Chapter Text
Hunter knows he’s stupid.
If one couldn’t tell by the scars on his face that he had a hard time learning his lesson, they could take one look at his test scores and figure it out.
Case in point: he’s nine, it’s the day after he turned in this semester’s final, cumulative spelling test, and the paper his tutor hands back to him is coated from top to bottom in red ink.
His heart sinks. This was his last chance to bring his grade up. He’d spent the entire night re-memorizing the shapes of the words he’s been working on for weeks, and he still blew it. His eyes fill with traitorous tears as he peers up at her.
His tutor, Ms. Nessa, a tall, imposing woman of high status in the coven, tuts at him.
“You knew this was coming, child. When you slack off to play soldier instead of attending to your schoolwork, this is what happens. If you had done what I—”
“I have been doing what you told me!”
She narrows her eyes. His veins turn to ice. She’s not as dangerous as his uncle, he knows, but any adult turning their ire towards him makes him scared anyway.
“I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn. It won’t happen again,” he says.
He doesn’t kneel—kneeling is reserved for the Emperor only, but he does bare his neck to her with a bow. He hopes it will defuse her annoyance with him enough for him to make his case.
“I doubt that. You always think you know better than your elders, yet you cannot spell the simplest of words, put together a coherent idea onto paper, or even read a children’s book, for Titan’s sake. I’ve spent years trying to school you, yet you can never admit to your laziness, nor make any progress at all. Your uncle and I have already discussed dismissing you from my lessons several times, but he’s been adamant that I should keep trying with you. I think with this report card, though, he’ll finally listen to reason.”
“No! Please, don’t tell him!” Hunter cries, “You’re right, I’m lazy! But please, Ms. Nessa, give me another chance before you talk to him.”
“I’ve given you plenty of chances, child! Do you know what we say about chances, in the coven?”
“…They have to be earned,” he says miserably.
“Speak up!”
“They have to be earned!”
“Correct. And you’ve exhausted every last chance you’ve earned from me,” Ms. Nessa says, “There are plenty of children in the aristocracy who are far more suited for my time than you.”
She snatches the paper back from him, rips it in half, and throws it into the garbage. He watches the series of events as though it’s happening to someone else. It’s not really his work she’s throwing away. His work is still on his dresser in his room, drying from shaky black ink and tear drops before he has to take it to his next lesson.
“You’re dismissed,” she says, “Return to your quarters and stay there. I’m sure your uncle will have a word with you after I go over your report card with him.”
“Yes ma’am,” he says emotionlessly.
He bows again. She gives him one last look of disgust and turns on her heel to walk away.
He waits until the conference room door shuts with a heavy bang to drag himself to his room. Most of the time, when he’s injured and retreating to his room, the hallways feel impossibly long. Now, they’re far too short. His room, which is usually his safe haven, has become his holding cell. He doesn’t know what to do with the heartbreak and anger he’s experiencing other than to cry pathetically into his pillow and punch his bed with ink-stained fists.
By the time his door finally creaks open, he’s been finished with his tantrum for a while. He doesn’t bother hiding the drying tears on his face. He’s already in trouble, so it doesn’t really matter.
“Oh, Hunter,” his uncle says, once he takes in the state of his nephew.
The man strides across the room. Hunter doesn’t know what to expect—yelling, hitting, or a privilege taken away, but he mentally prepares all of the options at once. He tenses as the bed dips with his uncle’s weight beside him. Hunter can’t meet his uncle’s eyes, but he knows the man is scrutinizing him. He wants to dive under the covers and never show his face again.
Surprisingly, Belos pulls his nephew into a hug. Hunter melts into it and sobs.
Of course his uncle would be nice to him despite his failure. His uncle checks in on him once every morning, and once every night. He’s seen how hard Hunter’s been working to balance his workload. Hunter can handle his sword fighting lessons, his bo staff lessons, and his hand-to-hand combat lessons just fine, and Belos knows it. He’s seen first-hand that Hunter dutifully perfects his assigned katas within an hour of receiving them each day, then spends hours finishing his schoolwork by lamplight every night.
“I’m s—sorry,” he tears up again, “I’m sorry uncle, I tried my best. I did everything I was supposed to, but I—”
“I know, dear,” Belos says.
