, the minutes ticking by to the end of the world, and you’re laying in bed hating yourself. That’s not going to do anything. You know that from experience.

So, instead, you practice your breathing until your eyesight isn’t as animalistically sharp and your skull stops pounding. What can you do now? What is in your control? What’s your play?

You’re going to school tomorrow. It’s probably not the right thing to do, but you can’t bear the thought of sitting at home, waiting to see what happens. Would someone else die in your place? What if Cam doesn’t make it back in time? Daryl knew about the antlers. Did he know about the Abyssal Realm as well? You know your brother. He’s already run headlong into danger. Could you stay at home knowing he might go there to die in your place?

No, you’re part of this now and you aren’t going to sit by. You won’t sit by the sidelines ever again. 

-------------------------

The morning the world ends, you eat your game day breakfast. Lots of protein and carbs to keep you going on the field. You feel oddly calm. There isn’t anything more to think about. Either Cam will be there, or he won’t. Either Daryl comes here or goes to the school. You’re going to be where you can do something.

Your backpack doesn’t have any of the normal textbooks in it. There’s no room around the first aid kit, some rocks, and a knife. You kind of wish your dad had a gun, but are kind of glad he doesn’t. You don’t know how to shoot one anyway.

You chew your last bite of eggs slowly, eyes sliding to the hall that leads to your dad’s bedroom. He came in late last night. You heard him stumbling and swearing around 3am, just after you’d fallen asleep. He’s probably passed out right now, sleeping it off. Blissfully unaware of everything going on, just like he’s been blissfully unaware since Mom died.

You put your fork down, stand, and stalk down the hall.

Your dad’s door is always closed. It feels reckless to toss it open, to invade the only part of the house he expressly forbids you from going. He’s never in a good mood when he wakes up the day after pay day, and you can’t imagine being woken up will make him any happier.

Good. You don’t care if he’s happy.

The smell of sweat and stale, sour alcohol makes your eyes water as you struggle to adjust to the darkness. Your lips thin when your vision clears. There are piles of clothes everywhere, fast food wrappers, and empties. Your dad still sleeps in the same, beautifully carved bed that your mom did, but the sheets aren’t anywhere near the crisp, military-like perfection she kept them. They’re crumpled all up on one side of the bed, tucked around him like a cocoon, stained and frayed.

You hate that you can still feel bad for him, for what’s become of the father you looked up to for so long. You hate that you can feel the edges of your anger softening, dissolving. You hate that he’s still holding onto your mother with both hands and has never turned to look at what he’s doing to his own sons.

(And, maybe, you hate that you can’t blame him for that.)

You’re across the room in two strides, bottles clinking and rolling from under your feet. He doesn’t twitch at the noise or the sound of your enraged breathing.

His eyes fly open when you yank the sheets off of him though.

“Ward?” your dad says. Even the single syllable of your name slurs from his tongue. 

You lets the sheets drop from your hands. You feel like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin. “I’m probably going to die today.”

His brow furrows and his eyes try to focus on you. “Who’s dying?”

“You’re going to need to take care of Daryl,” you tell him. “You’re gonna have to stop drinking. Keep the house clean. Enroll him back in school.” 

“Daryl’s in the hospital,” your dad says.

A muscle in your jaw jumps involuntarily. “You can’t keep him there. He’s not sick and you’d know it if you weren’t so fucking drunk all the time!” You’re practically yelling by the end of the sentence.

Your dad struggles to sit up in bed. His eyes are a little clearer and there’s the anger you were expecting. “You don’t shout at me.”

“You need to take care of your son,” you say. There’s a hundred things you want to yell at him for, but you can’t. You need to go to school. “It’s okay you don’t love me,” --it’s really not -- “but Daryl deserves more than a dad who leaves trash in the front yard and can’t pay bills on time.”

Your dad coughs like a smoker and glares at you. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you--”

“You would if you ever listened to me,” you spit. You lash out blindly and fist the front of his shirt. It doesn’t feel good to see his eyes widen, for the lines around his mouth to go white when he fails to make you let go. You lift him a little, just with that one hand, so mad that you’re seeing red. You’re used to never feeling good anyway.  “Listen now. Take care of Daryl. If you ever loved Mom, you won’t send him back to the hospital.” His breath stinks of beer and you feel your lip curl. “Mom won’t ever forgive you if you don’t do better for him.”

“Don’t talk about her,” your dad says. He struggles in your grip.”She’s gone--”

“I know!” You throw him back onto the bed, stepping back. You’re not sure what face you’re making, but it’s making your dad look at you for the first time in forever. You speak through gritted teeth. “I know she’s gone. I’m the one who watched her die, remember?” Cruel memory rises and you nearly choke on an unexpected sob. “I let her die.”

