Chapter Text
“ - hear me? Hello? Are you there?”
It's Viktor’s voice; you'd know it anywhere. But, before your half asleep brain can even register the words he's saying, a handful of books come flying through, landing on your bed with soft thumps.
“Woah, hey - what are you doing?” you chuckle sleepily, sitting up.
He looks concerned, upset even. The brows are in full force today, pinched together above a paler than usual worry struck face. When he hears you, he sighs in relief and mutters something darkly in another language.
“You were… Are you okay?” he asks, sitting back down at his desk.
“Yeah, I'm fine. I was sleeping. What's going on? Why the books?” you ask, stretching comfortably.
You pick up the books and stack them. Mathematical journals, way beyond your levels of understanding.
He shakes his head. “It's…it's fine. Would you pass them back through?”
The void between each end of the scry is just as cold as last time when you stick your arm in, handing the books back.
“Did you think I was gone or something?”
“No, no, it's…ehh, really. Nevermind. What…what do you have planned today?” he tacks on, concern lingering at the edge of his features.
“Probably just recharging. And I might head into town to check on Narine.”
“How are they? The Meilas,” he prods.
Always so perceptive. You can see in his face that he knows you're withholding something.
You glance at Kav's letter and feel a rising sick feeling.
“...Yeah. They aren't happy with me right now, I - I let them down again. Kav died,” you get out, the words sapping the moisture from your mouth and shrinking your voice to a croak.
Viktor's expression softens with understanding, his thumb absently tracing the corner of one of the books.
“That's not your fault. From what you've told me, the illness is hereditary and incurable. You never promised more than to remove their pain, at your own expense. I'm…so sorry that you lost your friend.”
“Thank you,” you manage, stiff with pent up emotion. “I just…I don't know. You should've seen their faces. I've seen that look before.”
Accusatory. Telling you in no uncertain terms that it's your fault, you didn't try hard enough, and that the blood is on your hands. It's hard not to agree.
“I don't like the way they treat you,” Viktor says suddenly, fingers drumming quickly on his desk.
A tense beat passes. He's made no secret of his dislike for anae. He can't believe someone could let you carry their pain for them, let alone a whole family expecting it for not just a small headache or cut, but a potentially limitless chronic illness.
“I'm sorry,” he adds quickly. “I don't mean to…go on about it again. I just…don't like thinking of you hurting so much. Kav. Did you get to say goodbye?”
“No,” you answer softly. “He did leave a letter but…”
“You're not ready?” he infers gently.
“...No.”
He nods thoughtfully. “It may take time. Be generous giving yourself it. If you would like some time alone, I -”
“No,” a third time. “Please, I…it's not what I…I do need to head into town for the funeral. But then I want to keep working. I think I need this right now.”
Viktor nods again and gets up, wheeling one of the smaller chalkboards closer.
“Very well. Eat a breakfast. Go to the funeral. Tend to anything you need to. And then, later…we can try to figure out these runes again. And….”
“Mm?”
You wipe what little tears managed to gather in your eyes and shake off the grief and guilt for the moment. Viktor hesitates, before shaking his head.
“...Nevermind.”
—--
The funeral is morose. It's what you'd expect anywhere else in the world. But in Niole, where people will literally run from the next street over to excuse you after a sneeze, it's a little surprising. The cold blade of grief stabs just as sharply, no matter where it aims its steel.
It's not possible for everyone to come, as much as they'd like to. Funerals in Niole are immediate family only, with a street party style wake afterwards that everyone is welcome to. It's a high honour to be invited when you aren't directly related.
That doesn't soften the tension you feel as you arrive late to the ceremony though. Faces accusatory and suspicious in equal measure watch you as you descend the aisle towards the casket. It hasn't been long but decomposition has already stolen much of your friend from you. Kav’s eyes are already sunken. His smile unstitched from the corners of his mouth. The crows feet at the corners of his eyes have softened, stripping away years he spent laughing and grinning.
