Chapter Text
"Who are you?" He whispers into the empty air, clutching the straps of his backpack.
He stares at the entrance of trees overtaking the milky white sky. Nothing replies but a howling wind. Not aloud, anyway.
Find out, murmurs a voice deep in his mind.
He almost doesn't want to. There is no metal but the faint traces in the earth, tugging at his feet. The breeze picks up, drawing him closer. He adjusts his backpack.
He takes the pocketknife and clings to it. A tether, so he will not forget or fall to that madness.
Hurry.
He will regret it, he knows. But he does not believe in myths. He does not believe in false gods. So he will rationalize, and hopefully, finally, sleep.
He takes a step forward and sinks into the void.
-
Erik does not understand it. The way the hawthorn shakes and the wild strawberry plants rustle as he passes.
"Reveal yourself," he calls.
It's not the purpose of the game. Answering the call would be cheating. Erik, however, is just wise enough to be impatient.
He knows he is being toyed with.
-
Buying a house at the edge of the woods should not have been his first instinct. It isn't that he enjoys solitude, rather, that he must have it.
There have been too many instances. Fires. Death. A cloud of darkness that surrounds him, almost like a curse.
He needs the silence just as he needs the sound. So he makes the purchase on a cloudy Sunday afternoon. And perhaps it might rain, as the sky calls for it, but the earth remains parched and starving and nothing comes of it. Erik stands at the doorway, after only viewing it all once.
"I'll take it," he says before the seller can reply.
The seller sends him a strange look, one of pity and fear swirled into discomfort. It takes longer than anticipated, but soon, it's official. The beginning after the end is over.
This is a fresh start, Erik reminds himself. A chance to begin anew.
He clings to the house key, watching as the seller pulls out of the driveway and vanishes down the road. He watches a bit longer. Nothing.
The house stirs behind him, creaking in the crisp autumn breeze. Erik turns around. A dark, wooden door stares back. Daring for him to walk inside, to seek whatever peace he truly has left.
Erik pockets the bronze key in his hand. He decides to circle the property instead.
-
"You're quite beautiful," murmurs the spirit.
It is the voice of a man, accented and lilting and very much inhuman. For a split second, Erik gets the impression of a face. Brown hair. Striking blue eyes.
The spirit is beautiful as well.
Thank you for thinking so, the spirit croons into Erik's mind.
Erik cannot see him, not with his eyes shut, but he can feel the whisper of air past his neck. He shivers.
"What are you?" asks Erik.
"I'm like you," the spirit hums. "Different."
The crushing loneliness is less, yet he feels no comfort. They circle each other, not daring to come closer.
"What are you?" Erik repeats.
The spirit lets out a soft chuckle. "Whoever you want me to be."
Erik hates answers like those.
-
He brushes past the growing weeds and grasses that line the property. The bronze key is now in his pocket, heavy against his leg. He tugs a thistle out by the roots. Then another.
"Shit."
The thorns dig into his fingers until blood droplets form on the surface of calloused hands. He throws the thistles into a garbage bag, to move to the woods or the dump, before nursing the wound.
He should have worn gloves.
Holding his hand to his shirtsleeve, Erik watches the blood seep through. It stings more than it should, like poison running through his veins. Drops fall to the earth, sinking in.
And suddenly he freezes, like a deer in headlights, prey to a predator's open maw. He shoves his hands in his pockets. The wind whips harder.
He knows there is something behind him. Something monstrous.
Before he can look, it stops. It's gone. Erik, shaking, hurries inside. He closes his fist.
He is sure he felt a presence, drawing nearer at the scent of him.
-
It's calling, he realizes. It's hungry.
The first month is far from the last. At some point, he has to investigate.
-
"What is your name?" asks the spirit, circling him.
Erik refuses to open his eyes. He can't see him. Angel or god or death itself, seeing him would surely spell trouble.
"My name—"
No. He may refuse to swear by other gods, but he's heard whispers of rules. Don't give your name to the forest, the fae, the sprites, the spirits. For once they have your name, they have you.
