Chapter Text
The Boatem Inn is quaint, nothing fancy. The rooms are small and the beds aren't the most comfortable things in the world, and the bar downstairs is often loud far into the night, keeping the traveling tenants awake. This is fine with Scar.
The building is full of life and Scar doesn't sleep, a few books scattered on the bed around him- but they're useless, none of them offering the information he needs.
Legends of the Forests, written in Supernatural script, had seemed promising. Ultimately, it's like every other book he's found; completely useless.
Why do the Fae have to be so isolated? He wonders bitterly, dropping his face into the pile and groaning, frustrated.
Of course he shouldn't expect any books written by non-Fae to explain fairy rings. Of course he shouldn't expect to be able to figure out how to make them.
Of course they didn't just teach me how.
Warmth.
There's warmth on his arm.
He pushes himself up and tugs his glove off, looking at the little bird. He smiles softly, fondly, and barely brushes his fingers against the bird.
"Scar!"
Grian sounds happy. That's good. "Well, hello there," he says, resituating himself on the bed.
"Scar, are you in Boatem right now?"
Scar chuckles. "I am. I was gonna call in the morning."
"Well forget that and come over right now, if you can, there's something I want to show you," Grian says, two steps from a demand, but really, who is Scar to deny his friend? It's not like he's having any progress with his research.
He looks down at the books and parchment he has scattered around, notes written and scratched out and ripped and balled up. He should fix it, spell them back to their original condition, but... "I'm not busy, so if Mumbo doesn't mind..."
"Grian wouldn't have invited you if I didn't say it's okay," Mumbo says, and Scar breathes a little too sharply- he hadn't thought Mumbo was listening in!
"Ah- right!" He laughs. "Of course! Um, I'll be over there soon. Fifteen minutes."
"Ten?" He can practically hear Grian pouting. "Wait, why not now? You can teleport."
"You're so impatient," Mumbo laughs, and Scar can't help but grin.
Cute.
"Right, if you have a handy teleportation glyph, if not the preparation for it takes longer than it would to just walk," Scar chuckles. "Fifteen minutes. Twenty max, if I can be there sooner I will."
Grian sighs dramatically and Mumbo says something Scar doesn't quite catch. "Alright," Grian says. "But not a moment longer!"
Scar laughs. "Hey, give me some leeway! I might see a cute cat in the street!"
Grian hums thoughtfully. "Okay, you get leeway for cat-petting purposes. But that's it!"
"The longer you talk the longer it'll take him to get ready," Mumbo points out and Scar snickers.
He isn't about to tell them he's already mostly dressed, having never intended to sleep tonight.
"Okay! See you soon, then!"
"Seeya," Scar says, and with a gentle touch he dispels the connection. The brighter glow of the bird dims to a soft shimmer. He pulls his glove back on, hiding the glyphs from sight.
He looks at the scattered mess around him again, considering. There is that one semi-animation spell he knows...
No. He should be responsible and pack them up again, himself.
... or he could just leave them here and go ahead to the manor and go see whatever it is that Grian wants to show him. Yeah, that sounds good.
So with that in mind he steps into his shoes, clips his cloak around his shoulders and grabs his staff, and then he’s out the door.
The night itself is rather cool, summer now just a memory. He's never stayed in Boatem during the cold seasons before; even now he can feel the ache crawling through his bones and clawing its way up his back.
He breathes out and closes his eyes, focusing on warmth, and there's a gentle breeze-
Pain.
He's yanked, claws digging harshly in his arm- deep and ripping, painful, like five burning needles shoved into his skin.
Attack.
His eyes snap open and he’s grabbing his staff, whirling around even as he's dragged into the alley, and his staff glows-
A hand catches his staff before he can finish casting, and another grabs his other wrist and shoves him against the wall.
This is bad. This is so bad.
The staff is twisted and he yelps as its pulled from his grip, and he tries to kick at his assailant-
"Now now, Sorcerer, is that any way to greet an old friend?"
Scar freezes, eyes widening at the voice. He blinks, and then one of his fairy lights flits in- called, unconsciously, by his silent need- and casts a golden light on-
Platinum blonde hair and ruby red eyes.
(A picture on a file. A blurry figure in the corner of his eye. A knife in his chest.)
"You-" Scar breathes sharply. She has him pinned against a wall, his staff three feet away on the ground and his wrists held against the bricks- immobile and defenseless.
I can't believe I let my guard down.
“Myrani,” he says as confidently as he can, glaring at her. She laughs, cold.
“You and your names,” she mocks, pulling on his arms. Scar doesn’t consider himself very weak, but up against a pureblood Vampire- well, he has next to no chance to pull back, to break free as she forces his hands together above his head and clamps her hand tightly around both wrists, pressing them into the stone. “Tell me, what does that one mean? Ooh, let me guess, I love guessing games-”
She leans close, her grin baring her fangs. “Is it Elvish for damned soul?”
Scar glares at her.
“I thought for sure I would have killed you that night,” she says, reaching her free hand forward and lifting his hair away from his face. Her eyes flicker to his ear and he snarls. “Your little bird said you were a Sorcerer. Pity, I used enough Wither to kill a Sorcerer in just a few minutes- but no, you’re an Elf after all.”
Her grin widens and she moves her hand away from his hair- only to tighten her hand around his throat.
He breathes in sharply just before he can’t breathe at all, and he can feel her claws digging into his skin.
“How fun this game has gotten,” she laughs, pressing harder- and Scar thinks, just maybe, this time he really will die. “I could kill you right now and you can’t do anything about it.”