You tear your eyes away, unenthused for this pallid echo to be the way you remember him, and place a sprig of rosemary on his chest beside the other plants and flowers given. Your eyes dart to his for the last time, as if hoping he may open them, before you turn away and duck towards your seat beside Mara. She takes your hand immediately, a mother welcoming a stray under her warmth without hesitation.
“There'll be a hymn, but you don't have to sing along if you don't know the words,” she whispers softly.
“Thanks.”
Fevra is on the other side of her. Face white with barely checked anger, eyes fixed straight ahead on the legs of Kav’s casket.
You recognise a lot of faces but try not to peer around too much. Even the extended Meila family are here today.
The priestess takes her place at the front. She's masked and veiled in silks and tulles. It's rare to see her, and even rarer to be permitted in her presence as an outsider. All this time and the friendliest people you've ever met have tactfully kept you separate from their religion and its practices. Even Kav never told you much about it, calling it ‘old fashioned waffle’.
She begins a lilting song that rises and falls with ease, her voice gracefully even. The others sing along, their own voices tremulous with upset. It feels old, like it precedes you in a way you can't quite comprehend.
When it stops you almost expect applause, only for the hall to fall back into the same blue silence.
“Another tragedy. Another loss. Undeserved. Unfair. Unforgivable,” she adds, as her gaze briefly falls on you. “I have consulted the stars many times for answers. For some sign, some message from the gods. Something we must do to right this. Something we must give to earn reprieve. I cannot find it. When I plum for answers in myself, the stars, the sky, there is only emptiness.”
There's softly murmured agreement around the room. You feel more out of place than ever. If it wouldn't call attention to you even more, you'd consider combat crawling up the aisle and out the door to escape the unspoken feeling of accusation.
Viktor's words replay softly in your ears. It wasn't your fault.
It balms the anxiety. For a moment.
“And so we must look elsewhere for answers,” the priestess goes on, her gaze again lingering on you. “We -”
The doors open, one of the eldest Meila brothers standing pale and breathless.
“Mara - “ he cries, stumbling forward, unable to get far before his knees buckle.
Both sides of the aisle reach to help him up, Mara being guided through to see what's wrong. She kneels and holds his hands, trying to calm him to the point of speech.
You watch, feeling helpless. Always so helpless. You may as well be on the other side of the world.
A glance over your shoulder shows the priestess hasn't taken her eyes off of you.
It makes you uneasy. Uneasy like how in a town known for gregarious and welcoming people, you've never been permitted to so much as hear details about the religion, let alone attend any kind of ceremonies.
Your focus is pulled back to Mara and her brother as she manages to coax one word out of him.
“....Narine -”
The hall erupts.
—
Sky moves forward to take Viktor’s arm and help him back to his seat.
“You didn't have to stand up for me with Heimerdinger…I'll be okay,” she murmurs, standing beside him when he sits. “It's you I'm worried about.”
Viktor waves her off, eyes falling on the Hexcore.
“You've waited more than long enough for a real position around here. I won't let him fire you. Or shut it down. Not when we're so close…” he adds, gaze drifting up to the window distantly.
A beat passes as Sky chews her lip, following his gaze.
“Our friend is busy today, I take it,” she murmurs.
“Yes,” Viktor nods, expression softening as he thinks of the funeral. “Lucky for us. I highly doubt they would've stayed quiet back there. Heimerdinger not knowing about our witch is pretty much the only ace we have up our sleeves. Beyond shutting me down, I think he may actually take a hammer to the Hexcore if he knew.”
“Perhaps…” Sky begins, hesitating. “Perhaps he has a point.”
Viktor's gaze snaps to her, eyes widening in surprise.
“Not - not about disliking the work,” Sky quickly clarifies. “It's just…he's our elder. He has experience with these things, he's seen a lot in his time. Maybe he knows something we don't and is just being stubborn about telling you.”
Viktor snorts softly and pours himself a cup of tea. The scent soothes his nerves the second the vapours hit his nose, the taste even more so.
“Stubborn is the correct word. I fear Heimerdinger’s long held position has caused his ego to cloud his decisions. I mentioned witches in passing not long ago and his reaction was…intense.”
