Young Writers Society

A millenia ago, the world was barren and empty. There was nothing holding it together, nothing to stablize it, and so chaos was the only force at work. Without a guiding hand, the world would not have changed at all, and it would have been left to its doom of endlessly spinning through a wasteland of space. There was great need for control, and two forces rose to answer the call, one from the ages old darkness and one from a brand new light, turning this fragile world into their battleground. During the days, Aylonla, diety of the sun, destruction, and war wreaked chaos, spreading infectious laughter even as the dusty air filled with smoke and fire. During the nights, shorter than now, Civasi descended, diety of the moon, healing, and peace, and gave a healing touch to all around him, before fleeing in fear of Aylonla discovering his good deeds.

But one night, Civasi did not flee fast enough. Aylonla descended, prepared to bring death down upon the world, and stopped, seeing another being unlike any he had seen. The being had touched the earth, and where his fingers grazed, grass sprung out of the cracked dirt and creatures moved forward for shelter in his soft, loving gaze. And Aylonla was frozen, watching the wonder he had never seen unfold before him, and that night, the moon stayed in the sky longer than it ever had, near as long as the sun stayed, as Aylonla watched Civasi.

The following day was subdued. The sun still shone, but it had a comforting warmth to it instead of the harsh, burning glare that the world had always known. And whenever Aylonla saw the wind blowing the dust and ashes of yesterday's conflict, he remembered what he had seen Civasi do, and did not raise his hand to start another. As he turned away, leaving the horizon behind, Civasi emerged to heal the earth as usual and found there was nothing to mend.

From then on, every time they were in the sky at the same time, they always found each other's eyes with a smile.

And so, against all odds, the day fell in love with the night, and the night with the day. Their chase across the sky became less of a battle hunt and more of a waiting time for the soft dawn or vibrant twilight where the two could be together. The earth still cracked and shook during the day, and still closed its wounds at night, but there was balance now. Aylonla provided the conditions for life to exist in the light and warmth of his sun, and Civasi let it flourish and grow in the rest of his night.

Creatures began to rise from the grass that Civasi created, and monsters began to form from the dust Aylonla left behind. Dragons and beasts stalked the land, their rage burning bright like the light above, and every night when Civasi descended from the stars, the animals seeked him out for shelter, hiding away in the cloaks of the sky he wore upon his shoulders, running from the destruction that stalked the day. As day and night melded, silver and gold mixed, and tremendous animals exploded into being, the best of which were the humans. Aylonla and Civasi, in their love, had birthed the first creatures that were neither night nor day, dust nor grass, but a mixture of both the war and peace that they had sprung from. And as humans scattered across the world, Aylonla and Civasi's love deepened, and the dusks and dawns lengthened, and the lines between healing and destruction, peace and war, the sun and the moon, blurred.

But as humans began to rise, so did the fear of them. Their strong hearts lent themselves to both love and hatred, and in the hot days war broke out amongst them as they strove for power, land, and wealth. And Aylonla and Civasi watched, heartbroken, as the product of their love began to spoil. Until one night, Civasi descended to find yet another massacre, another village found dead, children slaughtered, blood seeping into the earth. And he had had enough.

"Aylonla!" He called, pulling his moon from the sky, the first short night in so long, watching Aylonla wake from his rest and lower himself to earth. "We must put a stop to this!"

"It is their nature," Aylonla replied, tears falling like dew as the morning rose. "We cannot stop it, only hope to guide them along a better path."

And Civasi, so calm, so sweet and so kind, knew what they had to do. "We must rid the planet of them. We must destroy them before they destroy everything that we have built."

And Aylonla, so destructive, so playful and fiery, could not accept the words of his love. "No! We cannot destroy the very creation of our beings!"

Because you see, the sun and the moon had fallen for each other too hard-- their lines had blurred, and they had so much of the other inside them that conflict rose, swift and brutally, as they began to argue. The sun and moon remained frozen in the sky, neither rising nor falling, a dark dusk expanding across the entire world as they argued and fought.

The ancient dust that had remained settled for so long stirred up again, at the same time that the oldest cracks and canyons of the earth closed. The earth knew neither peace nor conflict for long as the deities quarreled in a brand new way. Each deity was at war with his own nature, his own dominion, and this is not how a world can stand.

So blind were Aylonla and Civasi to the aftermath of their own actions that neither realized that one of them was piling the ash up high around them, and the other was forcing it to settle, which barricaded them away from the rest of the world. They lost control over the sun and moon, and all the times of war and peace between humans. And as the ash piled up, their souls began to weaken, so cut off from the world that they could do nothing to stop their own prisons from being formed around them. The two soulmates, locked in a prison of their own making, were forever separated from their creation that they had so loved and loathed, and separated from each other.

The sun and moon move on their own today, both in the sky for exactly the same length, and it is us humans that decide when to sound the horn of battle or raise the white flag of peace. And as Aylonla and Civasi remained trapped by the ash of their own fights, they slowly began to deteriorate, bodies wasting away in their prisons, powers growing weaker and weaker by the day. Until one day, they vanished completely, never to be heard or seen by human civilization again. The celestial beings that had been so essential to their creation and survival were nothing but a memory, held as a guide for what is now the people's way of living. And all that remained of their essences were strands of silver and gold.