It might be your imagination, but your dad flinches. “Ward, she--”

“I know that’s why you don’t care about me,” you say. You can’t hear him repeat the words back to you. Just once was enough to haunt you forever. “I would have--” you swallow hard “--I would’ve saved her if I could. But I couldn’t.” You’re crying. You shouldn’t be crying. You’re angry. “I’m going to do it right this time. I won’t let anyone die this time.”

“What are you talking about?” Your dad looks like he can’t decide between being angry and alarmed. “Is this a school thing?”

“Yeah,” you say and laugh without humor. He wasn’t listening at all. “Yeah, it’s a school thing.” You step backwards, to the door. “At least try to remember what I said when you’re sober.”

Your dad struggles to get out of bed. “Hey, you don’t just come in here--”

You slam the door shut behind you, furious at him and yourself for a pointless conversation.

---------------------------------

The first problem on your plate is getting people out of the school as fast as possible. The issue is that you’ve seen the news. Making a threat on the school doesn’t clear it--it makes it lockdown, trapping everyone inside. You’ve pulled the fire alarm before. It takes forever to get the students out onto the field and the field isn’t even far away.

You post out in the vacant lot behind the parking area, hunkering down behind some dry brush in case any yard supervisors look outside the gates. From here you can see the administration building, the front gate, and the street running parallel to the school. You’ll be able to see anyone coming from the roadside.

You don’t know when the attack is going to happen. Your vision showed you the locker room though and there’s only two times a day that you’re in there. Either it’s going to be third period, right after gym, or at the end of the day before practice.

You pull out your cell phone. There are no messages from Cam, but there is one from your dad. You stare at it for a long time. It’s been a long time since you saw his name on your screen. You unlock your phone to open it.

Are you on drugs?

Ha. You close your eyes, pressing the screen to your forehead. What did you expect? He’d asked the same question when you freaked out over Daryl going to the hospital. Whatever, it’s not your problem right now.

You, on impulse, try calling Cam. You’re not smart, you know you’re not, and you think he might have an idea on how to tell when the Abyssal Realm gets here. And, maybe, you want to ask him if he’s still planning on showing up. The phone rings and rings and rings. No one picks up.

You listen to his missed call message, thinking. When it beeps, you say, “I’m going to be really bummed if you don’t show up. But it’s okay if you don’t. I’m going to do it right this time.”

You’re not really sure what you mean when you say that you’re going to do it right. You might mean a lot of things. You’re going to stop Mitch this time. You’re going to stand up for Cam. You’re going to make sure no one dies.

You go back to watching the school. You can see the students in the classrooms closest to you, brunettes and black hair and blondes bobbing as the teacher talks. There’s a yard supervisor crossing over to the administration building going in. You see a line of birds perched on the school roof, waiting for lunchtime scraps. There are still a few hours to go before lunch time.

You’re absently aware that your body goes still as you watch, stiller than you’ve ever been before. The bush in front of you shivers in the wind, pricking against your exposed forearms. It’s a distant sensation, one you don’t acknowledge. The wind is sweet in your nostrils, bringing you the smell of grass and growing things.

You can see what the teacher is writing on the board. Mon. Test/Essay due. You are a few hundred feet away from the building. You blink, impressed with this new ability. What else you can see? You can practically count the feathers on the birds. You can see the type of pencil one of your teammates is using.

You watch as that pencil stops. You frown. There’s something wrong with how the pencil stopped scribbling. It was too fast. You know your teammate and he doesn’t move like that.

It’s not just him. Your vision expands outward, breath slamming back into your body. You didn’t realize you’d stilled to the point of not breathing. The entire school is frozen, like the pencil. You don’t see the motion of the student’s heads as they listen to the lecture. Mr. Ten is standing in the front of his classroom, mouth open as if in mid sentence. The birds on the roof are statues, necks craned at awkward angles toward the quad. The door to the administration room is still open, held at a forty-five degree angle by whatever has stopped time inside the school.

You’re running before you realize you’re going to. Your head is heavy and you know your antlers are out, but you don’t care. People are frozen and there’s only one thing you can think of that can do that.

Magic.

The side door to the closest classroom nearly takes your antlers off before you remember to duck. Swearing, you will them to at least shrink. You’re relieved when they do and stand upright to check the room.

Mr. Ten looks distantly over the heads of dozen of frozen students. Nobody is breathing, the only sound in the room coming from your own gasps and pounding heart. It feels awful here, everyone’s eyes empty and unfocused, frozen in the moment.

You run out of the classroom, bolting down the hall as fast as you can. Every classroom is like Mr. Ten’s. You veer away from the cafeteria and towards the back of the school where the gym is, sick dread in your stomach. You’d reasoned that the attack should happen after third or after school. It’s way too early. Could you have misunderstood?

You always misunderstand.