Sky wishes to talk longer, talk deeper. Instead she brings his notebook and pen to him and leaves the words she wants to say sitting in the warmth behind her ribs.
“Heimerdinger said I should go home for the day. I'll…see you when I can,” she murmurs as she heads for the door.
Viktor feels a little blood trickle from his nose and turns to the Hexcore, eager to avoid her seeing it. She'd only worry and hover and worry some more. It will pass.
“Y - yes. Thank you, Miss Young.”
The door closes and he sighs heavily. His fingers come away from his nose bloodied and sticky. Another reason the witch’s absence is for the best today - always so worried.
Viktor sits in front of the Hexcore, vision swimming as he stares at it darkly. The light of it seems to deepen the bags under his eyes. All he can feel is the crushing weight of his dreams, seemingly weighing him down like rocks dragging him into deep water.
The blood at his nose doesn't stop like usual. Instead it continues to drip slowly, like syrup. His hand feels heavy, like even lifting it to wipe his nose would be an effort. Even holding his head up feels harder and harder.
He slowly starts to slump over his desk, a vignette casting darkness over his gaze.
—
The walk back to your home is tense. You keep glancing over your shoulder, unable to see far enough to spot the gathering crowd of people around the Meilas’ house, but with enough sense to feel the bubbling rage growing there.
Narine is gone.
And right after you told them she had a little more time.
Even Mara couldn't properly look you in the eye as she hurried you to the edge of town and told you you'd best head home. The guilt feels like heavy packed dirt in your chest, like you're the one being buried today.
At least you got to say bye to Kav. Sort of. Even if he didn't look like you remembered him in the coffin.
The second you get home you lean heavily against the door, eyes shut as you try to find relief from the guilt. In the search for a better state of mind, you find yourself needing Viktor's advice.
You head through to the scry and gaze through, trying to see if he's in his lab. At first it looks as though no one is in there, but you soon realise he's at the desk, just laying down, barely out of sight.
“Viktor,” you say, your voice coming out shaky and unsure.
He doesn't stir.
Something feels…off. The light of the Hexcore bounces off his pale skin in a more erratic way than usual. You can hear it pulsing, clicking softly as it rearranges itself over and over.
“Hey, eyebrows,” you try again, more urgently. “Viktor, is everything okay?”
He stirs, just barely, and raises his head. His eyes are blank and unseeing, mostly closed. He lolls backwards and falls out of his chair, collapsing to the floor.
“Viktor!”
You reach your arm into the cold dead space between your end of the window and his but you can't reach to his side, let alone reach him.
Experiments be damned, there's no choice - you have to get to him now. You curse under your breath and turn to reach for your staff, which…isn't where you left it.
The uncomfortable panic growing in your chest tightens, but before you can mutter a spell to summon it, you feel something hard slam into the back of your head, and the light of the scry fades as your gaze darkens to nothing.
—
When you open your eyes, you're immediately aware of a numbness from the elbow onward. Your hands are tied behind you at the wrist, and you can barely wiggle a pinkie.
It feels…cold. Like you're standing out in the snow. But from the way the air feels musty you can tell you're inside. Your eyes open and the dim light of a few candles on the floor provide little idea of your environment. Smooth, sloped walls give way to uneven ground. It's almost like a cave, but the walls are carved neatly with thousands of symbols you don't recognise. The ceiling is littered with wind chimes and glass candles held up by string.
You try to get up but it's not just your hands that are tied - there's rope at your waist, binding you to a chair. Easy enough to get out of with the right spell if you -
“Do not think of using your heathen magic in this place,” comes the lilting voice of the priestess.
You've barely seen her, let alone spoken to her, and yet her strange accent is immediately recognisable. It's hard to see with your vision fuzzy and your head still ringing from the attack, but you'd guess she's behind you.
“You’ve already desecrated this town enough. The temple of Odyreu must not be tainted as well.”
“Then it seems counterintuitive to have brought me here,” you reply, voice weak.
Her voice seems to warp through the space, in and around the bends and curves of the strange walls like she's just an echo.