Dante was fluent in the language of gallows humor. The Willows conversed in it frequently, and it came to them all naturally whether they were on a job or not. If he had to pick a single moment to explain why he’d ended up on this path— even though that wasn’t exactly fair or accurate to narrow it down like that— he would have picked a time someone had shared dark humor. But here they were, standing on those infamous gallows, and they were having a hard time finding anything to laugh at.

If he didn’t think of something quick, he was going to spend the last few minutes of his life having a panic attack, and that was not how he wanted to go.

They’d kept it under control for their last meal, which was undercooked and watery oats, the exact same breakfast they’d had every morning in jail. Apparently, it was a lie that you got to choose your last meal when you were on death row. He’d even been calm for his last few hours in jail and while being transported here. But he’d underestimated the panic he’d be feeling at the gallows. These people were gathered here to watch him die, and they were excited for it.

Dante was already overthinking his posture as he stood under the gathered crowd’s rapturous gazes. Was his head held too high, his chin raised at an angle that appeared too arrogant and unrepentant? Or was it the other way around, where his shoulders were drooped in what looked like an ashamed cower? They weren’t even sure, but they felt incredibly self-conscious under this scrutiny.

If only they’d given him a hairbrush before this occasion. Jail hadn’t done any favors for his appearance, and he was currently dirtier than almost anyone in the crowd.

But not necessarily those around me, Dante noted. There were four others with them on the gallows platform, all found guilty, all given the same sentence as them. A tall person (he couldn’t quite guess at their pronouns) with dreadlocks and an impressive amount of piercings stood to his right. A woman with dark skin, a nearly-shaved head and her arms folded over her chest in contempt was to his left. Two men were further down the line from her, both very burly and very bearded. All five of them had tangles and mats in their hair, dirt on their clothes, and an underfed look to them. Dante wasn’t surprised in the least at what a cell and waiting for this moment had done to them.

At least we won’t be going back to the jail when this is over.

Dante smirked slightly. Ah, so there was some dark humor to be found after all.

The distraction from the situation was brief, and he soon found himself scanning the crowd. Public executions were a spectacle happening once a week, sometimes twice if there were a lot of criminals to go through. He’d generally avoided them, repulsed by the people who always cheered at the deaths, but he knew just as well as anyone else what happened during them. The audience always got plenty of time to watch and comment on the unfortunate souls standing on stage. Dante had never thought they’d be one of them.

He was looking for one of the Willows, but he didn’t spot any. It didn’t surprise him. Showing up here to watch this, when they hadn’t been able to do anything, couldn’t be easy. He didn’t know if their absence made him relieved or upset. Dante didn’t want them to have to see this, but he would appreciate not being completely alone.

Yazmin’s absence in particular was something he didn’t know what to make of. Had she actually abandoned or betrayed him, landing him in this mess, or did she feel responsible for an accident and couldn’t bring herself to show up? He’d never know now.

Dante did see two familiar faces a couple seconds later, and he was suddenly very glad the Willows weren’t here after all. His parents were far back in the crowd, looking up with tearful eyes as they clutched each other’s hands. Even at this distance, he could see his mother’s lip tremble with a sob and his father press a hand over his mouth. He had to face another section of the crowd before he gave anything away. It wouldn’t do to let his composure slip here. They’d rather be remembered as indifferent and unmoved than an overly emotional mess in their last moments.

He noticed that something had caught the crowd’s attention, and he guessed what it was just a moment before the executioner took the stairs up to the platform. There was no clapping for them, Dante knew, but this was their stage and then their audience.

“We are gathered here to ensure justice against those who have wronged you,” the executioner said in a hoarse and scratchy voice, raising her hands slightly. The crowd shouted approvingly. If this wasn’t his literal public death, Dante could have rolled his eyes at the bombast. “Such people cannot remain among us, and so with each of these, we are one step closer to having a safe Sorjeli.”

The executioner began to read out their crimes. Dante’s lips quirked slightly when she got to his— ambushing a noble’s carriage and attempting to rob it. The thing he’d done that was wrong wasn’t doing that, it was getting caught at it.

Thank Yazmin for that.

He’d admit that this particular attempt, he’d been a little in over his head. The sentence for robbing nobles was hanging, because of course they got better protection in the laws. Dante had known the moment he’d seen the embellished carriage heading down the road to the city that it was a bit more of a risk than usual, but they never let the carriages with money go by. How else did you get a big haul? The carriage was defended with guards on horseback, but there was always someone else in another one of the Willow trees— trees that were not actual willow trees— ready with nets to let fall.

It could’ve been very easy, if everything had gone as it had the hundreds of times before. Dante had whistled a bird’s whistle, and Yazmin should have returned it from the next tree over before dropping the nets on the carriage once it was right under her. But there had been no response from her, and he’d been forced to make a split second decision: go in alone, or let the best pick of the day go right by.

As it turned out, breaking into a carriage with guards on both the inside (yes, this noble was paranoid) and outside without backup was a terrible idea. The noble had hollered and hollered even though Dante had been outmatched from the start and hadn’t been much of a threat. He wouldn’t be making that mistake again.