It is a terrifying thought.
"You may call me Max," says Erik.
The spirit puts his hands—physical, almost human—on Erik's.
"You cheated," says the spirit, without malice. "Smart move, considering."
"Considering what?"
Erik knows the answer.
-
Erik awakens on the first night to find every thistle in the garden removed. He stares out the window, squinting into the darkness. The faded porch light buzzes.
He could have sworn he saw something move in the trees.
-
"I'm so glad to have found company," the spirit sighs into his ear, lovely and warm and far too dangerous.
Erik has no interest in being taken back to the spirit's lair. He frowns, pulling away.
"Don't be like that, darling. I won't have you forever."
"I am not to be had," grunts Erik.
He's tired of keeping his eyes squeezed shut every time he walks into the woods. He's tired of walking for miles, never knowing his destination. Charming or not, there is an undercurrent of power with each touch. It's otherworldly.
"No, you're not," the spirit says. "But you're afraid to be loved."
"You don't know anything about me," Erik snaps.
There is a laugh. Possibly rueful.
"On the contrary," replies the spirit, cooly. "I know everything."
-
After walking the perimeter a few times, Erik stumbles upon a well. The stones crumble with age. The roof is long gone. The bucket molds.
As he approaches, footsteps echoing throughout the quiet forest, he feels the deep hollow below the maw. He peers over the edge, down into the darkened pool.
His reflection stares back, wild-eyed and striking as though he belongs there. He looks away.
It doesn't matter whether water remains. Erik doesn't have to draw the bucket to sense that it's not potable.
Pulling it up would only reveal its russet sheen.
-
The pocketknife is gone. Erik can't feel its usual weight, not against his leg, not nearby, nor even yards off. Miles off.
Wherever it is, Erik is sure he isn't supposed to follow.
"Gone?" says the spirit, voice steeped with interest. "Are you sure you haven't lost it?"
"Positive," mutters Erik, pulling his metal canteen out of his backpack with a wave of his hands. "I don't tend to lose things."
The metal hovers ahead of him, a shining beacon within the darkness of the trees and sparse irons of the earth.
"I don't like this," says the spirit, and Erik knows it isn't about the mutation. "If I find your pocketknife I'll bring it back."
It's kind for a spirit, or whatever the voice is, but Erik knows there's a price in owing. He does not plan on owing anyone anything, nor will he ever.
-
Erik awakens the next day to find the pocketknife on his bedside table. Next to it sits a cluster of rosemary. A gift, rather than an exchange. Not a deal, but a promise to return. He feels the familiar balance of the metal on his palm. Smells the sting of the herb in his other hand, still fresh from where it was picked.
Tentatively, he accepts.
-
"You have a friend in the woods?" asks Mystique, voice rough over the phone.
The signal is terrible. It's the first time Erik has tried calling anyone in months, burner phone or not. It really isn’t only about safety. It's the first time he's felt ready.
"I wouldn't call him a friend," he says, wiping off the last of the dishes.
"But you talk. Daily."
Erik puts a pan away. "About the little things."
He doesn't want to say what he thinks the presence is. Dead or alive. Human or mutant. He isn't sure, himself.
"I'm glad you have someone," says Mystique. "It must be lonely."
"The nights are long," Erik replies thoughtfully, sitting down at the dining room table. "Quiet."
It's a lie. The nights are just as loud as they've ever been. The screams closer, and not all his.
"Lonely, though?" asks Mystique.
"Perhaps," says Erik. He glances out the window by the kitchen sink, sunlight streaming in. "But I'm not alone."
-
A hand gently holds Erik's wrist as he is guided through the woods. The light filtering in behind his eyelids has faded. Leaves and roots crush underfoot.
"You have to leave," the spirit warns. "The sun's setting. If you're found here—"
Erik nods, numbly. The air is growing cold enough to ache at the skin. To gnaw at the bones. His heart pounds, breath short.