“Perhaps. And yet there's something I need from you.”
Your chest tightens as a sudden rush of cold air flurries past your ear, sounding almost like a hiss, before she appears before you, silks billowing. Her brow is pinched tight with distaste, eyes mad and underlined darkly.
“Narine was beloved by more than just the Meila family. She was a treasure to all of Niole. You assigned yourself the role of protector, and you…failed.”
Clutched in her hand is your staff, and some of your notes from -
Viktor.
It's difficult to think through the fog of the likely concussion and the priestess’s words but the moment you remember Viktor needs your help, everything seems to sharpen into focus like you've been doused with ice water.
“What do you want?” you demand, pulling at the ropes to see if there's any weak spots. “Someone's hurt, I have to help him -”
“You cannot help anyone, that much is clear,” she sneers sharply. “You have been granted power, beyond what you deserve. And you've squandered it.”
It should be simple to just use magic to escape. But with your head ringing, your hands bound, and this creepy temple pressing in on you it feels difficult to even reach for your magic.
“That's mine,” you point out petulantly, as she sets your staff down on the altar.
“Not anymore,” she shrugs, turning her back on you. “I'm sorry to have to do this. It isn't technically killing but still, it is violent enough that it brings me sorrow. This is unnatural for one of Niole. And yet, I have no choice but to dissolve you, to merge your magic with mine.”
You fix the back of her head with an irritated glare. Viktor could be dying right now. That blood from his nose… He needs you.
“That’s not going to work. Magic isn't like mixing paints; you can't just put whatever together and expect it to work. Witchhood is not a token that can be transferred to someone else, it's what I am, down to the bones,” you explain in quick desperate words, hoping logic can maybe help her understand.
Those hopes crumble as you watch her drag out a large iron cauldron.
“Funny you should say that. Down to the bones…that's exactly what I'm going to reduce you to.”
There's no amount of logic to fix the crazy in her eyes.
You start to whisper a spell, the words forming quickly -
-but not quickly enough as she whirls in an instant, jamming a short branch between your teeth like the bit gag of a horse.
“Blasphemy,” she snarls, performing a religious gesture you don't recognise. “The sooner we are rid of you, the better. Why they ever allowed you over the threshold, I'll never know.”
All you can do is roll your eyes and give a muffled, sarcastic retort.
“They won't hate me for this. Our people are so full of forgiveness; they will see this for what it is. An appeal to God, to trade the life of a vile witch for the end of the Meilas curse. They will celebrate me,” she goes on dreamily.
She finishes dragging the cauldron into the centre of the room, over a dark pit that she throws a match into. She strikes a match and fire blossoms beneath the cast iron, casting a sickly glow over the smooth walls.
Her rambles go on and on and on as she spends forever filling the cauldron with water, herbs, and flowers. The fantasies she's preoccupied with seem to be based on the idea that Niole is a heavily religious place. But you've barely heard mention of it other than in passing. The Meilas certainly aren't zealots. Your confusion mounts as she starts to chant again. At the funeral, you'd thought it odd. But who were you to judge? Now, moments away from being turned into soup, you start to question the strange language.
There are words of the old gods. And the new. And a few from a language you're sure originates far to the east. She uses a few words you're sure are known to trolls, and a phrase you're certain is slang from one of the north western countries. She even throws in a rhyme that comes from a children's story about celestials. There are more you don't recognise. The languages, dialects and accents she chants in seem to blend into one another, forming one homogenous script that somehow sounds right in her sonorous, uncanny voice.
This is…wrong. Off. Why ramble on about her precious Odyreu and then speak a hundred tongues at once??
Sweat beads at your forehead and trickles uncomfortably to the neck of your clothes. The strange concave spaces, the heat of the fire, the steam as the water heats - it's like being trapped in a sweat lodge, with all sense of time slipping away. You're not even sure how long you were unconscious, how long since you were dragged away from your home into this religious crackpot crockpot nightmare.
And your thoughts keep coming back to Viktor, unhelpfully.
