Chapter Text
The sun sits high in the sky, casting the whole of the Owl House in a soft, relaxed sort of glow. Hunter chose to recline in a spot that's halfway in the shade, so he can read without the light obstructing his view. King made the mistake of lounging directly in a sunbeam and had almost instantly (adorably) fallen asleep. His own limbs have gone lazy in the heat and it's taking all his focus not to follow suit. He can't fathom how Emira has managed to resist the lull, when she's stretched out on a blanket to tan.
Using a reserve of energy he envies, Luz elects to practice her glyph combos by mock-dueling her girlfriend. Normally, Hunter would join in, eager to expand his knowledge of glyphs; but with those two involved, it just amounts to a lot of flirting and cheering each other on. Plus, Gus mentioned he might stop by later, along with Willow, and he wants to finish this chapter by then.
The adults have congregated under the shade of an umbrella, chatting at the picnic table. Hooty zips over, balancing a tray of iced drinks on his head. Lilith thanks him heartily, Eda with a hum, while Darius takes a sip without a word, his eyes focused straight ahead. Wondering what's caught his attention, Hunter looks up from his book, just in time to avoid a spray of gunk as it flies in his direction, courtesy of Luz's new glyph.
He dodges another one, sticking his tongue out in triumph. It lands dangerously close to Amity's sister, forcing her to pluck out her headphones. "Mittens! Tell your sweet potato to watch where she’s aiming!"
One day Hunter will have to ask her how she manages to pack so much older sibling authority into a single sentence.
"I'm on it!" Amity declares, transforming her fist into an abomination gauntlet. It stretches past her wrist to her forearm, much further than he's seen it reach before. She steps in front of her sister, effortlessly swatting away the glyph attacks.
"Well, it's good to see that not everyone in the Blight lineage is a hack," Darius comments, unable to resist the slight.
"Hey!" snaps Emira, who lowers her sunglasses enough to glare. Darius shrugs, unrepentant.
"For her age, it's impressive," he goes on, which the eldest Blight accepts with a satisfied nod. The compliment rings as sincere this time. Hunter peers over the top of his book, watching his mentor watch Amity. Admittedly, the awe isn't undeserved. She has visibly improved her control over her abominations. Time spent with her dad must've paid off.
It doesn't explain why he feels a peculiar sinking in the pit of his stomach. He frowns down at himself, eyebrows drawn together.
"I'm sure she has a bright future ahead of her."
And Hunter—
Hunter drops his book. The sinking feeling has expanded into a chasm he can't seem to crawl out of.
His scout training makes it easy to slip away without a sound. Not understanding why, he just... Stomps off into the woods, his fists curled at his sides. He doesn't go far, but it isn't nearly far enough, he thinks, kicking at the protruding root of a tree. He trips, stumbles, and growls his frustration at the sky.
He needs to get a grip. Wander back to the house before others start wondering where he's strayed and go looking, only to find Hunter stewing over what, exactly? How everyone, including Darius, was fawning over the Blights and how talented they were?
Flapjack lands on his shoulder with a chirp of disapproval.
"I know," he says, tightly. Tries to unclench his teeth and dispel the bitter taste in his mouth. "I know I'm being—"
Stupid. Stupid, and childish. To be jealous of Amity Blight, just because in five minutes she earned Darius's approval as a witch while he tried for years in vain to gain any sort of respect from a coven head—
Selfish. The chiding voice in his head sounds eerily like his uncle. How ungrateful. Isn't it enough he lets you stay in his home?
Hunter shakes his head vehemently, trying to dispel the very notion.
No, it is enough, it's plenty, and that's why he hates this sense of disappointment curling in his gut. Darius had given more than he ever hoped to deserve. A home that's not conditional, a guardian with no ulterior motive. He isn't ungrateful, would never be, so why does he still want... Want what a witch like Blight can achieve so effortlessly.
Amity has a bright future ahead of her.
Hunter is lucky to have a future at all.
It isn’t as if the gap between them is insurmountable! Okay, she has an affinity for Abomination magic, something he lacks. What she lacks is experience. Hunter has reflexes honed by hours of training, all his skills sharpened by missions, survival scenarios, things his classmates could scarcely imagine. Sure, the battle at Eclipse Lake concluded in a draw, but at the time he was exhausted, new to using a palisman as his staff, and so desperate to win it probably clouded his judgement.
