The Puppet Master freezes, completely still. He is tense. Rigid. Statuesque.Ā
Love was not something The Puppet Master ever thought about. Ever. Of course, when he was younger ā naively human ā love was this great, magical thing that all of the stories and cartoons told him about. But now? Now he was the villain in every story. He was The Puppet Master, scourge of the Island, terror of the Academy, known criminal nationwide. Those did not find love.Ā
But heād begun to feel. Heād begun to allow just a sliver of hope and love into his heart, just barely. His heart belonged to no-one aside from himself until that puppet came along. That puppet, and their idiotic, reckless, stray animal ways. They were intoxicating. And since the blood ritual bound him to the emotions of his dearestāhis museāthose emotions had only amplified.Ā
Confession and reciprocation were two banned concepts. Libel was never to be told about his foolish emotions. They would hinder him. He would not be weak. Not after Erebus fought so hard to be strong. No matter how often the thought of his magic feeding off of Libelās like a twisted tango, or he thought about his claws drawing blood as a kiss pushed them closer, Libelās hand around his waist, Erebusās behind theirāĀ
And so, he dropped Libel immediately, taking several shaky steps backwards. The Puppet Masterās robes flared, his eyes brightening and narrowing as he heaves breaths he should not be able to take. Magic swirls dangerously, forming the shape of some kind of creature at his side. The storm raged. The fire burned. Shadow stole the light, as astral tried to reach to heal Libelās wound. Erebus shoved the emotion down as far as he could, until the only traces of empathy were mere memories.Ā
āLeave.ā The Puppet Master commands, voice cold and shaken. It remains a growl. āGet. Out.ā He turns, so only the corner of his eye is visible to Libel. The rest of him is turned towards his bookshelf. āThe barrier is down. Go, do something useful. Do anything than be here. I donāt need your lies. I donāt need your ridicule. What I need are those books. So go. I expect you back.āĀ
Libel hits the ground hard, dazed for a second or two like they lent the entirety of their body to their master. Their confusion turns to horror when they're given a simple, one-word command, like a dog being told to sit. They paw at their throat, somehow both infuriated and relieved that they're in one piece. They didn't want to face whatever awaited them with an open wound.
Pain was concrete, something Libel understood. Something wholly theirs--but nothing was theirs anymore. It was all The Puppet Master's. They stand, wobbly, shaking the blood back into their extremities. Their face contorts into frustration, but they can't find it in themselves to argue. Not when Mal is looking up at them from the journal on the floor.
They turn tail and head for the door, putting their arm out ahead of them like they're expecting to be injured by the barrier--they pause when they collide with open air, startled that they weren't lied to. They head out into the warm morning air.
At first they're hesitant. This terrain is unfamiliar to them.
Then they're running. They break into a blind sprint through the woods.
Far from the hideout, they twist their ankle on a bramble. They collapse into the dirt and dry leaves.
They laugh, laugh, laugh manic with the fever of freedom.
There is something empty in their gut. Their master's presence hurts, but his absence hurts more.