I. INTRODUCTION -- out of the red, out of his head.
⟨ cillian murphy, he/him, 47 ⟩ as ⟨ elias corin king ⟩. often to be found ⟨ in his house, stuck like a damn hermit crab ⟩. Who's he loyal to? ⟨ the brotherhood ⟩? Careful, or you're gone in the glimpse of an eye.
as written and loved by – ⟨ river, they/them, utc, eating disorders ⟩
II. HEADCANONS -- blowing through the traffic lights.
Name: Elias Corin King
Occupation: Composer/Hunter
Age: 47
Sexuality: Pansexual
Species: Hunter
Clan/Pack/Coven?: The Brotherhood
Hometown: Port Leiry
Relationship Status: Single
III. BIOGRAPHY -- king's have honor, but all i have is rage.
For a detailed solo on Elias' childhood and youth, go here.
tw: child abuse indicated
He ignores her words out of habit. Her knuckles are bruised, and her face is buried deep in what she’s deemed magical waters, but Elias is sure that it’s just a muddy broth, and not much more. Breathing it in and out cannot feel good or ‘freeing’, as she claims it to feel - her fingers grip the bowl so hard, so shaky, that it looks like she’s just holding back her gagging reflex. His mother lifts her head, face dripping, hair dripping, lips slightly parted, and stares at him. He stares back, unsure what she expects him to do, so he waits for her to speak again.
She doesn’t speak until he himself opens his mouth to do so, though, and then he just sits there, back pressed into the hard material of his chair, and waits the moment out. Then, his mother leaves.
A few steps into his future, his mother isn’t present. She’s a relatively old addition to the collection of faces he’s keeping in his brain. More precisely, at fifteen, his shelves are so stuffed, that there’s barely one he can keep in mind. The most prominent one is his uncle - dark beard, dark eyes, and soul just as dark. Darker than the nights in the Port Liery's forests would ever dare to get, and when he years later learns that that’s just a fracture of darkness compared to what else is out there, he considers the city lost and gone.
Elias' uncle raises him alone, and without the guarding hand of a second parental figure, he grows to be (or to act?) just as twisted as his uncle. He strikes with force, and with brutality, and as the clock strikes twelve on his 22nd birthday, he’s long gone into the forest to hunt. What he struggles with, as he’s (not so) far away from home (what even is that), is the quickening heartbeat in his chest, pushing him down, lower, to the ground. Then he’s panicking, shaking, in the middle of a training session, at night, when he’s alone. This one time, and never again.
Fast forward, his touch is burning, his gaze is stinging, and his weapons lethal, just like his hands. Witches, he deems his personal enemy. His cover-up is easy; a composer, living in a large house on the borders of the town, piano sounds sometimes echoing out of it.
While his mother believed in magic, Elias doesn't.
Elias believes in consequences.
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...you'll find the city of Westray. Snug in between mountains, a forest and the sea, it is the perfect place for a nice, calm vacation. As long as you don't question the noises coming out of the forest, or the lights at night, in the mountains, or the frequent movement underwater.
WITCHESROADHQ is a 21+, mature, multi-muse, small-town and supernatural roleplay group, that focuses on character development and features fun events.
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The cadence of Oz's breath matches Elias's - in tune, even in the way they exhale. Pattered breathing while they drink each other in. Oz would rather shut his ex up with about a thousand more kisses, but simultaneously he'd listen to him talk forever, too.
The engagement ring. Brown eyes blown with lust take it in before he feels it inside him. It makes his back arch, toes curl... Oz's fingers have to grab onto Elias, unable to support himself sitting up this way on his own. He has to cling to him, making it even more intimate somehow, as Oz's head drops back and his lips part.
"Fuck, El...." He whimpers for him, digs fingers into his back. There's a thousand comebacks but it's hard to focus on one when Elias is talking to him like that, fucking him with his finger like that.
Oz shifts as best he can into that finger. "You... know I have no shame, baby..." They finally murmur against the hunter's neck as their teeth drag over his neck, as they bite and suck a spot there. "What about the other hunters, though? A witch, fucked instead of killed, on your watch?" The smile up at Elias... it's nothing short of loving, adoring, despite the words Oz says.