With her distracted, all you can do is watch her every creepy move and try to wiggle a finger free of the bindings. Your skin crawls as you watch her add wood to the fire, her impatience showing as she waits for the water to boil with a tapping foot.
Charming. She's waiting for it to be hot before she throws you in.
Have you ever felt this before? Desperate envy for the gentle end of a frog not feeling itself boil.
—
“I'll be…I'll - I'll come right back, Viktor. I won't be long, okay?” Jayce asks, squeezing his hand. “You'll be okay while I'm at the cafeteria, right?”
Viktor pulls his own hand free, turning away slightly, as much as the rickety hospital bed allows.
“It is fine, Jayce. You didn't know.”
Jayce’s expression crumples into shame again anyway, his hands fidgeting uncomfortably with the hem of his shirt.
Another uncomfortable silence swells as Jayce tries to swallow the guilt. Not only did he not know his dearest friend’s illness was worsening, but he wasn't there to help him when it took its toll. And on top of that, he wasn't just ‘busy’, he was with Mel. All night.
Thankfully, he's been in the hospital for a few hours now.
“I should've been there,” he repeats morosely.
“This is why my work is important. Why I cannot stop. Why I want…” Viktor trails off for a moment, coughing into his fist. “Why I need our witch friend to make it here.”
“So. It's happening?” Jayce asks softly, hopefully, perhaps glad for the slight change in topic. "You're…?”
Viktor stares at him. “Going to work together? Yes? I know it will be dangerous, a witch in piltover. But we've discussed various disguise and cover story options - what, Jayce?? What is this face you make?”
Jayce balks, looking down at the corner of the hospital blanket.
“N - nothing, I just thought you were going to say you were....”
He lets a beat pass before following up, unable to stop himself.
“...Going to live together?”
“Considering they do not have anywhere to stay in Piltover…yes,” Viktor replies stiffly. “I cleared out my spare room last week, I just…I'm waiting for confirmation. I don't want to pressure them or be…too overzealous. Plus that will make working together easier - what? Again, this face of yours?”
“Nothing, nothing, I was just curious,” Jayce replies, staring off as he seems to work something out behind his eyes. “They seem to care for you. A lot.”
“Oh don't start on about that,” Viktor huffs softly, turning a hard gaze to the ceiling.
Jayce raises his brows. “You…already know?”
“Of course I know. They must have mentioned it to you while my back was turned. I am not allowing them to use their anae spell on my damned illness, Jayce. It would be highly unethical, letting someone I've come to - someone I - well, you know. My friend. A friend. I'm not going to let my pain pass to someone else. It's barbaric, not to mention…”
Jayce listens patiently as Viktor embarks on a spiel about something he wasn't even talking about, still working things out in his head. In the end, he decides to just let Viktor keep on down the path of misunderstanding, figuring it's not his place. He's already let Viktor down once today, he's not about to put his foot in it now.
“....Ham or chicken sandwich?” Jayce eventually manages, resorting to caregiving as an additional means of apology.
“Chicken.”
The moment he leaves, Viktor sighs faintly.
The hospital. Again. There's nowhere he'd rather be right now than in front of his chalkboard pitching a new equation for the scry. Hearing a voice from a world away, the voice of his dear friend.
“Has to be done, I’m afraid, Jayce..”
He lasts only a moment more before sliding out of bed with a quiet grumble and the resolve to sneak out and head back to the lab.
—
Staffs, wands, words. They channel the magic that already exists within you and every other living thing; they direct it, shape it into something precise and functional. Of it you can form a shield. A fierce poison. It can be a scalpel. It's the only way mortals can hope to wield magic without being torn apart by the torrent.
Viktor is unconscious at his desk, or worse for all you know. It's possible someone found him by now - who knows how long you were unconscious. But it's also possible he's still there, bleeding out, succumbing to an illness that you could’ve fixed by now if he’d just let you.
So really there's no choice at all. It's been made for you.
The priestess is distracted, chanting over the simmering water as it draws closer to a boil. The chants seem to pound in your temple. She’s still holding your staff. You have your own chant. Viktor, Viktor, Viktor. His name is playing on a loop in your head.