He really wouldn’t, because it looked like his time was up.

Someone threw a rope around his neck, not very gently, and it rubbed painfully against his throat. He probably should have made a joke about how they’d spared no expense to find the roughest and scratchiest rope for this— what were they going to do if he spoke up, kill him?— but the executioner was already standing at the lever that would pull away the boards beneath his feet, and he didn’t know if he’d have time to make the joke land before he started choking and losing the ability to make the right sounds.

Well. Dante inhaled through their nose, closing their eyes briefly. Guess I’ll have to keep it to myself.

The lever was pulled, and his stomach flipped at the slight fall. It was quickly off by the rope catching him, pressing against his windpipe. Dante had told himself that he wouldn’t, but his hands immediately clutched at it, trying to pull it away from his neck as he struggled and wheezed. The plan to die silently and stoically was out the window.

He’d die just like everyone else who had stood there had.

Even that turned out to be false, when he felt the rope hardening and turning smooth like metal under his hands. Nearly losing his grip, Dante glanced down at it, extremely confused, to find that he was now wearing a thick necklace of pure gold.

In the reflection of the shining surface, he could see his eyes had turned the same color: a shimmering, swirling mass of gold like a star.

Dante looked up at the crowd, about to do his best to ask if they were seeing it too, but they clearly were. Screams were rising up, fingers were pointing, and people were shoving to either get closer or further away. He caught a few shouts in the clamor of voices.

“What are they doing?”

“Witches! Get them!”

“Out, everyone out!”

He squinted at them, not sure what they meant, then had to quickly grab the top of his golden rope and fling his body as best as he could to swerve just enough to dodge the glass of beer someone had thrown at him. By the gods, why would someone waste a drink like that? Why did they throw something at him?

And there’s a magic user on this stage? Dante hadn’t been listening to the crimes of the other four here very closely, but none of them had anything to do with magic.

Before he could think about that for very long, the gold rope began splintering and cracking in his hands. He gasped, kicking his feet a little as he tried to get free. In the end, the rope did that for him. It shattered violently, bursting out in all directions, and one of the shards landed in their chest pocket over his heart. They only had a moment to be shocked before they dropped through the hole in the gallows.

Dante shrieked loudly in surprise as he hit the ground, and then even louder as someone landed on top of them. It just had to be someone tall. Through his panic, he realized that it was the person whose pronouns he hadn’t guessed and who had been hanging to his right, but he was pretty sure their eyes had been an earthy brown and not a sparkling silver like they were now. He staggered back from them, shouting something that didn’t make sense to his own ears. “Silver, gold— the eyes— I didn’t do it— what is happening?”

He was making an absolute fool of himself now.

The other person put up with his hysteric rambling a little longer before grabbing his hand and pulling him up. Dante wasn’t sure if they’d said it or he’d thought of it on his own, but what they needed to do was clear. The two of them needed to get out of here.

It seemed like this silver-eyed person was going to do it for them.

Stumbling blindly as the fellow outlaw pulled him along, Dante ran with them, leaving the gallows and the crowd far behind.

Beckett was dead. There was no question about it. She'd been brought from the jail after yet another disgusting meal, put on a big stage in front of a big crowd, held back the impulse to say, "Wow, you're all here for me? Thank you so much!" and otherwise been rather inconvenienced today. The sun was too bright, burning into her eyes, and she wasn't sure if any of her family was in the crowd, but she imagined that either way, they wouldn't fully understand why she was on the execution stage.

They would understand the stealing, of course; they'd taught her how to do that, raised her to do that, in fact. But they definitely wouldn't understand the reason she'd gotten caught, specifically because her gender and sexuality were both a big tangled mess, and she'd never discussed either with her family. Beckett felt a pang of horrified distress as a thought crossed her mind: her family would walk away from here thinking she was a lesbian. A dead woman who was only interested in women.

She wanted to vomit at the thought. Not because she found the idea disgusting, but because it was so violently not her. And sure, right now she was definitely feeling the woman side of her come out, and maybe it was from her desperation to stay alive, and she most often associated that feeling with that side of her; but still, she was definitely not a woman. And while women in general seemed far more healthy and emotionally available and overall stable human beings, Beckett regretfully was not solely attracted to them, which, as far as she was aware, knocked out both qualifiers for being a lesbian.

What a funny thought to be crossing her mind. She didn't care that her family would walk away knowing she'd died, or even died over something so small as an easily obtainable ingredient and a few chocolate bars that she easily could've gotten somewhere else. But the thought that they would walk away from here thinking that she was a lesbian--

Well, out of all the ways to die, flirting with the wrong person seemed like a pretty cool way to go, at least. Maybe they wouldn't walk away thinking, "Beckett was a lesbian," but instead, "Beckett was a player." That would be nice.

She held back a chuckle at the thought, mind wandering aimlessly as she stood on the hot stage under the hot sun, feeling like she would die from the heat. Actually, she guessed she would be dying fairly soon--not from the heat, but from the rope they would inevitably slip around her neck.