What he's missed the most, is Oz's fingers digging into his back, like their life depends on it. Like they did after that night in the restaurant, like they did when they were younger. When they were still innocent, in a way. Elias groans into Oz's skin, nips back, sucks on his collarbones, and then lower, on one of his pecs. He adds one more finger, then dares to add a third, panting against his skin, hard.
"You should kill me.", Elias groans, in an attempt to convince him, before pulling his fingers out and grabbing his thighs instead. He parts them with one hand, and uses the other to pump is cock, as if it's not rock hard, anyway. "I don't see any witches.", Elias groans, as he lines up his tip with Oz's entrance, not caring about a condom or taking his time -- but there's enough time for banter. "I fear love has made me blind."
When the hunter pushes his hips forward, his head sinks forward, forehead pressing against Oz's. One of his hands finds a tight grip on his waist, fingers digging into his skin in a delicate way, while he uses his other hand to steady himself in the mattress. Elias doesn't wait -- gets too fucking impatient, and pulls his cock back out, just to push it right back in, harder. His lips find Oz's once again, and he kisses him so hard his lips hurt, because there's nothing else that soothes his poor, hurting heart.
Vampire- Ignoring the whole thing about burning in the sun, is your muse more of a morning or night person? When are they most productive and energetic?
Hunter- Does your muse have any enemies or people they despise? Is the feeling mutual or is it one-sided?
Human- What’s a harmless belief or conspiracy theory your muse holds?
Werewolf- Does your muse have any chronic pain, injuries, or illness? How does it impact their day to day life?
Witch- On the subject of (nonmagical) curses, does your muse swear? Do they have any opinions about the use of profanity?
Pretorius- How does your muse feel about following the rules? Are there any particular rules/principles they live their life by?
Lomidze- Is your muse close to their family? If not, who do they consider their family, if any?
Kanemaru- What was your muse like when they were younger? Has that changed much in the way they are now?
Reardon- Has your muse ever done anything illegal? Were they caught or did they get away with it?
Warwick- What does your muse consider to be true strength? Is it something they believe they have, or do they aspire to it?
Cerberus- Does your muse belong to any clubs, organizations, or societies (outside of clan/pack/coven affiliations)?
Harford- Does your muse prefer large social settings or smaller, more intimate ones? Or do they prefer total solitude?
Eventide- Does your muse tend to fit in or stand out? Are they adaptable?
Augury- How much does your muse think about the future? Are they a planner, a worrier, or do they just prefer to take life as it comes?
Garnett- What is your muse’s attitude towards death? Do they fear it, look forward to it, or not really think about it?
Phial- What would you say are three key ingredients that make your muse who they are?
Feng-Lindon- What element do you most closely associate with your muse?
Brotherhood- Does your muse have any tattoos? What do they mean?
Fellowship- How does your muse react when they don’t get their way?
Brewed Awakening- What’s your muse’s preferred source of caffeine? How do they take their drinks?
Doughfellas- What’s your muse’s go-to pizza order/topping preference?
Eden’s Apple- How in touch with their sexuality is your muse? Are they adventurous or more hesitant when it comes to pleasure?
Heron Club- What type of cocktail would your muse be most likely to order at a bar?
High Hopes- Does your muse indulge in any recreational drugs or intoxicants? Which?
Palmer and Sons- How does your muse feel about their primary mode of transportation? Does their vehicle have a name?
Retrocity- What is something that elicits nostalgia from your muse? Is it a sound, a scent, an object, and what does it represent to them?
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Reid turns his lip up at Elias' remark. "Quit it." There's no place for that here, but he's hardly got a say in it. King can flip it whichever way he likes; whatever suits the pianist's state of mind but Halstead isn't in a position to entertain the murder scene that the hunter has left him with.
Albeit, the epitome of a hunter.
He wonders if it's even worth asking how Elias has found him, hidden away in a shitty apartment block. Has questions about the planning behind the dead creatures nailed and spread amongst the rooms.