"I'm coming back," says Erik. "Tomorrow."
"You shouldn't."
"I have little choice, don't I?"
Erik's claim is unmet with an answer. The fun is over, for now, but he knows it won't be the end. The spirit won't be satisfied with one visit.
"Goodbye, Max," says the spirit, squeezing his wrist before letting go.
And suddenly Erik is shoved forward, tether gone. Warmth gone.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
Tentatively, he opens his eyes. The world is bathed in an orange sheen as a wave of cool overtakes it. The remnants of the sun shines off the windows.
Home, he realizes. He's safe. He's home. He's still free.
It only registers later, as he closes the door behind him, that he never heard the spirit's footfalls.
-
Erik can feel the metal deep in the earth sometimes. It wasn't something he remembered doing before, but before is becoming so long ago compared to now.
It's that dulling of the senses. Every time he squeezes his eyes shut to navigate the trees and listen for the voice. Every time he's far from the house with its creaking pipes and rusting faucets.
Sometimes he thinks he can feel something walking across the forest floor, creeping ever closer to the house.
Circling.
-
"Francis," says the spirit one day. "Call me that."
"Alright, Francis."
The spirit seems to smile, if ever so off-kilter. Erik only barely smiles back. He knows it isn't the spirit's name.
"I'd tell you my true name," hums Francis, "if you told me yours."
"You know exactly how I feel about the matter," Erik reminds.
Francis pulls in closer until Erik can feel the warmth of arms around him and a whisper of air by his ear.
"Oh, darling, no one could own you."
And somehow, Erik finds that he believes him.
-
This time he does not dream of the past. Not the fire, nor the sky, nor the hum of metal below. This time he dreams of silence.
Hell.
He dreams of the earth swallowing him whole as thorned roots to drag him under. Scratching and tearing at scarred skin. Soaking up blood and tightening around his throat.
The sky is nowhere.
He reaches in vain without orientation. And the crisp soil gives way. And his lungs fill with dirt, with death, with root, with nothingness.
He can feel no hum of the metals buried with him. He can hear nothing but the muffled sounds of his own screaming. Nothing but the warm, grotesque pounding within the earth. The heartbeat that shouldn't be.
The vessels tangle and pulse within. The soil comes away blackened and sticky and wrong.
It's alive. Not with metal, but with earth. Root. Wood.
Erik's eyes shoot open. His heart pounds, sweat pouring off the back of his neck. Rattling pipes surround him. He's home, inside and in bed. Safe, supposedly.
Shivering, he pulls the blanket back up and blinks away the blurriness of his vision.
He could have sworn he heard yelling unlike any of the yelling he has heard before. He could have sworn it came from the well.
-
"I have a surprise for you," says Francis, grasping Erik's hand gently. "Close your eyes."
"My eyes are already closed," Erik reminds, allowing Francis to guide him to what seems to be a log. He sits down.
"Alright, hold on."
A rustle. Erik wonders what Francis is doing. He isn't sure whether to be afraid or intrigued.
Francis laughs. The sound rings through the forest.
"I'm not afraid," Erik protests, knowing his mind is being infiltrated as he speaks.
"You are," says Francis, though he sounds far from bothered. "It's alright."
Erik nods, feeling a bit foolish.
"This reminds me of that one expression. What was it?" Francis seems to lean closer until Erik can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. "Open your mouth and close your eyes?"
If Erik had his eyes open he would have sent Francis a look.
"I hope this isn't poisonous," Erik says, only meaning it a bit because he knows it isn't.
"It's not, I promise," Francis says, meaning every bit of it.
Something small and round is placed on Erik's tongue. The grooves run along his teeth. He bites down.
Tart. Sweet, and sharper than anything. It's a blackberry.
"Well?"
"It's good," Erik hums, marveling at the vivid flavor. The longer he chews, the stronger it becomes. He swallows. "A bit strong."
"Oh, sorry," says Francis.
"You don't have to be sorry," says Erik. "Why don't you have one?"
