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Belos loved him.
Belos was the only one who loved him.
Belos cared about him.
Belos was the only one who cared about him.
Belos needed him.
And Hunter needed Belos.
Belos didn’t make fun of him, or mock him, or call him a whiny, stuck up brat.
Belos only wanted to help him. To help him be better. And Hunter was grateful. Hunter wore his scars with pride. They were a reminder that he could always be better. That he had to be better.
Belos didn’t praise him for his strengths, nor for what he’d done right. The Golden Guard didn’t need praise. Belos only highlighted his flaws. Belos only helped him, told him what he could do better.
Belos was everything.
Belos cared.
That was why he now sat on his bed, studying the blood dripping from his arm.
He’d be fine. He always was.
Besides, he deserved it. He had failed.
Sure it hurt, but he deserved it. He would be better. He had to be better.
The bird perched on Hunter’s shoulder, nestled into the crook of his neck. The bird understood. The bird knew what it was like to be pushed helped. The bird knew what it was like to be punished taught. The bird knew what it was like to be alone gone left hurt unwanted hated forgotten loved.
The bird had loved before and had told himself never again.
Hunter had never truly loved, not in any way.
Yet the bird loved his master.
Hunter did not love his.
The Emperor's coven was no place for love.
Hunter didn’t know what the feeling he felt for the bird was. It couldn’t have been love; he barely even knew what love was. Was it something that just happened, or something you had to actively make be?
The definition of love that he had been taught was far different than the definition he read about in story books.
Hunter only knew love as pride. Someone you could tell what to do. Someone you could brag about to all your friends. Someone who was inexorably loyal no matter what. Someone you could do whatever you wanted to.
Belos loved him.
But the love he read about was different. The love he read about was connection and belief, was butterflies and somersaults and want and need and pure and unconditional.
What Hunter felt for the bird was pure and good. Good enough that he would betray his own master for it.
The bird lightly pecked his neck, reminding Hunter of the present. He raised a shaky hand to stroke the bird’s soft feathers. “H-hey, Flap. I-I’m fine.”
He could barely move his other arm. That wasn’t good. Definitely not good.
He-he’d be fine.
Belos was always just and fair.
Hunter deserved anything he got.