You wait till she tosses a furtive glance your way to make sure you’re still restrained, till she turns back to the pot and keeps chanting.
No staff, no hands, no words. No choice.
You tuck the thought of Viktor into the very back of your head and try to think through the steam, the fog, the pain in your head where she hit you. Safe behind your thoughts so you can focus on the stupid idiot buffoon risk you’re about to take.
The stick she stuffed into your mouth as a makeshift gag creaks under the pressure as you grind your teeth down on it hard to hold it in place. There’s no speaking it aloud right now, and so you close your eyes and imagine what you want. It’s tempting to do something drastic. To want to explode her head or throw her against the wall or blow that damn fire out. But anything too intense could backfire spectacularly.
So you start small. The runes swirl in thought behind your eyes, the ones you’d write if you could. Whispers in your head recount the words you’d speak if you could. You craft in your mind’s eye a tiny beam of heat, no wider than a little finger, no harsher than sunlight. Your hands tremble with the effort of maintaining control. One wrong move and your tiny beam could warp into a volcanic blaze destroying everything within ten feet.
It’s something children do, when they’re exploring the basics of physics. Viktor probably learned it as a toddler knowing him. Refracting light through glass. For you, the small glass jars holding the candles on the ceiling are just barely convex enough and will have to do. The beam shines through the glass as you direct it, and absorbs the heat as it does. The glass concentrates the beam, which you aim behind your back where your wrists are tied.
The strength of the beam is difficult to gauge and temper; it wobbles when your focus does. Burns the skin of your hands as you blindly aim for the ropes restraining you. Pain tightens the features of your face as you try not to give away any sign you’re trying something. She’s oblivious, still screeching her unnerving mixture of languages over the water. The boil is starting to roll, you don’t have much time.
Sweat soaks the back of your neck as you work, finally lining the beam up with the ropes. It takes everything you have to keep focus, to stop the beam from growing in strength. More than ever you wish for the familiar stability of your staff between your hands. The ropes start to loosen -
“Your eleventh hour draws near, witch,” the priestess declares. Your eyes snap open, concentration wavering. “Any final words?”
Just a little more…
“Answer me,” she snaps impatiently, peering suspiciously at your glazed over expression. “What are you doing? I must -”
The beam finally burns through the knot and the ropes tying you to the chair slip free, allowing you free. Her face twists with horror as she backs away, clutching at the staff uncertainly. You manage to rip off the gag but there’s no time because she’s already raising the staff and pointing it right at you. She jabs it forward impotently as if it’s a spear, clearly expecting you to whisper some magic words and knock her on her ass. But…like you told Jayce, your magic is not combative like that.
“Stop,” you say instead, keeping distance to avoid startling her. “I know what you are. You can’t stay here.”
She cocks her head, as if surprised.
“Excuse me? I am the Priestess of -”
“Of nothing,” you snap harshly. “I heard your chants. You’re a polypist.”
Her face whitens with mortification and ire as the word seems washes over her.
“How dare you? I - I’ve - this is a temple to Odyreu,” she insists in a desperate hiss.
“No it’s not. I’ve never even heard of an Odyreu. You have symbols and practices and chants and beliefs from dozens of different religions. And you’re making it the problem of a town who’ve done nothing but shelter strangers like us.”
That caught her even more off guard.
“Your accent. You’re not from here either. Are you?” you probe, genuinely curious. “But you were here when I arrived. What’s going on? Since when are my friends a part of your religion? It’s time you admit the truth.”
The priestess tightens her grip on your staff. You can’t lunge at her. A) she’d probably overpower you and b) if she fires the staff by mistake it could wipe out half the town.
“Fine,” she snaps, voice warping from the soft lilting cadence to a rough hissing. “My sister was really a priestess here. Ever the faithful. I took her place and gradually drew the town to the light, to the correct way to believe. My way. I’ve sampled every scripture, served every saint, tended every temple. I can unite them, all of them. Imagine it..”