"You didn't come up with this in a pinch, King." It's a habit, he can't kick it instantly. Eyes fly towards the boots; not his. But Anika's. He feels a surge of protectiveness wash over him; he won't tell Elias whose they are. Won't open that door. Doesn't address the easel, or the paints — sketchbooks left on the kitchen counter, beside the crusted plates that had mounted up. Pretends they're not there, bathing in the blood of Elias' gifts. "Why bother with the theatrics?"
Why not just burn the place down — take the whole apartment with it, even? Why anything? The other man is closer now, and Reid's lip twitches — aware that the blood seeps into the carpets and permeates the air, only made worse with the goading. It's fresher than the cold cans in the fridge, but dying blood still. It's warmer— Stop. Halstead draws his gaze back to the man, beyond him then to search for a shirt; too exposed; too easily splayed bare in sweats in front of a former friend. A brother.
He walks around the couch, plucking a navy blue tee from the ground. It's spared the mess. "I didn't intend to insult you, Eli. Jesus." But he's sure he knows that. Cursing, he sneers at the animal remains. "But you're just gonna haunt me then, is that it? Be another hunter looming over my shoulder til you decide to dust me, huh?"
Elias bathes in the view of Reid's attention getting drawn by the blood. "Skin of a killer.", he jokes, references, "Looked good on you back then. Now it's just pathetic. Watching you crave death all the same, for different reasons. Tell me, what does it feel like, are you at piece?"
Walking the fine line between insanity and control has been a game, for years. At least that's what Elias tells himself. Being so insane, so crazy, that he can't be scared. If he's strong enough to overpower them, there's no reason to be scared. Vampires aren't particularly his biggest enemies, actually, they come close to being the last. He admires their knowledge, admires their duality -- the traitors, are who he favors.
Like meets like.
Reid doesn't fall into that category. "You've softened up. I thought I'd take you out to dinner, then, remind you of who you are. Let me admit, you used to be someone I saw as an equal. Someone that could be as bad as I was. Now I'm just disappointed. Tell me, are you happy?" Elias taps his knife against the heart on the wall, then eyes the easel, "Do you paint now?"
They're looking for leads on the Jacobs boy case, finding just the most interesting sorts. Seems to be that he'd recently had an opportunity to take some sort of lessons from Elias King, a music prodigy and lecturer type locally. Arleen didn't know much about his work but according to what she read in the paper clippings, it was a big enough deal for the boy.
So she waits through his lecture at Tideview and rolls herself down the classroom ramp when the students are finished shuffling out, admittedly surprised he seems to understand her reasons for being there. But Arleen was nothing if not polite, so she shakes his hand in return. "Arleen Bailey, PLPD," she says, showing her formal badge after finishing the handshake greeting. "Why'd you assume we'd be askin' you? It's the habit of a guilty or over-anxious mind."
But her tone isn't meant to be accusing. More a matter of fact. Just as she states another for him, keeping her eyes, ears, and nose tuned to observe any changes in his countenance. "Unfortunately, we've identified his remains, though well-hidden. We're in the process of adjusting from a missing persons case to a murder investigation," she explains, readjusting herself to better face -- and ultimately block from escape -- her present suspect.
"If it's not terribly too much trouble, could you mind telling me when you last saw the boy yourself?"
"Because him winning the contest hit the local newspaper.", Elias explains, expression now a bit more stern. His handshake is firm, and there's no sign of anxiety, or nervousness to be seen in his features. "And I allowed myself to assume the police was competent enough to consider me as his abducter. Though I'll have to disappoint you."
Serious disappointment creeps onto his features -- though regarding his lack of burying skills, and not about the young man's death. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear. He was very talented. When we chose who I'd work on the project with, and he came around for the first time, I was very delighted to meet someone who I thought able to step into my shoes, once they were older. He had a vision."
Elias pauses, to take out his phone, "August 20th. At my house. He came over to work on some finishing files for his film with me. We always met at my place. I can forward the files to you, if you'd like?" The man turns his phone around to show her, "It's mostly my music, horror film sounds. God, I'm not sure what to do with this, now. Can we publish it in his honor, or would you like me to wait until the case is done?" Or cold.
They both know it isn't going to happen. Oz is cutthroat, malicious in many instances. He and Elias have seen each other in terrible situations - and while they miss the knife in their hand, the thrill of waiting in the darkness like a panther under dense leaves... there's no iota of him that wants to take his lover's life.