Desperate enough he resorted to threatening Luz to get the key. Guilt rises like bile at the bottom of his throat. And for what? To give the key to a man who, in the face of his unwavering loyalty and willingness to stoop to such lows, had not uttered so much as a thank you, Hunter, you did good, I’m proud of you.
His stomach lurches. It isn’t guilt, though, or even the sinking pit of jealousy. He recognizes this yearning, familiar like an old friend, the constant companion of his childhood.
Magic is everything in the Boiling Isles. Hunter proved he could be useful without any, but that was in spite of expectations, and simply defying those isn’t the same as impressing anyone.
It isn’t the same as being special.
Even with Belos, nobody had ever said they were proud of him. The closest he got was...
The Titan has big plans for you.
I know you can do better.
Praise disguised as expectation, a lie to ensure his obedience. If his uncle was truly proud of the last in his long line of creations, Hunter can no longer be certain. His memory can't be trusted. All those rose-colored images of his uncle muddied by the truth.
Darius isn't like Belos. He won't lie. But he won't give praise that isn't earned, either.
Sinking to the ground, Hunter digs his fingers into the dirt, resentment clawing to the surface, no matter how he tries to stuff it down again. Not directed at Amity, or any witch in particular. She didn’t do anything wrong, not to Hunter, and yet he can't help but feel slighted somehow. She represented everything a protege of Darius should be. Talented, hard-working, a real—
Witch?
He buries his face in his knees, and sulks for a while like that, every bit the little kid the coven heads always accused him of being. Flapjack lands on his shoulder, twittering in reassurance.
Enough, you are enough. Earned respect already, didn't you?
"I did," Hunter realizes, slowly lifting his chin. "I did, yeah... You're right. If proved myself once, I can do it again."
His burgeoning hope comes to an abrupt close by a rustle from a nearby bush, signaling he's no longer alone. His body tenses, poised to leap into action, when a familiar figure pops out of the undergrowth.
"Eberwolf," he sighs, sagging in relief. "Geez, did you have to sneak up on me?"
The beast-keeper chitters a response that makes his heart race again.
"Me? Upset? Pft, no," Hunter scoffs. "No, I had to get some, um—"
Quickly scanning his surroundings, he scoops a plant out of the mud. "A common gore-weed! For my botany class."
Eberwolf sniffs at the plant, tilting his head in question.
"Oh, it's called that because if you squeeze it..." Without a second thought, Hunter demonstrates. A red, sticky substance releases into his palm. Instant regret follows.
"Uh, you get the gist." He tries in vain to wipe his hand clean on his pants. "What're you doing out here, anyway?"
Sniffing curiously at the goopy remnants of the plant, Eberwolf replies in his native tongue.
"Chasing a vole?" His brows raise at the clarification. "A fire vole? Really? Which way did it go?"
By the time they return to the Owl House, Hunter is in much higher spirits, his earlier dejection faded though not forgotten. Darius does a double-take at the pair when they traipse into view.
"Why is it that anytime you two disappear together, you come back covered in alarming amounts of dirt and blood?"
"This isn't dirt," Hunter replies matter-of-factly. "It's soot."
Darius's eyebrow twitches.
Eberwolf grunts. "Right, and this isn't blood, it's gore-weed," he adds, pausing as green eyes glint murderously.
"I don't care," Darius deadpans. "To the hose, both of you. And don't return until you've scrubbed every ounce of grime from under your fingernails."
With a salute, Eberwolf scurries off, while Hunter trails behind, silently scheming. Darius sounds less than impressed with him right now, exasperated if anything.
But it won't be like that for long.
*
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Mixing tracks at Hexside isn't the hassle it once was. Without the restrictions on wild magic, the students have the freedom to change and combine tracks at will. After a lifetime of doing what he's told, Hunter was almost overwhelmed with choice when it came to registering for classes.
Abomination magic was pretty low on his list for consideration, if he's being honest. However, it is one of the more difficult tracks of magic, and also one of the most prestigious. More than that, it's the form of magic Darius prefers and excels in. If Hunter could prove he was proficient in the subject, maybe that would be enough to impress him.
All his plan requires is permission from Principal Bump and the professor who teaches the class. Hermonculus requested that Hunter meet in his office before the lunch period, so he assumes it must be to finalize the transfer, or something. Willow warned that he was as tough a teacher as he was a flyer derby player, but that's fine. Hunter hopes he hands over a stack of make-up work that he'll have to complete to enter the class. Just so he could tackle it all in one night, thus proving his dedication.