"I'm...allergic."
"Oh."
Erik knows it's a lie, but to what he can't be sure.
Francis simply laughs it off and feeds him another.
-
Erik has to admit he's starting to grow fond of Francis. Of taking daily hikes with him simply for the company. Of talking without the need for presence or expectation.
There are always murmurs in the back of his mind that tell him nothing lasts. He is reminded not to trust based on surface actions and smooth words. Nothing good has ever come of blind faith. Erik, in particular, knows he should have more self-discipline.
Even if he's...fond
-
They stand at the highest ridge of the hills, facing the sun. Erik, with eyes open and widened at the distance. Francis, next to him, holding his hand. It’s comforting, the way the quiet surrounds them.
After such a long war, all Erik has ever wanted was serenity.
-
“How is the rosemary?” Asks Francis.
Erik shifts, hopping over the creek below. He remembers the plant in his garden, slowly flourishing. “Growing well.”
“Good. I hoped it would.” Francis grabs his hand. “Do you like it?”
“Of course.” Erik holds on.
“Careful.”
Erik allows Francis to guide him across the next stream, jumping from stone to stone with the water barely brushing the bottoms of his shoes. They never slip. Erik squeezes his hand.
“Where are we?” Erik asks.
“North of the ridge. The place with the caves.”
“Ah,” says Erik. He sniffs the air. “I think it might rain.”
“Perhaps.”
Francis slows to a stop. Erik senses him turning around to face him, reaching to hold Erik’s other hand. Leaning close enough for Erik to feel Francis’ breath against his skin.
“You know,” says Francis, softly. “I’m glad you trust me enough to lead you like this, even when you keep your eyes closed.”
A reply is caught on Erik’s tongue, with that sliver part of him wanting to immediately reply ‘yes, of course I do’. He knows that he shouldn’t. (He knows he shouldn’t long to close the distance between them. They are, after all, companions only.)
“I know what you’re afraid of,” continues Francis, voice barely above a whisper. “I assure you, it isn’t true.”
Erik can hear the smile in his voice.
“I’m not going to disappear.”
“I know,” says Erik.
And he isn’t sure who starts it, in the end, but it doesn’t matter. Their lips meet for but a moment. Francis, still smiling. Erik, so sure yet so distant.
He forgets what he was going to ask.
-
When Erik feels especially lonely, he wonders how lonely Francis was before. The house was abandoned. The grounds are acres across and heavily wooded. The closest town fifteen miles away.
He wonders if he had told him the truth, how that loneliness would disappear between both of them. It could have been for the best, really.
Sometimes he wonders if Francis will still be around during winter and if he gets cold. He wonders if he should invite him inside someday. (And on some nights he wonders how it would feel, warm with bodies pressed together, those soft lips on his. If he will ever have that.)
No. Answers come first. Everything else should be an afterthought.
-
Another waking at three in the morning. More exhaustion, layered in bitterness and regret. In want for the distant past he has tried so hard to ignore.
He glances out the window and shivers. No. There is something about the night that keeps Erik inside.
Even as he marches downstairs to stare sleeplessly out the sliding glass doors, he refuses to go further. He sips at his coffee and watches what he's determined to be not quite nothing.
Vigilant. Just as he's always been. Perhaps this is yet another war, even when he hasn't realized it.
The rosemary he had planted trembles. The pipes hum, familiar. The forest growls. Something circles again.
He's beginning to believe that there isn't only one watcher. One spirit.
The phone rings.
-
"...Do you have a family, Max?"
"Once. Before they were taken from me." A pause. "I thought you already knew that."
"I was thinking, is all."
"Of?"
"Family. I had to have had one."
"Did something happen to them?"
Another pause. A sigh. "I'm not entirely sure."
They stop, back at the house. The world grows dim in the fading light. Erik opens his eyes, facing away from Francis.
"Did something happen to you?"
The wind grows heavy. If Erik were the trusting type, he would let it go. He doesn't.