You stop just short of the locker rooms, one hand pressed over your mouth to quiet your breath. If something is already here, you don’t want it to hear you. When you get your breathing under control, you gingerly set your backpack at your feet. The zipper is loud in the quiet, but you’re not going in there without a weapon. You draw your knife--a butcher knife-- and a rock.

The locker room is empty. You’re not sure how you’re making yourself creep through the rows of benches and nooks. Your hands are shaking around your rock and knife, backpack cutting through your shoulders. 

There’s nobody in here.

You stop in front of Coach’s office. He’s sitting in there, eyes fixed on his screen, and mouth opened in what’s clearly the start of a sneeze. In a better situation, you’d be tempted to take a picture of the sight because it’s pretty funny. But this isn’t a better situation and you--

Your hear voices coming from the basketball court.

The boys locker room’s second entrance is just beyond Couch’s office, big metal door giving the feeling of being locked in. Outside of it is a short hall that all the basketball players like to use on game day so they can run out onto the court like real NBA champions. You hardly use this door because it’s faster to go through the hall to get to the field.

You really hope it doesn’t squeak.

You adjust your grip on your knife, hating how sweaty your hand is. You should have worn gloves. Too late now. The voices are too muffled by the door. As slowly and softly as you can, you nudge the door open with your shoulder.

“--for Cam,” a man is saying. You would know that voice anywhere. Mitch. You freeze, the door an inch open, held captive by your own fear. Mitch’s voice is very calm, almost nonchalant. “But having two mechanisms is better than one.”

“Hm.”

Your eyes widen. This second voice is also familiar, horribly familiar. You freeze in place, mind racing. 

“So we’ll wait,” Mitch says. There’s the sound of smooth-bottomed shoes on the court. Somewhat defensively he says, “It’s standard procedure to Time Lock the scene. I’m authorized to initiate one without a mechanism present.”

“Without an evacuation?”

That confirms it. The second person is Daryl. You’ve talked to him every week you could for the past week, you know your brother’s voice. It’s a little deeper than you expected, a little more monotone than you’ve ever heard it except on his worst days, but it’s him. You can’t stand here frozen. You need to get in there right now.

“Best not to delay,” Mitch says. His shoes squeak on the waxed floors again. “You haven’t seen as many battles as I have. It’s better that a few die in place of the many.”

You slip through the door, twisting so you can slow its closing. Your antlers have grown again, spiraling up towards the ceiling. You can’t even think of putting them back. You’re more worried about how exactly you’re going to get this murderous psychopath away from your brother without putting him in any more danger.

“Hm,” Daryl says again. “I could be sold on it.” His voice bounces from the ceiling. “What do you think, Ghost?”

“Who?” Mitch asks and then chokes like he swallowed his spit wrong.

You poke your head out of the hall and nearly choke yourself.

You’ve never seen the Ghost. Daryl’s told you what he looks like a hundred times, but even with that, he looks nothing like you thought. You’d imagined a man with black eyes like in one of those supernatural shows. Some horns and sharp teeth. Maybe a foot or two taller than normal. You didn’t expect a monster.

The thing hovering over Daryl’s shoulder is huge. It’s transparent, ghostly cloak floating around it in an ethereal breeze. It’s head is like that of a deer skull, long and pointed, but with teeth that would better suit a predator than a prey animal. Long, wraith-like fingers twitch in the air in front of it, wisps of blue fog spinning through the digits like snakes. The worst part of it is the eyes--the thing’s eyes are black, an endless, soul-sucking black.

Guilty, the Ghost rattles, his long fingers pointing to Mitch. It feels like an irrefutable verdict. A declaration. He is collecting their deaths.

Daryl hums. “I did a sense an awful lot of death in that necklace you’ve got there.”

Your brother. Your eyes jerk away from the Ghost to him. This is the first time you’ve been close enough to see him in a year. He’s thinner than you’ve remember him, cheeks gaunt and bright blue eyes stark against his pallor. Your mother’s dark hair went to him while you got your dad’s blond. His hair is long, nearly to his shoulders, and barely restrained by a single hair tie.

He looks every inch fifteen years old. And a fifteen-year-old has no business looking so confident in front of the man who tried to kill you.

Mitch’s lips curl as he steps back, one wary eye locked on the Ghost. “Necromancy. Of course this awful dump is guarded by a necromancer.” His hands go to his necklace, tugging at the pendant.  “I’m the only one who knows the location of the attack. Who told you to come here?”

We were always meant to meet, the Ghost rattles. 

“Ignore him,” Daryl says. “He’s so dramatic.” Your kid brother’s voice darkens. You didn’t know he could sound so threatening. “I know you’re here to try to kill my brother. I’m here to make sure you don’t get the chance.”

You fucking idiot, you think. You’re so proud of him and so grateful and so afraid. You told him not to come. You told him. You dig the balls of your feet into the ground, legs tense. Mitch is still too close.