He sits ramrod straight in his chair, practically vibrating with energy.
Across the desk, the professor smiles pleasantly. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on short notice- Hunter, was it? I'll try not to cut into your break. I just wanted to speak to you regarding your request to join my class."
"Of course, sir," says Hunter, rocking forward in his seat. "And let me just say, I'm very excited to learn—"
"I'm afraid I'll have to deny your request."
He states the verdict so plainly, slicing through Hunter's hopes and dreams like they're nothing.
"But why?" Arguing with an authority figure would be unthinkable a year ago. Now Hunter feels only a twinge of hesitation before he's barreling forward, the words tumbling out of his mouth. "If you look at my grades, you'll see I'm a hard-worker! I know it's a bit late in the semester, but if I study, I'll catch up in—"
"Don't take it personally, my boy," Hermonculus interrupts. "I realize you're a special case. It is noted here in your file, after all. You don't have a bile duct, correct?"
That stops Hunter short, the breath leaving his lungs.
"I..." He glances down, the familiar tug of shame drawing his gaze. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Sadly, there's only so much a palisman and glyphs can do. If you're serious about joining this track, not just taking a class here or there to fill your schedule, well... It requires a level of natural skill you simply don't possess."
Hunter glares at the fists clenched in his lap. He wants to beg for a chance, wants to earn his place in the class, but he gathers his pride and tamps down on the urge. What is this man to judge his skills based on that alone, when he barely knew Hunter's name when he walked in?
He should say exactly that. Speak up defense, do anything at this point. What had his friends taught him, if not how to be brave? To fight against injustice?
Except there's no real argument to be made. He can't dispute the decision with his competence, his tenacity — no amount of debate can change the fact that Hermonculus is right. He has no magic. Hunter is a powerless witch. Not even a witch, really. Some unnatural blend of palistrom wood and bone, resurrected in the shape of a human he's never met.
His friends taught him that he could change who he is... Not what.
"And I'd rather see you succeed in a less strenuous subject than watch you fail in my class." Hermonculus smiles, like this is a kindness. Perhaps to him, it is. "Do you understand?"
You're very good at doing exactly as you're told.
"Yes, sir," Hunter replies. Falls back in line, ever the good little soldier. "Thank you for your time."
*
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"I can't believe he said that to you!"
"I can," Gus scoffs. "Because he's the worst."
Hunter pokes glumly at his food. Scarcely participating in the conversation, though it largely revolves around him. He wishes he hadn't mentioned it at all, but Willow was persistent, and she noticed that something was wrong as soon as met up with them for lunch. He's relieved that Blight isn't here to witness his misery, spending the lunch period with her siblings instead.
"Okay, I believe it," Willow huffs. "But it ticks me off."
She reels on Hunter, her anger a fire that has yet to burn out. "You should talk to Principal Bump. Or make a complaint the school board!"
"Did you do that when he made you compete for the right to captain your own flyer derby team?"
Willow deflates, losing some of her steam. "Well, no..."
"Right. Because we both know that the school will side with the teacher. Adults side with adults." Hunter snorts. "Besides, he isn't wrong. I'm not sure how I would manage to create an abomination without magic..."
"Isn't the point of school to learn new things?" Gus reminds. "Again, not that I'm surprised, but— He didn't even give you a chance."
Where I come from, even chances have to be earned. He told the captain that what feels like ages ago. Even after leaving the emperor's coven behind, Hunter wonders if that's still the case. If he'll never have to stop proving himself.
"Exactly," Willow says, a fierce note to her voice. Her eyes glint dangerously. "Maybe we should challenge him to another friendly flyer derby match."
"Don't bother." Honestly, it isn't a grudge worth pursuing. So a teacher hurt his feelings, so what? Being underestimated isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to Hunter — doesn't even make the top ten — though it is one of the more frequent.
His friends share a look that he pretends not to see and then quickly change the subject.
"If you're interested in trying out Abomination spells on your own, I wouldn't be much help," Willow admits, alluding to her own fraught history with the subject. "But my dad could give you some pointers and he's way cooler than Hermonculus."