Instead his hand slips around to the other's hair. Fingers tangle and grip into it - a firm anchoring hand to make Elias look at him. "Seems... that we're at an impasse, then..." He pants out, as he aches, as his arousal only succeeds in making it slicker, easier for the other's hand to glide over.
Still, his dark eyes stay locked on the hunter's. Daring him to look away, as he shifts, as he tries to get himself closer. Tugs with whatever strength he has, to get the other down against him so he can bite, suck, and mark up his neck and shoulder blade. Silken clothing has been tossed to the side and he's left there with his obvious scars - the claw marks of a wolf who tore him to shreds, across tan flesh. Hips, chest... thighs that part to give Elias a better view. "Fuck me, and I'll think about it." He finally says, with a weak smile as he scrapes teeth against a nipple, bites at the muscle there of his pectoral, while a hand slips around back to grip a handful of his ass, desperate for the sensation, even the smell of Elias.
The pure, roaring tension, is what Elias used to appreciate the most. Now it's just his own, personal nightmare. The fact that it never subsided, that nights under leaves felt the same after thirty years, that their friends leaving and them finally being alone still made him grin after all this time. There was no denying -- they'd shared a lifetime together, had grown up together, and where others grew apart and lost touch, Elias found himself stuck with a red string, one he couldn't cut with his knifes, no matter how often he dared to try.
He truly hates this, truly hates how good everything makes him feel. How perfect Oz is at finding all his right spots, all his right places. "I hate you so much.", Elias groans into his skin, before his fingers detach from his slicked up length, and find the level of Oz's face instead. "Do you see this?", Elias asks, thumb twisting the engagement ring, "On a hand that holds so much power over this cities' witches? That holds so much power over you?" Of course, they see. And they feel, seconds later, when said fingers get pushed inside of him, skilled, knowing of their body. "So demanding.", Elias coos, softly, right into his ear, "What would other witches say, if they knew, hm?"
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He’s stunned into silence. It’s words that perhaps he’s known, to a degree. But how can he blame Elias for hating what he’s so used to distrusting? Hating a witch comes second nature to a hunter, raised around those who treat him to be wary of their magic. He expects hatred. Oz expects contempt.
But. Pure, undying love. The witch’s dark and tempestuous eyes are swimming. Drowning. Damp corners, as Elias talks of who Oz belongs to. And it's true, isn't it? The hunter who’s consumed his thoughts since so long ago.
It isn’t only Elias who still wears an engagement ring from an engagement that never happened. Oz’s own ring finger is proof of it.
He’s going to protest that Elias certainly had made it sound different when he’d first come in - try to defend himself, but there’s no need to. All the words said have cast warmth over his body and he melts into the kiss. Tears streak his cheeks, an arm wraps around his neck for help keeping himself up as he’s touched.
Their body shifts into it, trying to get closer. If they could knit their flesh together with string, then they would. Use his magic to bind them so Elias would never walk back out the door. The pulsing of his heart is Oz’s too. The thrumming of his blood in his veins is Oz’s rhythm, just as much as Elias’s.
The noise he makes against his mouth is so soft. Desperate. A thousand responses he could make as he takes him into his hand. All that comes out from parted lips is: “I love you too.” Fingers tangle into Elias’s hair. A breathy, weak laugh as his hips try to sway into every touch. “Fuck you, for being the love of my life.”
Knowing Oz's body like his own, is a true curse. Elias wishes to forget everything so deeply -- their first meeting. Starstruck on the stage, guitar in his hand, lips lined up with the microphone, eyes locked on Oz so bad he forgot to sing his lines. Then years of clubbing, and dancing, and also hunting, years in the forest, in cozy homes. The moment Elias figured they were the one -- that nothing would ever change, that buying a ring was a seal, a lock, a lock he really, really wanted.
The love of his life. A strange combination of words -- love and his life, that seemed to lack love from the early beginnings. The power strumming through his veins is strange, and Elias pushes it down. Thinks of Desmona, her words, her gaze. Thinks of what he could do, if he fools everyone into thinking he wants to change for Oz. His fiancé. His forever Alibi. But Elias catches himself thinking he really does want to change -- really does want to make a difference. The thought makes him laugh weakly against his partners lips, fingers digging into their skin.