“I’ll spare him,” Mitch says. He’s still trying to be nonchalant, but you can see the tension in his shoulders and face. His fingers run over his necklace again and again. “If you join me. You’re limited in this world. Weak. In the Abyssal Realm you can be strong too. They can teach you like they taught me.”

“Oh my god,” Daryl says, looking up at Ghost. There’s a long chain looped around his neck that catches the light. “Did I just get an evil recruitment speech?”

He led them here, Ghost says. It drifts closer to the floor and you can feel the air grow colder as its cape flutters in your direction. Traitor.

“Well,” Daryl says and shrugs at Mitch as if to say what can you do? The evil inhuman spirit that’s been haunting me since childhood said no. He blinks once and when he opens his eyes, they’ve turned from blue to black. “Kind of sorry about it, I guess.” He takes a step forward and the Ghost follows, skull grinning like a Jack-o-lantern.

Mitch’s face twists. “I want you to remember that I gave you a chance. It’ll be interesting to kill a Necromancer,” Mitch says. The necklace in his hands begins to glow with that same sinister light you remember from the Old Forest. “I wonder if you even have a soul to destroy?”

Several things happen very quickly.

Daryl’s hand flies out, clearly not expecting the speed of the attack.

The Ghost swoops down, cape swirling as it attempts to cocoon your little brother. It screeches as it realizes that Mitch’s pendant is already done charging.

Mitch laughs, cruel and high-pitched as he thrusts the necklace at Daryl, just a touch faster than the Ghost is moving.

You hit Mitch like the football player you are, shoulder planted firmly in his side. Your antlers catch on his cheek, tearing it open, a beat before his feet leave the ground and he’s sent flying. You stagger, not expecting him to fly and watch with wide eyes as he lands in a crumpled heap nearly a dozen feet away. You’re big and you’re strong, but you’re not that strong. Right?

Mitch doesn’t get up.

Daryl swears in Italian. You hear him step towards you. “Ward?”

You swivel to look at your brother, breathing heavily through your nose, eyes wide. This is the first time you’ve talked to “I--I didn’t mean to kill him.”

Daryl shakes his head. “He’s not dead,” he says and taps the side of his head. “I would know.” His eyes are no longer black as he looks you up and down. “What the fuck are they feeding you out here? You’re giant!”

“I hit a growth spurt,” you say. You know you’ve shot up at least six inches since you last saw Daryl. You frown at the way his shirt hangs from his shoulders. “You’re too skinny.”

“You’ve got antlers,” Daryl shoots back.

“Yeah,” you say and between one breath and the next, you’ve got your arms wrapped around him so tightly you can hear him wheeze. Tears prickle the corners of your eyes. “It’s good to see you, bro.”

“Yeah,” Daryl chokes out. He pats you on the back but you don’t let go. He wiggles. “Ward. Please. My ribs.”

You let go of him and swipe at your eyes. “Sorry.” You sniffle. It’s so embarrassing to cry,  but you can’t help it. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Daryl says awkwardly. He rubs the back of his neck, clears his throat and adds, “You know, when I wasn’t completely zonked out on meds anyway.”

“You’re not going back,” you say fiercely. Now that your brother is in arms reach, you’re going to do whatever it takes to look after him. At least until you die. “Not ever again. You’re not crazy. You’re fae.”

“Actually,” Daryl says, “I’m questioning, but thanks for your interest in my love life.”

You choke on a laugh.

“Jesus Christ, there’s two of them,” Cam groans.

You and Daryl jump, both of you putting up your fists like your dad taught you. You’re the first to relax at the sight of Cam and Genevieve walking onto the court. Then you remember that you’ve been crying and wipe at your face with both hands.  You try to sound tough. “Took you long enough.”

Cam looks different. He’s still short and scrawny, but his face is no longer pinched with worry. His shoulders are back and his chin is up, eyes determined. There’s almost a palpable aura of power around him, shimmering around his arms and legs. He says, “I just learned a year’s worth of magic in a week, back off.”

“You must be the other mechanism,” Daryl says. He frowns, looks Cam up and down, looks to you, and then back to Cam. “Hey, aren’t you that kid my brother used to hang out with?”

“I’m older than you,” Cam says. He folds his arms and looks up at the Ghost. “He said you could see ghosts.” There’s an accusation in his words. The Ghost isn’t exactly a ghost.

“Just the one Ghost,” Daryl corrects. His eyes slide to Genevieve, taking in the blade at her waist and the way she’s half-standing in front of Cam. “And you are?”

“Not fool enough to give a Necromancer my name,” Genevieve says.

At the same time you say, “Genevieve. She’s cool, she hates Mitch.” And then you wince as Genevieve turns to stare incredulously at you. “He’s cool, he’s my brother.”

“Oh, if he’s your brother,” Genevieve says. “That’s fine.”

You cheer up. “Totally! He’s--”

“She was being sarcastic,” Daryl interrupts, elbowing you in the side. He gives Genevieve a narrow-eyed smile. “Genevieve. I’ll remember that.”