She'd grown well-acquainted at the thought of dying over the past few days. It had been panic-inducing until fairly recently. But after it had become clear that there was no way any of her family could get her out, regardless of their magical abilities--and her lack thereof--, she'd needed to resign herself to the fate. Besides, as much as she enjoyed being eaten up by rats, she'd been looking forward to a change of scenery from the small jail cell, regardless of the fact that said change involved a noose and a prayer.

Beck had been placed on the far right corner of the stage which meant, from the view of whoever was in the audience, she was on the far left. She held her head a little taller, feeling the tips of her dreadlocks brush against the backs of her elbows at the sudden movement. She liked the idea that she would be the first person people's eyes went towards--the most powerful position on the stage. Or maybe they'd just check her out because of all her piercings and how amazingly hot she was. Her eyes scanned over the crowd, even though, if she were being honest, she hoped she wouldn't spot any familiar faces. She didn't want anything that could make her break down crying.

Boom.

She could feel it in the floorboards, the loud boots hitting each wooden, creaky step as the person made their way up to the platform. The image crossed her mind, even though she couldn't actually see them--she imagined the man tall, hooded, a skeletally white hand extending and pointing at her. Falling and thrashing and then stillness. What would come afterwards? That was the whole gamble, wasn't it? The ultimate magic trick, if ever there was one, constantly taunting, playing, holding it over the heads of the living.

"We are gathered here," a light, scratchy voice ensounded," to ensure justice against those who have wronged you." Beckett needed to keep her biases in check. It definitely sounded like someone who had grown up rich, which, coincidentally, probably meant they were white as death, but it definitely wasn't a man's voice she was hearing. The crowd screamed. If blood-thirsty could be quantified, the petrichor hanging in the air from the earlier rain would smell like iron. “Such people cannot remain among us, and so with each of these, we are one step closer to having a safe Sorjeli.”

Beckett could only assume the woman raised her hands in some form of gesture because the crowd once again went wild.

"The five people on this stage, all thieves, all here for various crimes, will be punished."

Beckett tuned out the rest, because she wasn't particularly interested in hearing the crimes of other people who were also about to die. Besides, they couldn't be that good if they got caught. At least she technically got caught for something completely unrelated to thievery, and it was only once she was inspected that they realized she had actually stolen as much as she could fit inside her clothes.

The woman in that shop really had been beautiful though--long locks interwoven with pieces of fabric, dark clear skin, a nice smile. She'd punched like the devil when Beckett had made what some might call "upfront" advances on her--but honestly, Beckett just found that even more attractive, and the woman had clearly immediately felt bad about it, because she had bent down to make sure Beckett was okay, which is how she discovered the stuffed pockets full of stolen goods Beckett had nearly made it out the door with.

Maybe the woman was in the crowd, crying out that her one true soulmate was about to be wrongfully killed, and maybe afterwards, Beckett would get to follow her around and haunt her as a ghost.

Beckett didn't believe in ghosts, but it was a nice thought, all the same.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The boots struck again, and Beckett could feel it with every step. Wouldn't feel it anymore very soon, though; the ground would give way, and then--

Her mind drew a blank, slightly to her disappointment. She wasn't quite sure what to imagine death to be like, but she'd been hoping she'd have some last minute inspiration.

The rope slipped around her neck, rough and scratchy, which seemed fitting, given the grating voice of the executioner. She half-expected them to go into funeral speeches before the lever had been pulled. That should be how it's done all the time. It didn't make sense to give long speeches about how great someone was when they weren't even there to hear it.

"The criminals!" The woman cried out. "Redeemed!"

And then the lever pulled. And the floor gave way. And that's when the weirdness began.

The rope turned cold around Beckett's neck, cool to the touch, and quite the refresher from the overwhelming sunshine. Beckett could feel his--yes, something had definitely switched inside him, because he was most definitely now a 'he'--heart speed in his chest, galloping strong and sturdy, and around him, he watched the air waver with pulses of light.

He'd always been the only sibling out of six--SIX--to not have magic, so the sight was terrifying, but his thoughts mainly jumped to, "Yay! My siblings are getting me out of here!"

It only took him a second longer to realize that was not the case, as his hands rose to the rope, almost of their own accord, and pulled back melting, syrupy silver, like a candy bar left too long in the sun.

Beckett didn't wait to figure out what the hell was going on--he could hear the crowd screaming about witches, hear guards running through the crowd to get to the stage. He imagined, if he listened close enough, he could hear people being trampled to death--the crowd seemed rather panicked.

He swung himself backwards, the tips of his toes just barely grazing the ground behind him that hadn't given out, before he swung back forward again. He tried again, and this time, managed to land himself firmly enough that he could focus on figuring out how to get the rope undone from around his neck. He glanced beside him and saw one of the other criminals, someone around his age with ruffled black hair and piercing golden eyes, struggling with a rope turned similarly to gold. Everyone else down the line has stopped moving, swaying back and forth in the hanged man's breeze.

Something about those eyes--something stirred inside of Beckett, and the silver seeped down through his fingers, curling around his arms and dripping to the ground beneath him before slithering its way towards the person beside him. Beckett tugged at the rest of the silver around his neck, pulling hard, and suddenly, it snapped with a soft, "woosh" noise. Resting in his hand was a silver necklace, unclasped, showing no signs of damage after hanging a fully grown person's weight from it.