Hunter knows. Her dads have never missed a single Emerald Entrails game, always cheering the loudest, and splattering their faces with streaks of green. The first time he had dinner at her house, Harvey insisted Hunter refer to him as "Harv," and in turn he calls Hunter "sport," which he doesn't understand, but he likes it, the sense of familiarity, the warmth he feels when he enters the Park household.
"Not to state the obvious, or begrudge my dude Harv, but why doesn't he just ask Darius?" Gus questions, eyes flicking to Hunter. "You know, the master of abomination magic, who coincidentally lives under the same roof as you?"
"Darius is busy," he dismisses, and to relief, Gus doesn't press. Anyway, it's the truth. Why should he bother him with his problems? He burdened his friends with it enough already. "And thanks, Willow, I might... Ask your dad for pointers. For now, though, I want to try to figure this out on my own."
*
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"Ugh," sniffs Darius, the first words he utters after walking through the door. "Are you making that human dish again?"
Hunter shrugs at the stove.
"Flapjack wanted pancakes." While they were stuck in her realm, Luz had finally explained what a pancake was and even taught Hunter how to cook one, under her mother's supervision of course (turns out they were pretty flammable, before you get the hang of flipping them in the pan). "You said they were good," he reminds, on the verge of accusatory.
"Good to have once in a while, yes. Not three times in one week." Flapjack tweets indignantly, offended on behalf of his favorite food. Darius scowls back at the bird, pulling out his crow phone.
"Wrap those up for breakfast," he tells Hunter, waving a hand at the short-stack. "We're ordering out."
Flapjack chirps, while Hunter translates. "He says-"
"Yes, yes, he'll get his Gryphon egg roll." Darius rolls his eyes, yet the tone of his voice is good-natured. The way his nose wrinkles is not. "Go wash. You didn't shower after your flyer derby practice, did you?"
"I had homework!"
"You already finished your homework?" Aghast, Darius shakes his head. "We need to work on your slacking off."
For as much as he complains about his habits, this is the third late night he's worked this week. Hunter tries to pick up the slack where he can, like making sure there's a warm dinner on the table. The problem is, Hunter has never learned to cook properly, just forage for food and fend for himself in the wild. While Eberwolf might approve of swamp-rat roasted over a fire, Darius would decidedly not. Hence, the pancakes.
While they eat, Darius launches into a headache-inducing retelling of his day. Restructuring a government from the ashes of the emperor's reign doesn't sound like much fun, but, if he had to choose, Hunter prefers this over the alternative. Darius does, too, though with the way he recounts his afternoon you would think it was on par with the Day of Unity.
"Doesn't help when I've had to fire my last two aides for sheer incompetence." He sighs, massaging his temples. "I swear Raine assigns me the most annoying staff on purpose."
"You could give me the job," suggests Hunter. "I bet I could do better."
"Probably," Darius snorts, eyes narrowing at Hunter's poorly concealed delight. "Wipe that look off your face, that wasn't a yes. You're a student."
He frowns. "And I was a coven head before that."
"And with the new labor laws in place, underage civil servants will no longer be allowed." Darius tosses him a misfortune cookie, laughing as Hunter fumbles to catch it, the wrapper crinkling between his greasy fingers. "Focus on graduating, then we'll talk careers."
Pouting, Hunter unwraps his cookie. The paper slip inside reads: Hereafter will be naught but disappointment. He cringes and throws it away.
All of the talk of his future has the food twisting in his stomach. He decides then he won't mention his failure to get into the Abomination track, despite Willow hinting that he should. Having Darius find out would be humiliating. It would be humiliating for Darius, too. He's proud to the point of vain, but it's kind of deserve, when you're so formidable a witch.
You have a master of abomination magic living under the same roof as you.
As if Hunter isn't keenly aware of that, and of how he can't hope to measure up
Your predecessor was one of the strongest witches I've ever known. But you? Hm.
Darius is equally aware that he can't compete with other witches, or hell, even to other Golden Guards. He's made that clear from the day they met. And he allows Hunter to remain by his side anyway. That must be a good sign.
But what if he finds out how pathetic he is, to have flunked out of a class he didn't even get the chance to take?
The little slip of paper crumples in his fist. Hunter remembers the smell of slightly charred pancakes in the skillet. How he didn't need to tell Darius what he wanted for take-out, he knew without asking. How a once empty bedroom was slowly filling with books, and Luz's manga, and plants from Willow, Flyer Derby posters, photos of him and his friends. How he no longer flinched every time Darius reached out to ruffle his hair, because he isn't in the emperor's coven anymore, he's somewhere safe and with witches who are kind and he has a home.