“By force,” you infer, disgusted. “You can’t do that. Niole has people that are swayed to you because they’re kindly and happy to listen. But other towns and cities won’t be so easily conquered. What…what are you? What did you do to your sister??”
She steps carefully around the room and you follow suit, trying to keep at least seven feet between you. Keeping her talking is at least giving you more time to try and think of a plan.
“I took her place. Her voice. Her skin. Boiled her up and consumed her,” she gloats, voice thick with glee. “Became her. She wasn’t as simple as your average priest or worshipper…she was like you. And she didn’t go easy, tried to curse me. Luckily I dodged it, passed it to someone else.”
Curse.
You freeze in place, mouth drying as you realise with a sense of horror what she’s saying.
“The curse on the Meila bloodline…is your doing? It was for you? You’ve stood by and let them - watched them suffer - watched them die. Watched babies, entire branches of their family die?” you ask numbly, appalled.
The priestess - the polypist, the vile creature - laughs.
“Yes. Yes, of course I did. And provided each of them a place to pray for it to end. Unity,” she adds, as if it makes sense.
A threat claws up your throat and bursts out before you can stop yourself.
“I’m going to tell them everything. And then you’ll have no followers for your freakshow slop of a religion.”
Her eyes narrow, skin bubbling like there’s something horrid inside her trying to get out. She smirks stubbornly and raises your staff, aiming it right at you.
Frantic words are lost on her as you try to warn her about the dangers of wielding magic unpracticed. Your hands raise placatingly - and pointlessly - as your staff, your precious, well-oiled, well looked after staff, which you’ve had since you were very small…explodes. The end of it shatters in a hailstorm of wood splinter stakes and bright blue light. You see her face whiten under the beam of light for a brief second, her eyes whiter than bone, before she’s engulfed by it.
The force of it knocks you back against the wall and you hit your head - again. Luckily this time you just about manage to grip onto your consciousness, vision ringing and flickering. You push up from hands that almost buckle and stagger to your feet. The gag falls away, freeing your mouth. With some surprise you notice it’s snapped clean in two - you must have bitten through it when the blast happened.
Most of the candles have blown out, thin streaks of warm smoke filling the strangely shaped cavernous rooms. The few that remain bathe the priestess in dim light. What’s left of her at least. She’s not moving. Not breathing. Her flesh is burned beyond even magical repair. It doesn’t take a witch to know that. It’s too gory to look at directly, and you’re sure you’ll pass out altogether if you do. So you stoop and pick up what’s left of your staff, a few blackened sticks and chunks, and flee.
The sound of the wood cracking is faint and echoey, your ears still recovering, still hearing the blast happen over and over. Your feet take you in the direction that your nose can smell night air. Night? Already? Narine’s funeral was…
Viktor. The thought untucks itself from the back of your mind and swims to the front, reigniting urgency within you.
Heat licks at your back and you realise a stray candle must have set light to those strange walls, another thing to spur you on.
Finally the walls give way to an opening, where you stagger out onto cold grass, dew dampening the knees of your pants. Coughs tear out of your throat - must have inhaled more smoke and steam and craziness than you’d thought.
“- is she?? Hello? Where is the priestess??” comes a demanding voice.
It’s hard to raise your head but you do it anyway, finding standing over you one of the Meila uncles, as well as a dozen other Niole residents. Most stare at you, on the ground, remains of your staff in hand, some staring behind you at the priestess’ shrine, which is now ablaze beyond repair, smoke already billowing high into the pale clouds above.
“She - she - “
You barely get the words out before the crowd, descend on the shrine, desperately calling for water. A few of them hurry inside, only to return and tell between harsh coughs that the priestess has…definitely passed.
It’s hard but you manage to get up again just in time to realise some of them, the people who have accepted you as one of their own, are now gathering around you. Asking, demanding really, what you did. Why you did it. Why you’ve killed her.
Your eyes are watering from the smoke and it’s still hard to breathe, let alone speak, and Viktor, Viktor, Viktor - so you push past them weakly and try to keep going.
“Where are you going??”
“You can’t just - what about the shrine?”