By the time Erik turns around, Francis is gone. The number of questions only grow.
-
He returns to the well that sits at the edge of the deep woods. It is, perhaps, a hundred meters from the house, surrounded by what used to be a garden. Overgrown and gone.
Erik picks up a discarded white clover that had been unrooted and sitting in the grass.
Once, there was a family in that house.
Once, there was a mother, dark-eyed and closed-in and muddled with alcohol. A father, warm in memory, long gone. A step-father, greedy and distant. A step-brother, agonized, agonizing. A sister, bright.
A son. What could have happened to the son?
Erik shakes away from the imprint. The memory that clearly is not his.
-
"Do you happen to know a Francis?" Erik asks, looking once more to the midnight sky outside.
It doesn't quite make sense. Mystique would hardly know anything about a disembodied spirit in the woods, and certainly wouldn't know any more than Erik.
Yet, her breathing changes. Her tone shifts. The branches sway.
"No?" She asks. "Why?"
"No reason," says Erik. "Thought I'd ask."
He doesn't ask again. Her pause is answer enough.
-
The questions boil over. He knows they will because he feels the same rage inside of him that he has always felt. Because even the still of the sky cannot calm the restlessness he knows. Every stone he has turned over has only revealed more dirt to dig.
Francis is not what he seems to be. Not a ‘spirit’ or fae or any sort of mystical thing that needs not be seen. The longer they know each other, the harder it is to play along.
He knows Francis had been doing it for him. Joining a little game in hopes that Erik would only open his eyes.
Erik wants to remain ignorant. He knows he cannot.
-
"I don't know what you want from me," says Erik, rain drizzling cool against his skin.
His boots sink into the mud, sucked further towards the earth below. Once he gets home, it will surely remain until it's caked and dry on his soles. More a part of the soil than ever. Unclean in ways further than physical.
Francis does not reply.
"Everyone wants something," Erik continues. He stops, turning. "Even people like you."
Erik can't see him, but he knows Francis is smiling. Serene as always.
"What could I possibly want what I don't already have?" Francis asks, eerily calm.
Erik shakes his head. "Nothing is free."
"What if I tell you that I'm not sure?"
"Then you'd be lying."
"What if I tell you—"
"Just answer me, Francis."
Rain taps against the branches above. Against Erik's coat. Against his boots.
"I know what this is about," says Francis.
"And you’re still dodging my questions, after all this time."
Erik is angry. He knows he shouldn't be, not when some secrets are meant to be kept. Lord knows he has his own. But if Francis knows them all, what could he have left?
Francis sighs. "Not everyone is purely selfish. Not everything someone wants is...bad."
"I'm well aware."
Francis laughs, rueful. The rain falls harder.
"But you don't seem to believe it."
He's dodged the question again.
-
Erik only opened his eyes to see Francis once, months ago.
He had stumbled over a branch, arms reaching out to catch his fall. By the time he stood up and brushed himself off, he could see Francis staring back in worry. He could see the sky.
At the time he was frozen.
Francis looked just like the image he had sent Erik when they first met. Eyes a sharp blue. Clever lips. Just as lined and wisened as Erik, yet without despair. Beautiful.
Erik had snapped his eyes shut quickly, and Francis had said nothing.
In a way, it's almost mocking. The circles they've danced around revealing themselves. It's futile. Francis has always known all of Erik, and Erik knew what Francis was by then.
All the superstitious games in the world couldn't hide the truth.
-
They stand at the mouth of a cave, rain dripping down the sides and voices echoing faintly off walls. Iron, copper—traces of ferrous metals present deep in the earth surrounded them as though they had been swallowed.
"Look at me," says Francis, voice low.
"I've already seen you," says Erik, facing away.
"Then you should have no problem with it." Francis places a hand on Erik's arm.
Erik shakes his head. "I know what you're trying to do. I know you aren't here."
"I've done nothing to warrant you pushing me away."
"How long were you going to let this keep up? How long until I realized exactly what this was?"