Genevieve does not look happy for his consideration.

“The whole school’s in a Time Lock,” you say. You subtly put yourself a little in front of Daryl. That is to say, you put yourself in front of Daryl and everyone notices because you’re over six feet and have antlers. You clear your throat. “I think we need to get everybody out before the Abyssal Realm gets here.”

“Good idea,” Cam says, “hard to execute. Time Locks have to be undone by someone from Mitch’s organization and he’s the only one on the planet right now.”

“You mean this asshole?” Daryl asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to where Mitch is still lying on the ground. There’s a dark pool of blood underneath the cheek your antlers gouged, slowly growing.

Cam stares. “How the fuck did I miss that?” He turns to you. “Did he try to kill you again?”

You shift. “I said you were late.”

Daryl growls. “What do you mean again?” The Ghost shudders behind him menacingly.

“He’s alive,” Genevieve says. She crouches by Mitch’s body and picks up his wrist. It thuds against the ground when she drops it. She whistles. “He’s out. He needs to be conscious to undo a Time Lock.” She rubs her hands together, her power filling them. “I’ll wake him up--”

You can’t let that happen. You lurch forward. “Mitch is the one who called the Abyssal Realm here!”

Genevieve jerks like you’ve hit her. The glow around her hands fade and she stands up slowly. “What?”

“You heard him,” Daryl says. 

Genevieve turns and you gasp. Her eyes are filled with fire, literal fire, what the hell. “He told you this? He said he called the Realm here?”

You can feel her magic pulsing across your skin like waves of heat. You instinctively herd Daryl behind you and back up when she stalks towards you.  “That’s what he said.”

“That’s not possible,” Cam says. “He wanted me to awaken! You said his organization is dedicated to stopping the realm, how could he be working with them?”

“Because he’s a fool,” Genevieve says. She closes her eyes and, when she opens them again, they’re no longer on fire, but her irises are red. Blood red. “Did he tell you why?”

Daryl dips under your arm so that he’s standing in front of you. “He said that their world made him strong. They taught him.”

Genevieve curses in a language you don’t know, the syllables sharp and biting.

Cam’s brow furrows. “What? We already knew he uses Abyssal magic--”

“It is one thing to use their magic,” Genevieve hisses, “it is another to be taught.” She draws her sword and the blade shines red in the light. She turns back to where Mitch lies. “He’s forsaken his organization’s oaths. For his crimes, he must die.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Cam says, alarmed. He blurs and is between Genevieve and Mitch between one second and the next. You can smell magic in the air. He holds up his hands. “Don’t kill him--”

“If she doesn’t, I will,” Daryl says and cracks his knuckles. You look down at him, shocked.

“--he should have a trial, right?” Cam firms his jaw. “Who’s to say if he’s working with anyone else? We should turn him over to the organization--”

“He’s helping the creatures that ate my entire planet,” Genevieve says. She grits her teeth. “Move, Cameron--”

“I just think--”

“God, he’s a bleeding heart,” Daryl mutters. He looks up. “Ghost.”

Traitor’s blood is sweet, the Ghost says and drifts down from the ceiling, skull clacking with glee.

You bounce from foot to foot. While you hate Mitch and are scared of him, something in you flinches at seeing him killed after you knocked him unconscious. “Wait, maybe Cam’s right, a trial might be--”

“He’s mine,” Genevieve snarls at the Ghost. Her eyes meet Daryl’s. “Back off.”

“Then hurry,” Daryl says, “Ghost says the Realm is going to be here soon--”

“Yes!” You jump on that. “Yeah, guys, this is no time to be murdering Mitch, the Realm is gonna--”

“No, no,” Daryl interrupts. “We should still murder Mitch, but, like, faster.”

“Agreed,” Genevieve says. She raises her sword and flames dance along the blade. “It’ll be a moment.” She swings.

Cam shouts, hand flying out towards where she’s gripping the handle.  “Genevieve!”

Mitch groans, eyes rolling in his sockets.

Ghost swoops low.

There’s a tingle of electricity beneath your feet and every single hair on your body stands on end. “Guys--”

The ground splits open beneath Daryl’s feet, a jagged crack of broken wood and shattered concrete. He jerks as he stumbles, eyes wide. “Ward.” He reaches for you.

And he falls.

----------------------------------------------

Your mother dies because you weren’t enough to save her. You weren’t big enough, arms too weak to hold her weight. You weren’t fast enough, feet too slow to stabilize her before she tipped over the cliff. You weren’t smart enough because if you were you would’ve known it was too dangerous for her to be there at all.

There is a part of this memory you will never let yourself remember.

You remember the day. How sunny it was with only a hint of grey clouds on the horizon. You were hoping for rain the next day, tired of the long practices Coach put you through on the weekends. You were lazier back then, weaker, and you didn’t care about being first string.