Beside Beckett, the other thief suddenly dropped. Beckett looked at the guards, surging towards the stage, then at the executioner, then at the other three bodies, hanging deadweight from their regular, normal ropes. He looked at the hole the other person had dropped through and bit his lip--well, here goes nothing.

He jumped in after them, landing on top of them and rolling off with a small groan. There wasn't time for them to sit around and wait. If they were caught, regardless of what was happening, they'd be charged with witchcraft--and that time, they'd be burned to death, a far less pleasant death than hanging. Despite the fact that Beckett knew he couldn't possibly have magic, he wasn't about to try to explain that to the guards.

"Silver, gold--" the person mumbled, stumbling towards Beckett and placing both hands on his shoulders. Beckett squinted, trying to understand what they were saying. "The eyes--I didn't do it--what is happening?" Their voice cracked on the last note, and it was clear they were on the edge of absolute hysterics.

Great.

Now Beckett was going to have to be in charge. And that was never a good idea.

"Come on," Beckett said firmly, taking their hands. "Come on, they'll kill us if they catch us." Did he make it up, or did the gold in their eyes flare up a little at those words? Beckett definitely must have made it up, because it was clear this person was not hearing a single word he said. "Come on," he repeated, pulling them towards him and looking around before spotting the exit from underneath the gallows. It was the way they'd have to go.

"Up and at'em," Beckett grunted, pulling them along towards the door. He pulled it open, then bolted, still pulling the person behind him. The crowd was chaos, screams and shouts--and, funnily enough, nobody gave them a second glance. It seemed in all of the horror and panic, every person had forgotten the people they'd been cheering on the execution of. Well, it suited Beckett well enough.

They fled the scene of the crime, Beckett pulling the other along--and Beckett didn't stop running until the moon had crested the sky.


1969 words

Dante only stopped running once the burning in their lungs was too hard to ignore, and then they were bent over, gasping for air. They didn't know how long it had been or how far they'd gone, but somehow, they hadn't parted ways from this stranger. In a weird way, that felt relieving. Who knew where they'd have ended up running to if it had been completely aimless. But now, they had to process this aloud with someone. In conversation.

With a few more deep breaths, Dante looked up again. The other person-- whose gender he still hadn't guessed at-- was standing with their hands on their hips, head tilted upward as they waited. They glanced over at Dante, and he got a better look at their face. He'd noticed the dreadlocks before, but he now saw their many piercings, umber eyes, and their warm brown skin that looked like his. Dante was fully aware he was staring now for way too long, but he couldn't think of anything else to do. His mind hadn't caught up to his situation yet.

"You done?" the stranger asked, raising their eyebrows as they noticed him staring. "We can't stop here."

Dante took another heaving breath, but his voice still rasped when he spoke. "I-- What was that? What happened with you? What happened with me?"

The stranger sighed, sounding more exasperated than tired. "Do I look like I know?"

Dante blinked. "That wasn't normal for you? But--" They dropped their voice, even though there was no one around to hear them, at night on the outskirts of the city. "They were calling you a witch."

"Uh... I'm pretty sure that's what they were calling you," the stranger said. "You're the one who turned our ropes into metal. And when I broke mine apart, the metal started to move towards you."

Dante gawked at them. "I didn't do that! I don't even have magic, let alone--" He waved a hand around in the air, feeling frustrated. "I'm not a witch."

The person raised their eyebrows, jerking their head back. "Why, because it's of the devil?" They rolled their eyes, wiping their forehead free of sweat. "Doesn't matter anyway, because you have magic regardless. I, on the other hand, definitely do not."

Dante found himself bristling slightly. "I do not. How do you know it wasn't you?"

The person laughed, pulling a hand through their hair. "My siblings all have it. They would've recognized the signs."

"Well, my brother made a career out of finding people with magic. If I had it, I wouldn't have lasted very long." Dante took another deep breath, shaking their head to clear it out. "This is absurd. I didn't do anything. If you didn't do anything either, that means someone else on the gallows tried to save us but didn't save themselves. That wouldn't make any sense."

"Or they could've been in the crowd," the other person pointed out. "Not that it matters, anyway. The guards won't believe us no matter what. If we're caught, we're burned at the stake." For someone talking about their own demise, they didn't sound too bothered by their own words.

"If we're caught, we'd die whether or not we'd escaped magically." Dante rubbed at his neck, where the rope had been. His skin still felt raw from its rough surface. "We were both supposed to die. Someone or something intended to interfere with that."

The person hummed under their breath, tilting their head to the side and glancing around. The sun had set a long time ago, and the shadows tripped over themselves on the ground to extend and elongate. "And you don't think you could convince your brother to help us? If we had someone who's normally on their side, it could help a lot."

Dante shook their head. "Even if I knew where he was, it's not happening. He's not one to give up the cause."

The person sighed, like the fact that Lucian might hunt them down to kill them was an annoying inconvenience rather than an extremely terrifying possibility to Dante. "Fine. Lovely." They sighed dramatically again, then turned to Dante. "Alright, then I guess we're going to Celoia."