He hates, how much he's opened his heart to Oz, and all he wants to do is slam his head into a wall until he forgets take every piece of clothing off of him, and so he does. Reveals every little piece of scarred skin, and then takes his own off. Bare -- not only body-wise, but his soul laid bare, too. "I want you to kill me.", Elias whispers, against his lips, as he comes down again, skin against skin now, his forehead against Oz's, "I can't kill you, so you need to kill me." His fingers wrap around Oz's length once again, thumb digging into the slit, smooth fingers sliding up, and back down. "Please."
Cam's attention has been elsewhere - focused entirely on the aftermath of the masquerade and what it would mean for the politics of the city. He's well known in hunter circles for not exactly believing in the cause, so a visit from others always leaves him wondering what sort of boredom will come his way this time.
His mind shifts to his plans for his protege, only for his train of thought to be broken by Elias grabbing his attention. His head lifts and he gives a slight upturn of his head in greeting.
"I do." After all, this is what he's here for - his real job. Turning, he looks to some of the paintings that adorn the walls. Some his, some not. "Are you looking for something macabre or more tame?"
"I don't know. What do I look like I'm searching for?" Genuine curiosity mirrors in his eyes, "Do you see people as paintings? Colors? I often wonder, given I view everyone as their own classical piece of music. Your's is a bit gruesome, I'd say." Screeching violins, like the player is tumbling down the stairs. Like he was pushed.
"Perhaps, something more tame. Something less modern? If you've got something like that around." Modern art, in his eyes, is hard to understand. He hopes to think Narcisse shares the same views, which why in the end, she is his favorite artist -- but god knows. Even vampires die.
Elias twists his head to the side, and thinks, even hunters.
"Orange?", he asks. The color that reminds him of Oz. "Actually, anything but orange."
The hunter figures she's there to see him when she doesn't leave immediately after he finishes his lecture, and instead sticks around in the room. Elias calmly puts his folders back into his bag, and takes a deep breath through his nose, barely noticeable. In another life, he's sure he's an actor, with how smoothly the look of concern, sincere worry slides onto his face.
Furrowed brows meet her expression as he throws his bag over his shoulder and approaches her, fingers gently tapping the worn leather. "Elias King.", he introduces himself before she asks, holding out his hand for her to shake, "But I fear you already know. I assume this is about Olivier? Olivier Jacobs? I assumed you were going to question me at some point." There's no slip in his features, only furrowed brows and sorrow. "Any news on his whereabouts?"
He sure hopes not. Last time he checked, the boy was still six feet under.
He’s pissed- he wants to make more of a fuss, and maybe if he weren’t so horny, so desperate for Elias…
An alibi? He needs someone to cover for him? That’s why he’s here? Oz’s fingers dig into his shirt. He wants to rip it apart, wants to tear into his skin. He’s angry and he’s upset and he’s lonely. So he’s being used, and Oz wishes he had the spine enough to shove him away and tell him to fuck off.
Instead he’s melting under those hands. The arms that lift him and carry him so, so easily. Pressed into the bed and wanting more. He wants his legs to curl around him, to tangle him up so he doesn’t leave again. Instead, he shuts him up with his mouth- claims it in a needy kiss. Reaches for him to grip at his shirt as the silk fabric slips off.
“Great. Glad you’re here to avoid a fuckin investigation. Do you fuck all your alibis?”
He nips at his mouth, drags at his lower lip. Tries to taste anything he can get. Because who knows when he’ll be good enough to be an “alibi” again.
That statement makes Elias pause. Silk fabric in his mouth, he raises his gaze, before letting go and moving back up, features hardened. "Do you not understand?", he almost barks, "Do you seriously not see? Do you think I wear this for fun?" The hunter lifts the hand with the engagement ring, "Tell everyone I'm off the market for fun? Have you not realized you've cursed me? That you've bewitched me, body and soul? That I'd rather burn alive, than be caught touching anyone else? In almost thirty years I haven't. Touched someone else, that is. I've spent years alone. Months, in agony, thinking you were dead. I've spent months trying to kill you out of my mind, and what is always left, is pure, undying love. I've loved you all my life, since I was 21. Do you think my soul just forgets that?"