Belos gently pushes Hunter out of the hug and rubs his hand in stiff circles on Hunter’s back instead. Hunter doesn’t care. He’s just grateful that his uncle doesn’t seem to be angry. He’s not sure if that will change, but for now, he’s not going to worry about it. Being by Belos’s side after a failure instead of at the man’s feet is too comforting to take for granted. He tries not to give into the paranoia that this is all a trap. His uncle cares about him, and it’s incredibly audacious for Hunter to assume his uncle, who holds his morals closer to his chest than he does Hunter, would lie to him.
“Some people just aren’t very book smart, and that’s okay,” Belos says, “Luckily, people with a lack of intelligence are able to make up for it with an innately increased magical prowess.”
Hunter feels his heart shattering. His uncle stills his hand and backtracks.
“Oh. Well. That’s quite unfortunate. You don’t really get that luxury, do you?”
From what Hunter can see looking up at the side of his uncle’s face, there’s the hint of a smirk tugging at the man’s lips as he speaks, as if he knows something Hunter doesn’t. Unfortunately, whether it’s a book or his uncle’s words, Hunter is never clever enough to read between the lines.
Hunter shakes his head.
Warm, quiet tears roll down his cheeks. He’s pretty sure they’ve both known for a while that he’s useless, at least in every way that matters to make it in this society. Confirmation from his uncle is just a formality, as well as another opportunity for the man to remind him of his place.
His uncle hums and resumes comforting him, this time patting Hunter’s back.
“No matter. With my guidance, you’ll be set for life. If you’re not intelligent enough for academics, it’s alright. We can simply start your scout training early. Perhaps if you get a head start, you can catch up to your peers by the time the mountain trials come around next year. Your artificial staff is nearly finished, you know,” he says. His uncle’s wrinkly face pulls into a warm, mischievous smile, and in that moment, Hunter knows he’s loved.
He wipes his tears and sniffs. His nose is stuffed up now, so his disbelief is nasally when he speaks.
“Really?”
“Really. So cease this crying. I will arrange for a new tutor to meet with you next week to teach you how to use it. For now, would you agree with me that we should discontinue your lessons with Ms. Nessa? I think she’s growing quite tired of your idiocy, if the way she spoke about you today was any indication.”
Hunter hates the stinging betrayal he feels towards the woman. They’ve never been close (he’s pretty sure she’s always hated him, honestly), but she’s one of the only people outside of his uncle that he has the privilege to interact with. He can count on one hand the people he knows personally, and he hates that he’s going to have to put a finger down now, all because he’s too stupid to make her proud.
His uncle waits for an answer to his question, and time seems to freeze for a moment. He has dreadful feeling that agreeing with his uncle is a mistake that will haunt him for years to come, but really, what other choice does he have? He feels like a child, the way he wants to yell at his uncle about the unfairness of it all.
The things is, Hunter wants to learn. He wouldn’t have tried so hard for all these years if he wasn’t powered by that drive. He knows there’s a world outside of the coven, and he’s curious to understand what it’s like. All he has to go off of is conversations he listens in on while the scouts are eating lunch sometimes. He knows there are biography books in the castle library about witches and their stories of the outside, but he can never get through one page of anything without wanting to cry at the fruitlessness of his attempt.
He’d like to learn, yet he’s fundamentally incapable of it. His uncle’s right. It would be best if he gave up on it and focused his attention on attainable goals that will actually serve the coven, instead. He knows this; he knows it’s what his uncle wants, so why is it so hard to force the words out of his own mouth?
“Yes uncle,” he makes himself say. His voice is far too lifeless. He hopes his uncle doesn’t get onto him for it.
“Good,” his uncle says, then ruffles his hair.
The emperor sits with him in silence for a moment, visibly comfortable with the lack of conversation, unlike his depressed, fidgety nephew. Then, out of nowhere, the man chuckles.
“You know, your father was an illiterate, powerless witch as well. He ended up settling down and doing well for himself, despite everything. It’s a tragedy that he couldn’t defend himself against a wild witch, but I’m afraid it was a fate he brought about himself. If he only would have to listened to my advice about staying away from her…” Belos sighs.
Hunter also already knows to keep any questions he has about his father to himself, so the mention of his father’s fate doesn’t really stir any emotion in him. He has more relevant things to be sad about.
Belos gives Hunter another smile. This time, it looks a little tired, Hunter thinks.