Dante frowned slightly. "...We? Are we really?"

The person turned so suddenly on him that Dante stumbled backwards a little. "Duh, we, if someone saved both of us, there's a reason why, and it's either because they wanted us to burn at the stake or they wanted to use us for something. Now, I don't know about you, but I don't like to be used by anybody, so I'm getting the hell out of here."

"You're just running away? I've got people here, and I won't be caught twice," Dante said flatly. The person actually laughed-- full-on LAUGHED-- at that, but Dante pressed on. "And why Celoia, anyway? It'd be incredibly dangerous to get there."

"It's where two of my siblings live. They're probably a little rusty since getting married and leaving us behind, but their magic should be enough to protect us against the people after us. Once we're there, I can get a letter back home and my family will probably just move to another town and set up shop."

Dante stared at them incredulously. "Do you just have a plan ready for whenever you feel the need to flee town? You wouldn't even try to keep on living here?"

The person snorted. "Why? It sucks here."

"Not everything sucks about Sorjeli," Dante retorted, feeling more like defending his position than the city itself. "It's--" He paused for a long moment, trying to think of something he liked about it that would make sense to this person, before he sighed. "It's better than a lot of other places, especially when you factor in that we are likely to die trying to get anywhere else."

"Mhm," the person said slowly. "Right. We're more likely to die in a place they aren't hunting us to kill us? Have I got that right?" They rolled their eyes and turned away. "Look, if you want to stay here and die, that's on you. I'm going to Celoia, where I can at least have a chance of figuring out what the hell is going on."

Dante hesitated for a few moments, feeling a shred of doubt. He could turn around and run back to the Willows, avoid home, hope that no one would snitch on him. He didn't know for sure that he could, though. Even if he'd died on the gallows like he was supposed to, that road would be patrolled more now that the noble he'd tried to rob would have complained. Things could look very different, even if he managed to remain uncaught.

"Wait," he said suddenly. "What could your siblings do? What's your plan?"

"I don't know, I've only had, like, an hour," the person retorted. "But I know that at the very least, they can help cover stuff up."

Dante bit their lip, thinking. They didn't know what there was to cover up, because this wasn't even their fault. They knew pleading their innocence wouldn't work for them well, though, especially since they'd already been found guilty of something. They needed a better plan than hoping for the best.

"Neither of us would stand a good chance of trying to go anywhere else alone," they said reluctantly. "And whatever happened, it happened to both of us. Maybe there isn't an option besides a we."

"Wow, you've convinced me," the person said sarcastically. "Now come on. We need to get out of town and into the woods before the sun rises if we want a chance at getting out of here alive."

"Just a moment," Dante said quickly, holding up a hand. "First, who are you? What's your name?"

They crossed their arms, studying Dante curiously through narrowed eyes. After a long pause, they said, "Beckett. What's yours?"

"My name's Dante." He paused too for a few beats of silence. "I'm a highwayman. I got caught after a teammate failed to show. You?"

Beckett paused for a moment, then said, "Hm." They turned away and started walking. "Nothing important."

Dante raised an eyebrow, but after a quick look back at the direction they'd came in, he followed along. "Not a good story? Or just not your best moment?"

"Oh, it's a great moment," Beckett reassured. "Just none of your business."

Dante shrugged, kicking away a rock on the dirt path that kept leading them out and away from the city. "Fair enough."

They walked in silence for a long while, so long that Dante couldn't tell if it had only been a few minutes or an hour. Finally, Beckett broke the silence and said, "So what're you?" They glanced at him. "You a guy or what?"

Dante blinked in surprise before they understood. "Oh, I guess," they said, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Sort of. I don't much care whether you use he or they for me, both of those work." They looked back at Beckett, remembering that they didn't know this about them either. "What about you?"

Beckett shrugged, glancing up at the moon as they continued walking. The light seemed to make their skin glow, like luminescence. "Bit of both. Bit of neither. Changes, sometimes."

Dante nodded, stepping over a patch of mud. "What are you now, then?"

"Guy," Beckett said without hesitation, then nodded a few times, eyes still fixed on the moon. "Definitely guy."

Dante nodded again, with another glance over his shoulder. "Got it," he said. "Feel free to let me know if that changes."

"Oh, you'll notice," Beckett said. "I'm generally a lot more..." he paused, like he was searching for the right word, then said carefully, "playful." Somehow, Dante felt as though playfulness in a person who already struck him as lively and teasing was something to be reckoned with.

"I see," he said instead, and then paused. "Do you actually mean playful, or something else when you say that?"

"Let's just say that playful just glances the surface," Beckett said, "but I don't really know another word that goes fully into the water."

Dante raised an eyebrow. "It's more extreme, huh?"

"Less one-sided," Beckett corrected. "More... rounded."

Dante hummed thoughtfully. "I guess I'll have to just wait and notice."

Beckett nodded, continuing the trek forward. He was tall, that much Dante had already noticed, but it also meant that he was walking steadily at a very fast pace that Dante was struggling to keep up with. It wasn't like they were a slow person-- running was an incredibly important skill for quick escapes once they'd gotten the money-- but Beckett just seemed to consider this a normal pace. If they had to guess-- from the willingness he'd shown to leave Sorjeli-- Beckett liked to be on the move in more ways than one.