He's breathless, staring down at him, then he straightens, starts unbuttoning his shirt, tears it off and throws it away. There's new scars to his skin, barely healed wounds, and the tattoo, right above his heart, in the middle of his chest. "Do you not understand that I'm so truly evil, that there is no one left? That I'm so rotten, that they look at me with pity?" The pain is prominent in his voice as he speaks, "I disgust them. All of them. All of them, but you."
Because you know, Elias doesn't say out loud, because you understand. "You're so good. So loving. So gentle. I don't deserve you. But if I can't have you, no one should. You belong to me, no matter who you are. Do you understand that, too?"
And with that, Elias pushes his hand down further, into the fabric of Oz's shorts, wrapping his fingers around his length, cold skin holding warmth in a tight grip, before he bends down to kiss him once again, harder and less patient this time.
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He knows, from that stare alone. Elias doesn’t have to be a werewolf or a vampire to have that animalistic rage inside him. The river that’s flooded from too much rain- and all the run-off has hit Oz’s front door. And he can’t complain, not when his ex’s face runs through his mind more than anything else. The second he’s pushed into the wall, and the forearm crutches drop, Oz knows he should focus on words, and asking him why. Even trying to concentrate on balance.
But it’s his smell, the reminder of his cologne, that’s first. Most important, how it brings Oz thundering back home. Familiar lips, long fingers over the silken fabric of his pajamas… god, his skin is on fire. “You don’t have to stop.” He whispers before his lips crash hungrily back into Elias’s. Mouth claiming mouth and letting the other take whatever he wants. Needs.
“Don’t want you to stop.” Oz adds under his breath, clearly distracted as he finally focuses on balance- hands gripping the others shirt and leaning into the wall a bit more, head tilting up to let dark beady eyes catch on his old partner’s. “Might have to carry me.” He challenges, as his teeth scrape at Elias’s neck, as he sucks at his pulse point. “Please?” He murmurs, voice a rumble against his flesh.
"You don't understand.", Elias whispers, no, groans into Oz's skin. "I've gone too far. I've made a mistake." Olivier. The name echoes through his mind daily, hourly, every second. It's a ghost that haunts him, he's in his walls, in his ground, on his carpet. He's underestimated that a witch this close to being human has more friends than he has enemies, more people that search for him, look for him, than all the witches before. There's a reason why he never went back for Jac, for Desmona. Elias knows when to stop. It's just that sometimes, he doesn't. Sometimes, he crosses a line. And this time he's truly messed up.
"I need someone to cover for me, if the police catches on.", Elias whispers, "I need an alibi." There's no one else that would -- there truly is no one else. Lis is not good enough of an option, and then there's just no one else. No one left. "I don't know how to stop.", he says once again, more firm, and this time, it's not about Oz. It's about killing. He remembers the way Desmona looked at him -- like he was someone to pity, and not someone to fear.
Elias leans his forehead against Oz's, cups their face with his hands and takes a moment to breath, before he's lifted from the ground in a smooth motion, and carried to the bedroom. Sadly, Elias knows his way around, and finds it even in the dark.
"Why do you even love me?", Elias whispers into the dark, hand positioned right next to Oz's head, "I body everything you hate, I destroy everything you love. There's nothing precious, nothing sacred about me. I'm a natural selection." Elias doesn't stop his movements with the questions, instead he kisses his skin all the way down, then mouths their length through the fabric, his hands on his upper thighs when he pulls his silk pants all the way down and discards them onto the ground.
Below the cut, this piece features several triggers, please beware if triggered by: childhood abuse (mental and physical), animal death, death of a family member, murder, panic attacks (indicated), suicide indicated, suicide thoughts indicated.
"This might be your familiar. He comes around so often.", Elias' mother laughs while she bends down to pick up a colorful mushroom from the forest ground. Elias loves the forest, and he loves his mother's laugh. It's light, and full of love and joy, and her nose wrinkles in a pretty way when she does so. He likes her freckles, and her smile when she doesn't laugh; he likes her blue eyes and her nose and her soft clothes and the way she decorates their tiny house at the edge of the forest.