He struggles, trying to kick her again, but she doesn’t even react, her grin widening even as his vision starts going black. “I should have known when I saw you fighting. You don’t cast like a Sorcerer- you’re in constant motion, your hands and staff always moving, practically dancing with the wind,” she laughs, pulling her hand away from his throat now. He sucks in a breath and coughs, glaring at her.
She brings her claws to her lips and slowly licks the blood trickling down from her claws. He can feel sticky warmth on his neck.
I won’t die here.
There’s a fairy light hovering by his foot.
“Even in your tainted blood there’s power,” she coos and he growls. “It’s practically liquid gold, you know, blood so infused with magic...” Her grin widens impossibly so and his heart is racing. “You’d make a wonderful addition to my... collection.”
“I will kill you,” he says lowly, pressing his foot into the dust below them.
She laughs, cold and dead. “Lovely, magic and feisty! I like that. Oh, you’d make such a nice servant, though I’d have to cut off your hands,” she sighs, gripping his chin and tilting his face up. He tries to pull away, but all it achieves is his head pressed awkwardly against the brick. “Of course, I can’t make you part of my collection- if it got around I had a pretty little Elf hidden away, the Fae King would tear us apart without second thought.”
“You deserve it,” Scar hisses, trying to push against her.
Almost-
“Regardless, I think it’s better just to kill you,” she says. “But this time I won’t let a single drop of blood go to waste~”
Scar’s eyes widen, and before he can stop it he feels fangs sink into his neck-
Pain.
He kicks at her, panic rising in his chest because this can’t be happening no no no-
He can feel pain as she bites down hard, keeping him in place and tearing his skin and his blood is staining his cloak, running down his shoulder and into his shirt and blood isn’t supposed to run during a feeding-
She pulls back, glee on her face. “A little prince!” she laughs, and he gasps and tries to back away further into the wall, his thoughts scattered and all he feels is burning in his neck. “Oh, that’s delicious. I’ve been struggling to get back to full strength, but you...” she chuckles lowly, running her finger over the wound and licking it. He can see his blood on her teeth, her lips, her tongue, and he feels sick.
“I’ll be stronger than my Mother ever was,” she cackles gleefully, her eyes glowing, and he swallows a swear.
Focus. Get away from her.
He breathes out. “You know- there’s a reason Birdie called me a Sorcerer,” he growls, and she smiles- a mocking, cold smile that doesn’t match the sadistic glee in her eyes.
“Oh?” she giggles, a manic and inhuman sound, and he thinks she sounds drunk, drunk off Fae blood. “Why is that?”
“Because I know a few tricks,” he says, and he pushes his foot down- right over his fairy light, right into the glyph-shape he had scrubbed through the dust and muck, and it lights up right under him in a brilliant, electric explosion of light.
The hand leaves his wrists and she stumbles back with a wretched shriek and he tumbles down to his knees. He wastes no time, grabbing his staff and lifts it up, the wind whipping around him in an angry whirlwind.
“You!” she shrieks, gripping at her burned face- but he can see it’s already healing, the blood she’s stolen from him healing her faster than his glyph could burn her.
I have to get out of here, he realizes, because she’s a pureblood Vampire who’s just drank Fae blood, and he’s weak from his injuries and being unwillingly fed on, he has to get away because he doesn’t know how long his adrenaline will keep him on his feet.
He stumbles to his feet and she lunges at him, shrieking and inhuman now, but he slams his staff down and the remaining fairy lights explode, lighting the alley like day, and while the raw magic bounces around and blinds the Vampire he turns and runs- runs because he has no time to teleport, runs because he doesn’t have the strength to fight, runs because without his Fairy lights he isn’t sure he can protect himself, runs because he’s afraid.
(She knows who he is.)
He runs. He ducks between alleys and behind signs, force-teleports between random alleys with hardly any preparation- a dangerous and exhausting activity on its own, and doubly-so when open wounds are involved.
He keeps running until he catches sight of the manor and remembers-
He can hear her following him, tracking him, her anger and hatred and bloodlust louder than the blood pumping through his veins, and he realizes he’s still bleeding- she can smell him-
There’s no where he can go that she won’t find him.
Except one place, one place far enough away that she won’t immediately track him, somewhere already drowned in the scent of a Vampire Lord without a Coven, somewhere safe.
He doesn’t think he’s strong enough to make that jump, and he can’t make the run- she’d get him on the steps, and he’s sure if she catches him again she’ll rip him apart without hesitation, no chance to get away again. He can’t breathe and his vision is slowly turning black, spots dancing in front of him, and he’s still bleeding-
Blood.
He breathes in sharply and presses his hand to his neck- still bleeding, the rough bite having left the wound too large. He pulls his hand away and glances at it, then grabs his staff with it.
This is a bad idea, he thinks, twisting his staff around and building, picturing, commanding, and the wind blows and his staff glows red instead of gold, and-
He stumbles and collapses on the porch, his staff clattering to the ground, and he gasps for breath. He looks up at that oh-so-familiar door. Up here it’s cold, so cold- or maybe it’s just him- and he can, distantly over the wind, hear the inhuman shriek of his hunter.
Inside.
He can’t move. Hands trembling- weak, weak from injury and blood loss, weak from running and not breathing, weak because his magic is stuttering under his skin- he knocks at the door.
Knock knock thud-knock.
It’s a few seconds before it’s thrown open. “Finally! You’re- Scar!”
Whatever happens next, he doesn’t know. The last thing he’s aware of is arms catching him as his body gives in and he falls. He doesn’t hit the ground.
(Safe, he thinks before his mind fades into blissful unawareness. I’m safe.)