"So," Dante said after a few minutes, once they'd fully caught up alongside him. "What should we do to stay alive out here?"

"Avoid people, avoid roads, avoid towns," Beckett said immediately. "Once we're fully out, we should leave the main road. It's where they'll check for us first. Steal what we need from towns we come across, steer clear of anything else."

Dante ran through a mental map of the land between Sorjeli and Celoia. "There's three towns between us and our destination," he said slowly. "I think the first is slightly south of where we're bound for, if the sunset was that way." He gestured behind them. "It's at least a day away. Probably two."

"Then we head to there first," Beckett said. "Do what we can with food and water in the forest on our way there in the meantime."

Dante tried not to think about what that meant they would be eating, but he did have to. "Can you hunt?" he asked.

"I know my way around plants." Great. That didn't answer their question at all, and Dante only really knew their way around metal, which they knew was not better to eat and not particularly common in forests anyway.

Dante smiled thinly. "Fabulous."

Beckett stopped in his tracks, looking back at them suspiciously. His eyes trailed up and down Dante for a long time in complete silence, long enough that Dante began to feel a little nervous. "Umm... what are you doing?"

"Oh, nothing," Beckett said coolly. "Just looking for where your fucking audacity came from." He turned back forward again and continued walking like nothing happened.

Dante blinked in surprise, standing there for a few moments before they rushed to catch up, nearly stumbling over a uneven spot in the road in their hurry. "I'm sorry, my what?"

"Oh, the little part of your brain that thinks it makes sense to judge me for not being able to hunt when I'm the only one who's done remotely anything to work towards a plan."

Dante bristled at that. "Well, I'm sorry for being a little slow to adjust to almost dying, then not dying, then having to flee home because some idiots with swords think I've got magic. Not everyone's a natural to that."

"It's not like I'm a natural at it, I'm just not gonna sit around and wait to be caught. Come on, you're a "highwayman" and you can't think on your feet?"

"You don't seem to know how that works," Dante said flatly. "Highwaymen bide their time. They're careful when they call the shots because they only get one chance-- they'll see plenty of opportunities and only have a couple seconds to decide whether it's the best one. I've waited for full days from dawn to dusk in hiding spots before, all for the right moment to strike. That just doesn't lend well to-- fleeing the city on a whim."

"So you're saying you can decide in a few seconds if you want to risk your life," Beckett repeated slowly, "but you can't think on your feet?"

"There is a difference," Dante retorted. "I can assess risks quickly and decide whether something is worth gambling with my life for, but not very long ago, I didn't think I'd have a life to gamble with. I haven't been watching, so of course what I want to do is take a full look at the situation first before leaping headfirst into things. That's what I'm a natural at."

Beckett chuckled but didn't respond, just kept walking.

"What?" Dante asked, nearly snapping. "What's so funny?"

Beckett sighed breezily. "Nothing at all."

Dante narrowed their eyes at him. "Do you just chuckle randomly then?"

"Yup," he said, popping the 'p' sound.

They sighed heavily, shaking their head. "Whatever. The point is, I'm good with assessment. You're good with spontaneity. I'll help when you want me to help, but there are just going to be some situations I'm better suited for than others."

Beckett didn't stop walking, and he didn't even acknowledge what Dante had said, just continued forward at a steady pace. Did they ever get tired? It was well into the night, they couldn't walk forever. Or so Dante thought, at least. Because they walked for at least another hour before Beckett paused and said, "This is where we say goodbye to the path." Then, he waved at the path and said, "Bye!" And started to diverge, walking into the woods.

Dante hurried to follow after him, nearly tripping over the sudden roots in their path that they couldn't see in the darkness. They didn't want to speak up again and risk Beckett making another seething remark. Not that they couldn't handle it, but honestly, they were too tired to deal with it right now. After another half hour of complete silence, Beckett stopped in a small clearing and said, "Alright, we can sleep here."

He kicked away leaves with his feet, then sat down in the newly cleared area, head once again tilted towards the sky.

Slowly, Dante sat down on the ground a few feet away. "Should one of us stay awake and keep an eye out?" they suggested hesitantly. "I could take the first watch."

Beckett shook his head, then softly, "You can sleep. I've got it. Not really tired anyway."

Dante glanced him over. "You sure you want to?" they asked, even though they did believe that Beckett was not all that tired.

"Yeah," Beckett said, scooting back to lean against a tree. Dante could barely see his outline in the dark. "Go ahead and sleep. I'll wake you up to switch."

Dante looked down at the forest floor, sweeping away some leaves from where his head would go. "Okay," he said, and then added more uncertainly, "Good night?"

There was a long pause, then a quiet, "Good night."

Dante laid down on his side, leaving his back turned to Beckett. As exhausted as he felt physically, his mind was still wide awake with racing thoughts, and he wasn't sure that he would actually get any rest. But eventually, the dark trees ahead blurred into each other, leaving only black, and he found himself tumbling into sleep anyway.