You remember that your mother was wearing stripes. She loved patterns of all kinds and it wasn’t unusual to find her clashing, spots and stripes. She smiled at you, her blue eyes dark under the shadow of her baseball cap.

You remember the sound of the rock as it crumbled underfoot, like wet dirt and New Year’s clackers. 

You remember sitting with her at the bottom, the memory of not catching her on loop in your mind as you tried desperately to heal wounds you did not understand.

You remember all of these things, the good and the bad in such horrific detail. You tried to save her, you did. Your hand was right there, a cry leaving your lips as you lunged for her. You met her eyes as she fell, so wide and so blue and so afraid. She reached back for you and for a moment, just a moment, your fingers brushed.

The part of the memory you won’t let yourself recall is in this moment. Your fingers brush and...and then she falls. You don’t want to remember the way her lips pursed in that in between moment, determination and grief overwhelming the fear.

You weren’t strong enough to hold her up and your mother knew it.

Your fingers touched and she pushed you away.

---------------------------

There is a fine line between saving and being saved. You’re destined to die here, in the gym, alone. Already fate is changing. You are not alone and that’s why you’re not the only one at risk of dying now.

That’s what your mother knew in her final moments. She was like you, desperate to be saved when the world crumbled underneath her feet. But she knew you couldn’t help her and she made a difficult decision instead. She saved you.

She saved you.

You are being saved. Cam and Daryl are saving you from the Abyssal Realm and you can see how it plays out in every horrifying detail.

 Daryl falls first and the Ghost rends the air in his quest for vengeance. He is a being with access to Death, a dominion over souls and names. Mitch dies before Daryl is consumed and, struck, the Ghost attacks the Abyssal Realm as it oozes up through the floor.

Then Ghost is consumed by the Abyssal Realm.

Cam springs forward, Genevieve at his side. They fight through the miasma, slaying the horrific creatures that crawl from the tear in the earth. They fight and fight until they are both covered in corrupted magic and their own blood.

Genevieve falls, magic spent. She is not a mechanism. Cam screams, the world surging with his brilliant, blue power. He slams his blood-stained hands to the ground. The rifts screams as it closes, Cam’s power restoring the gym to how it was.

You are still sitting by the spot where Daryl disappeared, eyes wide and tear-filled and empty.

You are saved.

-------------------

“I won’t let anyone die this time.”

----------------------------------------

The electric shock up your spine brings you back. You are hyper alert, your fingertips tingling, your heart rampaging in your chest.

You understand.

Cam shouts, hand flying out towards where Genevieve’s gripping the sword.  “Genevieve!”

Mitch groans, eyes rolling in his sockets.

You’ve only got moments to act. You don’t know why you thought the Abyssal Realm would come from above. You grab the back of Daryl’s shirt and, forgetting your new strength, throw him across the gym. He hits the ground, skidding along the waxed floor, and twists, a snarl already on his lips. “What the--”

Ghost howls and races towards Daryl, forgetting his quarry in favor of his master.

The ground rumbles and you explode into a sprint, hitting Cam and Genevieve nearly at the same time. Neither of them expect the blow and hit the ground, hard. Genevieve’s sword clatters out of her hands, flames sputtering out.

The ground splits open, wood splintering and concrete cracking. Metal shrieks and the fluorescent lights overhead shatter, dusting you all with glass. The others are screaming, yelling, Genevieve already scrambling to her feet, but you can’t pay attention to them. You grit your teeth. Just a little more.

Mitch struggles when you yank him up. His shoulder pops grotesquely in your grip and, even with everything going on, your stomach turns. You can feel the creeping, sticky power already swelling behind you. It makes you break out into a cold sweat, the memory of having your soul nearly destroyed fresh. You don’t want to do this, but you understand now how the Realm was called here.

Like calls to like. As long as Mitch is here, the rift can stay open.

You haul Mitch with you towards the fissure. There are dark things peeking out of it now. The gym is crumbling around you, the bleachers collapsing as they bend under the force of the Abyssal Realm colliding into Earth.

“WARD!” Daryl staggers as the ground bucks. “Stop!”

“Finn!” Cam screams. You feel his magic like a summer’s breeze against your back. He’s trying to stop you, but you are fae. The magic slides off. “Get away from--”

You reach the edge of the rift and look down. Sweat pours down your face. There is a rioting black mass far, far below and you can see teeth. You meet your brother’s eyes. “I love you.” You turn your back to his screams and meet Cam’s panicked gaze. “Heal it.”

And you tip yourself with Mitch over the edge, jaw clenched and unblinking eyes as the miasma surges and envelops you completely.

--------------------------------------

“You’re a fool,” Mitch snarls in the void. He is still in your arms, but sharper now. All around you the world hisses and nips and stabs. “It will eat you first.”