No, he won't risk all of that, not for anything this...
Stupid.
He lays in bed that night, his thoughts too restless to sleep. Lingering on something the professor said that's stuck with him all day.
It requires a level of natural skill you simply don't possess.
"But I'm not natural, am I?" he whispers to Flapjack, who's perched on his chest. Hunter smooths back his feathers, thinking aloud. "I wasn't born, I was built. So, theoretically, if I could modify the way I was built... Couldn't I give myself those skills?"
Silently, Flapjack tilts his head.
"I'd have to look at... His notes." Hunter bites his lip, considering. "Which. They might not let me do if I ask."
All of his uncle's belongings — the diary Luz found, along with all the meticulous research that Philip Wittebane had collected over the centuries — were confiscated after his defeat. Currently, they resided in the hands of the Historical Society, under the supervision of Lilith, who was working with her colleagues to comprise an accurate history of the Boiling Isles. It would take years, perhaps decades, to undo the damage his propaganda had sewn into the populace.
With that daunting task on their to-do list, surely they wouldn't miss one measly book?
Flapjack chirps supportively.
"You're right," he mutters, regaining some of his confidence. "I'm not the same Hunter who always did what he was told. I'm going to get those notes, with or without permission."
Now it's only a matter of figuring out how.
*
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Robbing the archives right under Lilith's nose isn't the worst crime he's committed, not by a longshot, but it is one of his most bizarre executions of a crime.
It was more tact than brute force, which isn't what he was accustomed to as the Golden Guard. He regrets that he had to lie, but, in his defense, he didn't expect the former head of the Emperor's Coven to be so susceptible to flattery.
All he had to was waltz in, claiming he had to write a paper on Deadwardian architecture. And Luz mentioned that her brilliant Aunt Lilith was supremely knowledgeable on this subject, so could she possibly spare a few moments out of her busy schedule as a bad girl historian to give him a quick lesson?
She was all too happy to oblige — more excited than he'd ever witnessed her as head of the Emperor's Coven, actually. Although the lecture on balusters that ensued was anything but quick, it was a small price to pay for getting what he needed. And the diversion gave more than enough time for Flapjack to sneak into the archives and grab the book.
Hunter had hastily shoved it into his backpack while Lilith was distracted by her diagrams. Only when he's left her office and tread far enough into the forest does he dare to look at its contents.
Flipping open the cover, Hunter sucks in a sharp breath at the painfully familiar scrawl. He would recognize the handwriting anywhere. Could recognize it even with his eyes slammed shut, simply tracing the raised ink with his fingertips. Part of him wants to read it in that manner, half-covering his face, peeking out from the slits between his fingers like a frightened witchling.
But he was always a little more desperate than he was afraid, a bit more curious than he was brave. Forcing the breath out of his lungs, Hunter peels back the first page.
Grimwalker. Grim, from the Old English grima, meaning goblin or spectre. The dead who walk the earth once more.
The witches here tell tales of such creatures. Creatures of mere legend, used to scare their children. Ghosts given mortal form, always in the likeness of the deceased, though never quite the same.
Death changes you irrevocably, they warn. Nobody returns from it unscathed.
They know nothing of our gospel. Of how in his grief, Christ resurrected Lazarus, so he might walk amongst his sisters once more. Was this act considered unholy? And what of Eve, crafted from Adam's left rib, so that he would have a companion to end his solitude? Was the Lord wrong to use his marrow in this endeavor?
Flapjack nudges his wrist, chirping in concern. Hunter jumps, the prick of his beak dragging him back to the present.
His hands are shaking. He didn't realize until his palisman pointed it out.
"Sorry," he rasps, shaking himself out of it. He runs a hand through his hair, brushing the sweat from his temple. He manages a smile when Flapjack continues to fret. "I'm fine, really. It- It's just a lot to take in, you know?"
Flapjack stares, clearly unconvinced. Hunter huffs, soothing the ruffles from his feathers.
"I promise, I'll take it slow. Not too much at once, that way I don't get overwhelmed."
His palisman accepts the compromise, albeit reluctantly. Despite the agreement, Hunter's gaze drifts toward the bottom of the page, unable to tear his eyes away.
I think I shall call this first attempt... Adam.