Erik opens his eyes. Francis stares back, brow furrowed and features unmistakably familiar.
"You trust me," says Francis. "That's what it is, isn't it? You trust me and it scares you."
"What would you know?"
"I believe you already know the answer to that question, Erik."
Erik stiffens. He hates answers like these, too.
-
He doesn't enter the forest the next day. Or the day after. Or two days after.
The forest, however, listens. It can smell the blood pounding through his veins, even when it cannot see. It can hunger, even when it cannot feel.
There may have been a time in which the equilibrium of the earth and the soul were one. A time where Francis had control. Now, however, his circling that kept the predator at bay is gone.
Erik is left to the darkness.
-
If he is to rid himself of the curse, he must do it himself. Erik slips the pocketknife back in his pocket and stares at the branch-covered path. The trees bend. The December wind shifts. He enters.
The forest is silent during the winter, the sky overhead a glazed white. He walks the circular route, knowing each tree despite seeing most of them for the first time. It begins to snow.
At noon, he spots a buck staring at him with a gleam in its eyes.
At two, he spots a small wild-strawberry bush, somehow in full harvest despite the cold.
At three, he passes the system of caves.
Francis does not appear.
-
He sits down to rest in a field of yellowing grass. There’s something about the afternoon sky that is comforting. The lack of trees, just far away enough from the house to be free. It wouldn’t be so bad, taking a break.
He lies down. He closes his eyes.
-
"Oh, Erik, I should have told you everything from the start."
A voice, ever so soft, murmurs in Erik's half-conscious mind. The wind curls, somehow warm despite the time of year.
"My name is Charles,” the voice continues. “I'm quite certain that I'm not a fae. Just a telepath.” The voice quiets. “And I know how you feel about me."
A pause. The voice hints at a smile. "I feel the same."
-
Erik awakens to find the sun setting over the tops of the trees. He remembers the faint impression of lips to his temple. A kiss.
He has to get home before nightfall. No luck today, but perhaps tomorrow he will find the source of the true beast.
Francis, no, Charles is nowhere to be found.
-
Erik misses him so much his chest aches. It’s been too long since he’s truly been in the presence of anyone. That kind of isolation is enough to drive one mad. He knows.
“You’re lonely again,” says Mystique.
“I’m not,” he protests, locking up the house for the night.
He needs to get a new burner phone. This one has been around for a few too many weeks, though he hasn’t really wanted to replace it. It’s almost sentimental.
“Just apologize,” Mystique urges. “I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“I don’t even know where he is.”
“Then you’ll find him, or he’ll find you.”
Erik nods, though it’s hard to believe. Charles is probably busy. Or avoiding him. The thought leaves a nasty pit in his stomach.
He sighs, settling onto the couch. “Apparently his name isn’t Francis, if you wanted to know.”
“Oh?”
“It’s Charles.”
Mystique goes silent. Erik isn’t sure how he even knows that information, but the second the words left his mouth they felt right. Like the missing piece to a puzzle.
Mystique is tense for the rest of the conversation.
Erik wishes he knew why.
-
There's a knock at the window. Blinking awake, he sits up and pulls himself out of bed. It's solid, whatever it is. Striking hard enough to be a fist.
Slowly, in the dark, he creeps towards the source of the noise. The knocking grows louder. The floorboards creak. Moonlight streams through the gap in the drapes.
He pulls them apart. The knocking continues.
He sees nothing out the window.
-
The next time Erik opens his eyes, there is something standing over the bed. It's still dark outside.
"You need to leave. I can't protect you from it any longer."
It must be Charles. Erik does not want to speak to him, even if he knows he must.
"I can't move you myself, not really. Please, Erik," Charles begs. "You have to leave."
"I have no reason to believe you," says Erik, sitting up as the blankets grow suffocating
Charles faces him, inches away. "I have no reason to lie."
It's a fair point. Even Erik's inherent nature pulls away. Charles wouldn’t lie to him like this.
There is a knock at the window.
"Go," exclaims Charles, "just go!"