You don’t answer right away. Or maybe you do? Time is weird in the darkness. Your arms should be aching from how tightly you are holding onto him, but you feel just like you did when you threw the both of you here in the first place. Strong. Determined.

I won’t let anyone die.

The world is trying to eat you. It’s a pale imitation of the soul-searing pain Mitch inflicted all those days (years?) ago and, though you search for it, the panic never comes. The abyssal magic is attempting to tear you asunder, but it can’t.

“I’m tough to chew,” you say. Your voice sounds funny here. More like a bark than the deep, lumbering timber you’re used to. You clear your throat and wince when the some dark creature winds its hand around your neck. “Tougher than you.”

“We’ll see,” Mitch says. I key black tendrils creep across his face until all you can see is one of his eyes rolling angrily. “They know me.”

You can feel that they do. The teeth that you glimpsed falling in worry at your elbows and knees and ears. Something jerks against your antlers and sips at whatever power allows them to grow. You grit your teeth and twist away from that mouth, relishing the angry hiss it prompts.

When the creatures—whatever resides in the miasma—can’t get to your antlers, the fae part of you that shines, deep, deep down, their goal changes. Stabs lessen and nibbles grow. Then there’s a strike and white-hot pain shoots through you. Something just took a bite.

“See?” Mitch croons. You can’t see him under the writhing mess of tentacles, but you can hear the pain in his voice. “They’ll feed me your power, piece by piece.”

It hurts. It’s not world-ending, awful, never-the-same pain, but it hurts. You’re not sure how long it bites at you, claws at you, but it’s a long time. You hope that Cam followed your words and sealed the tear. You hope that your brother is safe and you kick yourself for not making sure of that before jumping. You hope for these things around the awful tearing and ripping sounds that mean more and more pieces of you are being taken, eaten, consumed.

No, you think. I won’t be eaten. It’s an unexpectedly strong thought. You jolt and twitch at the continuous stabs of pain. Mitch is whimpering now and you know there’s a reason you are holding onto him, but you can’t imagine what that reason is when you are disappearing bite by bite. I will not be eaten here.

You shake your head, dislodging the thing burrowing into your cheek and twist. Your skin goes all lose and tingly. There’s the feeling of what’s left of your hair sliding down your non-ruined cheek. Your back cracks and breaks, elongates and broadens, smooths out and grows strong. Your vision sharpens like it did at the school and you can see a silver glow where, before there was only darkness. The glow is coming from you. You huff a breath through your nose, breathing out the pain as your bones continue to crack and reform into your new shape.

“No,” Mitch gasps. He falls from your disappearing arms and you see that there is not much of him left. An arm, half a torso and one, rolling eye. Blackness leaks from his parts like blood and you can see his power wafting off of him like vapor. The miasma breathes it in. “No! I’m one of you, I’m one of—“

The abyssal creatures tear him apart before he can finish the sentence. And then they turn on you.

You run. Your heart is thundering in your new chest and you can feel your hooves striking flesh. Your legs are strong, so strong that one leap carries you from one writhing mass to another, a trail of silver magic crackling like electricity shining behind you. You snort, tossing your head, reveling in the weight of your antlers and the shrieks of the creatures snarling above you when one of your points gores them.

You are not running away. This is fighting in the way your soul remembers. 

You run and they chase.  You run, never losing your footing, your breath, your stamina. They pile up behind you, claw over the bodies of their comrades, collapse and shriek when their magic gives out. They never so much as touch your flank.

You laugh and it sounds like bells and foxes and the snapping of branches. Chase me, chase me, chase me. Forever. There is savage joy in your chest. They will chase you forever because you are a prize. You—

“—Finn!”

—are the ultimate quarry. Your pelt shines like starlight and your eyes are as deep as the night sky you remember from your childhood. They can’t—

“Ward Finn!”

—help themselves from hunting you though the distance between hunter and prey never narrows, never furthers, never fluctuates from a mere ten paces away. A howling creature drops down in front of you—

“The soul of Ward Finn, I command you to—“

—and you rear, silver hooves flashing as they crash down on an exoskeleton so weak it shatters under the blow. 

“—return!” Silence. Then a broken voice says, “Please, Ward.”

You stop. The creatures crash around you, screeching like a tempest, but they’re too weak to puncture your hide. That’s—you’re Ward. You’re Ward Finn and there is someone calling your name.

“Please,” your brother says from somewhere far away. “Come back.”

Your nostrils flare and you lunge forward, joy no longer filling you as the abyssal creatures howl and scream under your hooves.  That’s your brother, that’s Daryl’s voice. Your hooves crash and clatter together so fast do you run. The creatures fall behind and even those in front are too slow to drop down before you’re racing past them.

There’s a light in the darkness. No, not a real light. There’s a shine off of shattered wood flooring and twisted rebar. The rift. Daryl’s voice is coming from it, growing more and more strained with each iteration of your name.