As Beckett kept watch, he stared into the darkness and thought about his family. What they were feeling. Had they been sad to think he would die? He'd tried to avoid thinking about it in the moment--not much to do about it then, really--but he didn't want to die. Was happy he hadn't. Was his family also happy?

Surely they were. No doubt, they would send word to his siblings in Celoia--both of them--to let them know that somehow, miraculously, he had escaped. Someone had used magic! And no, it hadn't been one of them, and obviously it hadn't been Beckett because he'd never had magic, he'd always been the odd one out, the one who couldn't be taught the charm spells, the ones where you whisper in the shop owner's ear what you want and make them forget you ever asked. Beckett wasn't talented like that, not talented in magic at all, and certainly not talented enough to transform a rope into liquid metal and manipulate it through the air. That would take someone with masterful skills, skills even his siblings didn't have, and that person would have to have a specific interest in keeping Beckett alive, or at least have magic strong enough that they had unvoluntarily done so.

Beckett looked over at Dante's sleeping form, barely visible in the dark. Chest steadily rising and falling with each breath, shifting every once in a while, stirring up a rustle in the leaves nearby. Magic so strong that even without meaning to, he'd saved himself and somebody else. Beckett found it hard to believe. It certainly wasn't the only plausible explanation, but it felt close to it. What other options were there? Some random person saved both of them?

Beckett's eyes trailed Dante's face. Dante could be lying. They could be an experienced magician, someone who knew about Beckett's family and was looking for other magic-users. Someone who wanted Beckett to lead them right to them. Maybe Dante had lied, and was, himself, the witch hunter. Maybe he'd used a captured witch to perform the magic, or maybe he'd lied all-together and it had only been Beckett's rope that had turned to metal. Some trickery of science, that Beckett had then convinced himself to be magic. Had he really felt it be rope? Or had he just felt metal slipped around his neck?

It would be a genius plan. Somehow, that alone made Beckett feel a little more secure. Dante, as...interesting as he'd struck Beckett, did not seem diabolical enough to pull something like that off. Certainly not the acting part of it all. Unless that was a part of the trick too.

Beckett sighed and leaned against the tree behind himself. He was getting tired, and it was making his paranoia run wild. He rubbed his temple, grimacing, before opening his eyes and leaning forward again. He'd been keeping watch for hours. He'd be able to wake Dante in just a minute to switch.

He wasn't sure he trusted Dante to keep watch on their own. Then again, he wasn't sure he trusted Dante. It wasn't like he could just...never sleep, though. He'd have to hope that there was some shred of common sense in his companion, however slim, and hope that it held the reins while Beckett slept.

His thoughts drifted back to his family, and he quickly steered himself away from it. He wasn't in the mood to think about them--mainly because he didn't want to make himself miss them in the process. No matter what, he wasn't going to see them for a while, so there was no use moping about it. Maybe he was getting too tired. He always got more emotional when he was tired.

Slowly, he stood, stretching his legs before he walked over to Dante and knelt down. "Dante," he whispered. He didn't want to touch the guy and startle them, but Dante didn't stir. "Dante," Beckett whispered again, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Dante shifted at that, opening his eyes quickly. He stared at Beckett for a few moments, seeming to need a second to remember where they were, and then sat up slowly. "My turn?"

"It's your watch," Beckett affirmed. "Can you stay awake?" He watched him doubtfully.

Dante nodded, blinking a few times before getting to their feet, a bit groggily. "I can. Thanks for letting me sleep."

Beckett nodded silently, then rose to his feet again, walking back over to his own spot and laying down. He stared up at the trees, trying his best to stay awake for a few minutes to make sure Dante was actually fully awake before finally allowing himself to drift off to sleep.



Anger. Blind and red-hot. Scorching, tearing apart.

Emotion, so strong, so powerful, he wanted to throw up. He could feel it all. Why could he feel it all?

He hadn't been like this before. Calm, serene. Peaceful. Ignorant, perhaps, but healing. Gracious. Kind. He didn't feel that way anymore. He'd grown tired of the world. Tired of watching his creations destroy each other. Tired of cleaning up their mess. He felt savage. Bloodthirsty. Swallow the world whole and destroy it. Why didn't he want that too? It's what he had wanted at first, right?

He could no longer tell who had corrupted who. Had he been corrupted to violence? Or had he corrupted him to pacifism? The refusal to do anything, ANYTHING, and for what?

It wasn't like he'd wanted to swallow the world whole, not really. Just... pluck them away. Like the mosquitos they had become. Squish them underfoot. They were doing it to each other anyway. Why should they care?

He didn't. Not anymore.

The moon rising, dust swirling all around him, screaming, arguing, wanting to throw and hurl and break the earth apart just to show the sun that it was just a planet. Just like any other. One they were supposed to protect, protect from the abominations who now swarmed its surface, infectious. Disgusting. He wanted to throw up at the thought of them.

The memory of that argument, that day. So strong. That tiny escence of himself left, slipping away between the cracks. Never to see each other again, and for what? Because he had wanted to protect them? He should have wanted to destroy them with him! They could have done it together.

And now...and now what?

The moon rising in the sky. Pale. Crimson.

He hoped the clouds came to wash it all away. He hoped that when it rained, the humans drowned in their own blood.