The window flies open, chilled wind rushing in. Shadows running in from the sill, as though the panes of glass were the only thing keeping it all out. Of course.
Charles grabs his hand. Erik stands.
They stumble forwards, into the darkness.
-
Erik runs outside, winter coat over his t-shirt and pocketknife in hand. Charles pulls him towards the road, yelling something incoherent. The trees rattle.
"What will happen to you?" Erik asks over the roar of the wind.
He knows he shouldn't be asking with the earth so keen to devour. Charles shakes his head.
"It doesn't matter. You need to get out of here."
"But it does!" Erik protests, coming to a stop. "I am not letting whatever is out there take you!"
"Erik, please!” Charles’ voice shakes. “You're not going to like what you find."
"It doesn't matter what I find, I need to know that you're safe," says Erik, stubborn as ever.
Charles, at a loss for words, squeezes Erik's hand and lets go. Perhaps he isn’t there physically, but every sensation felt real. Seemed real.
"The well," Charles finally says. "It's...I'm at the well."
Erik nods and sprints back towards the rattling thicket. Charles doesn't follow.
He probably can’t.
-
Dropping to the bottom is easy. Navigating the dark is not. The water only reaches Erik's knees, but he's certain that the terrain is far more dangerous than he first suspected.
Because the well is not a 5-foot diameter hole in the ground. It's a cavern. And in the dark, Erik can't see to the end.
The howling is louder than ever.
-
He finds him after feeling along a wall of dirt and plant and bone that he could only hope didn’t belong to Charles. But his hand brushes against skin. The faint pulse of something.
"Charles!"
The pale body sits limp, blood barely moving. Tied in roots and sunken into the ground. Erik pulls, but the tangled mass refuses to budge.
The earth begins to shake.
“Charles, please, wake up!”
It's a system, he realizes. They feed off of one another in a cruel cycle until the host is ripped to his bare essence. Mutation is a strange thing. Humans are not the first to be affected by the age of the atom. They will not be the last, either.
"Is this what you want?" Erik shouts. "Yet another life to take?"
He pulls the knife from his pocket, holding it to his palm. Cutting until blood spills onto the damp earth. The roots shift.
“Let him go,” Erik hisses. “You can have me, just let him go.”
He presses his bleeding hand to the moving wall. Something wraps around, tugging him in and draining away at him until his legs feel too weak to stand on.
Erik hears something collapse into the water. Charles.
With his free hand, he draws the pocketknife back despite his numbing limbs. His muscles tire, almost refusing to obey. The water below almost feels less frigid. Less like anything at all.
“Come on, dammit,” he says, forcing his arm forward.
The blade sings, slicing through until the roots shrink back and the creature screeches in agony. Erik’s clarity returns as he staggers away from the wall, free from its grip.
We have to go, Charles' voice echoes through Erik’s mind. Quick, before it figures out what you've done.
Wait.
Erik scrambles for the body and pulls it into his arms. Charles is cold, breathing shallow yet tangible. He’s here. He’s real. The moment is almost unsettling.
Without looking back, Erik gently lifts Charles until he's held tight and close. Safe.
I want you by my side, Erik thinks, hoping Charles is still listening.
Then let’s get the hell out of here, Charles replies, because he always is.
A sharp whistle of air determines the mouth of the well. The faint traces of the metal below ring out. Something attempts to tug at Erik’s ankle.
Yes, let’s.
The earth shakes. The roots snake out, shooting towards him. Erik holds and hand up, the other clutching Charles.
They fly.
-
They’re free. Charles, alive and barely conscious. Erik, driving as fast as he can towards town. Together, even in the silence only cut with the sound of rubber tires burning into the asphalt.
Erik may spot a gathering of deer at the edge of the woods, watching on with glowing eyes. He may spot the branches curving towards the vehicle, awaiting his return. He may spot the stream he had crossed so often, now overrun with root and soil.
But it’s over, finally. Hopefully.
He is sure he is never coming back.