“Can you help her? Can you bring her back? Please -”
Some of them follow you, pull at your arm even.
But it’s Mara’s voice, cutting through the din, that makes you stop.
“Were we wrong? To open our home to you?” she asks, voice trembling like it does when she’s really, very angry. “My Kav is gone. My Narine -”
She stops to take a shaky breath and you force your stinging eyes to meet hers.
“Bring them back. Both of them. Please, I - I’ve seen you do incredible things and I just know you can.”
Her words fade into a ringing silence as the demands from her and the rising mob grow more frantic. More desperate. More bitter.
The nicest people in the world - literally, anthropologically considered the culture most given to kindness - and your magic has their shouts overlapping, their hands reaching out to try and hold you in place and make you do what they want. The pressure, the rage, the grief - it’s too much.
“I - I can’t,” comes your hoarse gasp. “I can’t, I’m sorry, I wish I could undo it all for you, but I can’t.”
That only seems to drive their fury colder, harsher. They close in like wolves.
It takes you back to the last time this happened, the last time you let yourself get too close, get too wrapped up in the affairs of a community, let your magic become their only hope and prayer against the fate of death.
One of them - you recognise him as that same man who almost lost his temper when you were stripping the Meila children of their curse as best you could - finally reaches out and shoves you. For a moment, all you can hear is the shouts of the others tending to the rabid fire back at the shrine.
The crowd seems to take a breath and pause, united as one organism, with one train of thought. Violence is anathema to everything the people of Niole believe in. It’s something they’d never consider a valid response to anything. You’ve seen sour rivals settle the rankest of disagreements with a terse handshake. But the crowd seems unified in one conclusion: The loss of Narine spells the end of their patience for this curse.
And who else to cast the fraying of their temper upon but you, the failure of a witch that couldn’t help them?
It’s Mara who screams first, a crude wordless bay in the back of her throat as she pushes forward at your shoulders with both hands, sending you stumbling backwards and tripping over yourself. Your eyes prick with fresh anguish as the others follow suit, pushing, shoving, shouting, pleading. You can’t find it in you to even fight back, already feeling you deserve it.
It’s when one of them bends to snatch a rock from the ground that you realise it’s time to run. You turn, the back of your shirt grabbed at by rough hands as they try to pull you back. The nape of your neck is damp with blood and your legs are weak. The sight of Mara, your pseudo mother in this place, actually turning her hands on you has your stomach in knots and your hands shaking. Someone kicks the back of your leg and you crumple to the ground, quickly surrounded by loud voices and hard blows raining on you from all angles.
A hand slips through the crowd and grabs your wrist, deftly dragging you out of the crowd and to your feet in one move. Your vision shudders into focus as you wonder if your saviour is in fact someone angrier, someone who wants to finish you off themselves but…
“Fevra?” you choke out, still holding her hand.
Her face is pinched with determination, but there’s no hate in her eyes.
“Go,” she insists, pushing you ahead.
The crowd are paused, confused and annoyed by Fevra’s interruption. They gather close again already as you start to back away, Fevra holding her arms out to stand guard between.
“Move, now,” Mara snaps, eyes narrow with enmity. “Now, Fevra.”
“Why are you helping the witch??” another relative demands.
Fevra glances over her shoulder at you before facing the crowd again.
Hard-faced Fevra. Fevra that never wanted you here in the first place. Fevra who was always the last to clasp you and the first to complain about you coming over all the time. Fevra who never let you heal her, not even a splinter.
“For Kav.”
The words make your ribs feel too tight.
Fevra glances at you over her shoulder impatiently and snaps, “Fucking go. What are you standing around for?? Run."
You look at Mara one more time, and there’s something like regret in her expression, even as she pushes to try and get past Fevra to take another crack at you.
You look over the firelit silhouette of Niole one more time before you take off, unsteadily running out of the town gate and down the path to your home on the moors. Past the berry bushes, the apple tree, the mushroom rocks. The daffodils, the brook, so idyllic.
And the spot where the first scrying window to Viktor opened.
Where the rosemary grows.