“Fortunately, I think you shall have a different fate, should the same situation happen to you. You’ll have access to an artificial staff, as well as years of combat training. You’ll be ten times as competent as him. I don’t think I’ll have anything to worry about with you.”
His uncle puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him what the man must think is a comforting squeeze. To Hunter, it’s the blade edge of a threat. He doesn’t want to think about what will happen to him if he doesn’t turn out ten times more capable than his father. He wonders who would punish him worse—the world, or Belos?
It’s okay. He doesn’t need to worry about that, because he’s not going to fail.
Not long after, his uncle stands up, exchanges ‘goodnight’s with him, and gives him one final hug. He says he’ll give Hunter further instructions in the morning, and tells his nephew to finally get a good night’s sleep for once. Hunter nods into his shoulder.
He doesn’t want his uncle to go. He has the sinking feeling that the second the door closes, his fate is sealed.
After letting his uncle indulge him for far too long, he reluctantly pulls back from the hug. He watches his uncle’s robes drag behind him, seemingly in slow motion, as he walks away. The lamp makes a clicking noise when his uncle shuts it off. The door clicks shut, the sound reverberating throughout the room, and Hunter’s left alone in the unsettling darkness.
With nothing else to occupy his time, he replays the conversation he just had with his uncle over and over, wondering if there was any point in there he could have sweet-talked his way into earning another chance. After mentally reviewing the footage, he doesn’t think there was.
So, that’s that, then. Hunter’s daily routine is going to change, he’s going to have one less person to talk to, and he’ll be made to focus solely on serving the Titan with his body. He’s going to learn how to use a staff, he’s going to start scout training, and he’s going to be ten years old when he gets dropped off at the top of the mountain.
There’s going to be so many changes all at once, and he hates it.
He wants to be done thinking of it. He wants to sleep and start tomorrow as if today never happened. Though, despite the lack of homework, he stays awake just as long as he normally would. For an idiot, he sure does have a lot of thoughts. They flit about in his mind’s eye like a disorganized photo album that never wants to close.
He wakes up in the morning at the same time he always does. He eats breakfast alone, like usual. The scouts always start to trickle in when he’s just about finished with his ration, and today’s no different. If he ignores reality really hard, he can pretend it’s just a normal day. He brings his plate to the dishwasher and heads back to his room. He still has time to finish his homework before his next lesson.
Along the way, he passes by the conference room where he usually meets with Ms. Nessa.
He tells himself not to look for her. If he doesn’t see the conference room empty, he can pretend she’s still around the castle somewhere, waiting for him to present her with his terrible homework. But since he’s stupid and has no sense of self-preservation, he nudges open the heavy door anyway. Dust particles dance in the rays of light spilling into the room. Ms. Nessa’s nowhere to be found.
He realizes, with a sharp pang in his heart, that he didn’t even get to say goodbye.
Hunter goes back to his room and cries into his pillow.
His days are empty until the following week when as promised, Belos introduces Hunter to a staff wielding tutor. With dead eyes, Hunter bows his head when he introduces himself, and begins his years-long transformation from child to weapon.
The mountain trials are a major boost to his self-esteem.
Seeing as how the rules state that no one is allowed to use magic for the duration of the challenge, Hunter has a massive home field advantage. His small, lithe body zips down the snowy banks, easily defeating any environmental hazard or cutthroat scout who wants to take him down. He makes it to the bottom an hour before the second place winner.
Belos gives him his first scout uniform and assigns him to his first mission.
A couple years and hundreds of missions under his belt later, his gray mask is replaced by gold.
He’s grateful he’s allowed to give his mission reports verbally.
He’s even more grateful that when he messes up, he doesn’t need to use written words to beg for his uncle’s forgiveness.
Desperately trying to learn about his origins through several thick, heavy tomes (all while he’s never been able to handle one bat-in-the-hat book without wanting to scream in frustration) is a near-impossible undertaking. Foolishly, this doesn’t stop Hunter from making an attempt.
Scratch that.
Several attempts.
He’s been sitting against the wall for hours, staring at the words under the familiar-but-different shadows of lamplight.
When the footsteps from the rooms above him finally wind down, Hunter decides it’s time for him to reevaluate his priorities. It’s the third time he’s read the first page, yet he still doesn’t understand what it says. He’s spent so much time trying to decode the letters into sounds, sounds into words, and words into meanings that by every time he reaches the end of a paragraph, he realizes he hasn’t comprehended a single thing. When he’s just about ready to admit he’s too stupid for this, throw the book at the wall and call it a day, Flapjack pulls at his hair.