"What's a familiar?", the five-year-old asks while carefully putting together his chestnut man. The young boy is sitting on a tree, tired from collecting chestnuts the whole afternoon, and in an attempt to enjoy the last rays of sunshine on his face. The fox sniffs around, then rushes back into the woods.
"A familiar is a friend that may come to a witch when they're old enough, or when they're ready." His nose wrinkles in confusion, "What's a witch?" "I'm a witch." "So every Mom is a witch?" She laughs again, and Elias laughs with her. "No, not every Mom. Just some Moms. You know how you like to do potions in the bathtub? I make potions, too. But mine include a little more grown-up magic. You can be a witch too, when you grow up!" Elias beams at those words, "I want to be a witch! I want to be like you!" "When time comes, you will be."
When time comes, Elias is eight. His mother starts behaving strangely around him, and he's not sure why. He's not sure what all the cooking pots and phials and tins around the house mean, and why everything smells so weird. His friends in school act weird around him, too, and their mothers and parents and dads also do. Elvira doesn't answer his questions like she used to do, she ignores him when she moves around the house, calls him annoying, a pet, a burden. He asks questions for school, and she shoos him away.
At 10, the shooing becomes a strong, striking slap. At 11, Elias finds himself locked out of the house in the middle of winter, forced to hide in a cottage far in the forest, forced to fend for himself until she lets him back in. At 12, she starts forcing potions down his throat. He's trapped, so trapped, and so scared. Witches are so scary, so threatening, and Elias starts hating it, starts hating her -- though he never quite does, never, because every touch is still his mother, because every soft moment is worth the thousand broken ones. He gags, and barfs, and cries; she screams, and yells, and hurts. Everything always hurts, and it never stops, especially his stomach.
"I wish you were killed in the Salem witch trials, like all the other disgusting witches! I hate witches! Witches are trash!", Elias yells at 13, and it earns him one week in the forest, in early January, without food, water, warmth. His first kill is a deer. It's not fast enough, and he hits it with a stone sobbing until it stops moving, and when it's dead, Elias can't bear to eat it. He cries, and cries, and cries, and then he brings himself to wander through the forest in the snow, searching for someone, anything.
He meets a woman. She's old, sitting on her front porch in the woods, with a bowl of soup, and she offers Elias some, offers him help, offers warmth. But when he enters her house, he finds similar tins and potions to his mother's, and with that he's gone, running back through the forest, afraid, begging his mother for forgiveness at the doorstep. She gives in, apologizes, holds him warm. And Elias believes she's sorry. He does.
Every time the fox comes around, Elias hides inside. He's scared that what his mother says is true -- that it's his familiar. That he's a witch.
To this day, Elias believes, his second kill is his own mother. The house is burning when he comes back home from school, malnourished and bony, and he knows she's gone, he just knows. He thinks about throwing himself into the fire for a moment, into the fire with the only person he loves so dearly. A fireman finds him, tears him away from the burning door, tends for his wounds and takes him away.
There's an orphanage, and suddenly, there's an uncle. His mother's brother, who has spent years hunting her down, and claims she took her life before he could take it. He takes him in, and teaches him a word opposed to witches: hunter. Elias is fifteen when he finds peace in something he does, and it's revenge, and letting his anger roam free.
The forest stays as his solitude, as his peacemaker, it's where he finds peace, and love, and silence. Elias is nature. Every witch his like his mother in his eyes, lost, so gone and fucked in the head that the only solution is death -- mercy. Elias believes in mercy. Sparing other children from his fate, is what he believes in.
Five year old Elias believes in magic, and mushrooms, and chestnut men, and love, and his Mom.
Almost fifty years old Elias believes in revenge, and anger, and death, and hate, and consequences, and pettiness, and --
Oz. In secret, sacred moments, Elias believes in love.
And when nobody's watching, Elias believes in magic, too.
Oz teaches him -- that magic can be something saving, something soft, something full of love and admiration -- that magic is good.
And in being so scared of becoming like his mother, Elias has never once noticed, that he has become so much worse.