“We have to close it,” Cam says. There’s pain under the words and you can smell his magic twining through the air like thread. “I can’t hold them back any longer.”

You dodge over a row of gnashing teeth and bellow. I’m here! You toss a creature in your path with your antlers and bellow again. Daryl!

“No,” Daryl says. “No, he hears me, I can feel it, he—“

Your stride lengthens impossibly further, your breath coming in harsh, wet pants. You are getting tired, the speed at which you’re running not sustainable, but you have to make it. You have to.

“We’ve waited too long,” Genevieve snaps. “He’s—“

You plunge out of the tear, flying into the air so high that you hit the ceiling. There’s a confusing swirl of color as you flip, head throbbing and hooves still flailing like you’re running. You hit the ground on your side and bellow in surprise as you skid from one of the gym to the other. Debris flies and the bleachers screech when you finally crash into them.

You stay where you landed for a long moment. Your muscles are twitching from the strain and you feel like you can’t get enough air into your lungs. Your legs kick feebly and you decide it’s better to keep laying down until it no longer feels like you might pass out.

Footsteps approach. Your instincts tell you to get up and run, but the Ward Finn part of your brain recognizes who it must be. Your eyes roll up until you see him, his face gaunt and tear-streaked.

“It’s—it’s a deer,” Daryl says. He wipes his eyes aggressively. “It’s not—it’s a just a stupid deer.”

You exhale in protest. No! You try to get to your feet and get as far as rolling over. Your legs are too tired to stand. You look at him, neck aching, and exhale. Daryl, it’s me!

Cam swears. He limps over, sweat and blood dripping from his hairline. Whatever happened, it wasn’t easy. He stares at you. “I don’t think it’s a deer.” His eyes drift up to your antlers and stop. “What’s a male deer called?”

Genevieve is the first to approach you. Her sword is broken in her hand, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She considers you. “There are legends of white stags in your world’s history. It’s not an abyssal creature.”

You eye her sword and hope she doesn’t try to stab you with it. They’re not going to recognize you unless you can figure out a way to communicate. Your deer-brow (stag-brow?) furrows. Didn’t Genevieve tell you how to get rid of your antlers? Could that work now? You concentrate.

“Oh my god,” Daryl says. Your eyes fly open to find him staring at you, open-mouthed. “That is Ward.”

“I knew it,” Cam says. His face breaks into a wide smile. “I knew I recognized that—“

“Constipated look!” Daryl finishes for him.

“—antlers,” Cam says. He looks at Daryl. “What?”

“He always look constipated when he thinks,” Daryl says through tears. “I’d recognize that look anywhere.”

You are not constipated, but it doesn’t matter because Daryl collapses on you, arms winding around your neck.You are shaking with excitement. He recognizes you! He recognizes you!

“But why is he a deer?” Cam asks Genevieve.

“He’s not,” she says. You meet her eyes over Daryl’s shoulder and she nods, respect in her eyes. “He’s a White Stag. Fae.”

“Can—“ Daryl sniffles “—can he turn back?” He pulls back to meet your eyes. “It’s going to be hard to explain this.”

No kidding. Your eyes nearly cross in an effort to turn back. Nothing. You breathe out hard enough Daryl’s hair ruffles.

“With time and practice,” Genevieve says. She hesitates a beat too long. “Probably.”

You’ll take it.

Daryl helps you stand, acting like his shoulder will be enough to support you if you do fall. The Ghost is nowhere to be seen, but you can smell him nearby. There’s black goo all over the gym and you know from experience that more than a few abyssal creatures died here. Proud, you whuffle the top of Daryl’s head. 

“Good job to you to,” Daryl says. He’s always been able to understand you.

“Not to break up the bonding moment,” Cam says from your other side, “but the Time Lock disintegrated when Mitch died and I don’t think it’s a good idea to parade Finn—Ward— through the school.”

Ward! He called you Ward. He called you by your first name and that means you’re friends. You lean over and whuffle Cam’s hair too, delighting in the blush that spreads all the way up to his ears.

“Good point,” Genevieve says. She stops in front of you and grabs both Cam and Daryl by the shoulder. She meets your eyes. “White Stags are known for the ability to not get caught. Meet you at Cameron’s.” She winks and the action is so foreign that she looks like a different person when she grins. “Don’t get caught.”

Daryl is the first to understand. “Wait—“

There’s a flash of magic and you blink. You’re alone in the gym with the knowledge that Genevieve just transported your brother and Cam without you. You whine and stomp a hoof. She could have transported you too!

You look down at yourself. You actually might be taller in this form than in your human form. You stomp your hooves. You’re tired. 

The bell rings and students voices filter in through the gym doors. Class is changing, hours after it should have with none the wiser. Your stomach swoops. There’s gym this period.

You put down your head and run.

THE END