“Ow! Flap, what the heck was that for?” He yells.
“Not stupid.”
“You don’t have to lie just to make me feel better!”
“Not lying! Boy cannot read well. So what! He can do many other things well.”
“If you say so.”
Flap is somewhat right. Hunter knows of one other thing he can do well—drown in his own self-pity. Hunter aches for the finality of knowing he accomplished the one task he’d given himself that day. He has the sudden longing to do what he’s seen people in the castle library do when they’re done reading for the day; he wants to bookmark the page he got to, leave with the knowledge he’s absorbed so far, and know that tomorrow, he can easily pick back up where he left off.
Instead, he closes the book with the slow, heavy shame of knowing he’s fighting a losing battle. He climbs into the pile of old costumes and tries to get as comfortable as he can in his makeshift bed. Flapjack nestles into the crook of his neck and rubs his feathers on his witch’s cheeks to clear away his stubborn tears. The bird softly offers to read the book to him, but Hunter’s too embarrassed tonight to say yes. It’s so funny that even a palisman, whose kind typically have little interest in witch literature, is more capable than him.
He knows it’s not Flap’s fault he’s a dumbass. Hunter pushes down the jealousy and instead worries about their future. Or lack thereof. Belos lied about a lot of things, but Hunter’s knows the man hit the nail on the head when he said that without his help, there’s not a place in society for Hunter. Hunter knows what meager skills he has to bring to the table pale in comparison to the litany of skills he needs to access the world around him in any meaningful way.
Whether by clutching the back of his uncle’s robes, slipping on a golden mask, or holing himself away in some dingy auditorium, Hunter knows his survival has always depended on how well he can hide in the shadows of what real people have left behind.
Instead of counting sheep that night, Hunter comforts himself with a metaphorical, condescending pat on the head. He doesn’t need to learn more about what he is. He know’s what he’s not, and that should be enough information for him to move on from this sudden upheaval of his entire living situation and separation from his only family.
He needs to think about what’s important. Regroup and strategize. He needs to come up with new ways to live off the generosity of others. As if reading his mind, Flapjack flies off in the morning to find them both something to eat. Hunter hangs back, useless and alone, just like he’s used to. Not much time later, he’s eating a sandwich that Gus gives him. Then, the captain sticks up for him when he’s threatened with being kidnapped. The icing on the cake is Principal Bump listening to his story and allowing him access to Hexside's alliance. He lives at Gus’s house for a while. He keeps in contact with all of his friends.
He’s becoming too dependent again, but really, what other choice does he have?
Things move incredibly quickly, after that. He doesn’t have time to concern himself with the existential crisis of being a clone when he and his brand new friends are literally fighting for their lives.
The Day of Unity comes and goes. By the end of it, when he’s stepping through a portal into an unknown realm, his hand outstretched to tentatively touch the rain Belos told him about, time slows down again. He knows that once he goes through that door, there’s no going back. It’ll be too many changes at once, but this time, he has a reason of his own to keep going. One thing Hunter can do well is protect those he loves, and he’s not going to waste that redeeming quality.
He wakes up that morning in Luz’s living room to Gus snoring next to him. He wonders what the first day of their new reality will bring. It almost feels like a fresh start, and maybe for once, it’ll be a good one.
He tries to read the clock on the wall to check the time and sighs. It sucks that his old problems didn’t just get left behind in the Demon Realm like nearly everything else he hates did. It’s going to be hard to mask his shortcomings with the obsolete methods he’s used his entire life in the Coven.
Maybe there’s a clock in this realm that can read the time aloud, just like his old scroll did.
For now, he’ll improvise.
He measures time by his friends waking up, one by one. At approximately five-witch-o-clock, the sun is peeking through the blinds at a forty-five degree angle. He’s not sure how to convert that data into real time, but he forgets all about it when a plate of ‘waffles’ is sat in front of him at the kitchen table. Ms. Noceda talks about rules and expectations, which he loves. Then, the kids at the table devolve into heated discussions over the dumbest of topics, once she walks out the door.
He laughs during the funny parts of and almost feels like he’s a part of a family.