#eraserheadxreader

CHAPTER 1

 Mid Summer

You leaned forward, tearing yourself away from the sun-baked iron bars that seared your bareback and slumped forward against the equally scalding irons bars in front of you. You had long since lost the ability to hold your body upright, resigning yourself to the inevitability of the burns that peeled away at your skin. It had been two full days since you'd been left in the cage to wither away under the blaring heat of the midsummer's sun. Your shoulder and legs were blistering under the constant exposure to the sun, and your rear was scraped and bruised from the rough iron bottom of the hanging cage. Your lips were cracked, any saliva to moisten them had long since dried up. The only shred of hope you had was that a particularly large cloud might roll by and shield you from the sun for a while or that the sun would set maybe a few minutes earlier today. The hunger and thirst were the most bearable part, the painful emptiness in your gut was little more than a dull ache compared to the waves of burning pain and delirium you were tormented with. At this point, you would admit to what the townsfolk had attempted to charge you with, anything to make this end.

End. You thought to yourself. The end had always been the most terrifying thing to you, where would you go, would it all just stop, would you have done enough? The end had once held no certainty and no solace for you, but now, in the face of the burning inferno in the sky and the flies that began to pick at your already decaying skin, you were sure that it had to have been better than this.

You closed your eyes and leaned your head against the bars, the hot iron pressing into your forehead. You tried to take small focused breaths; the air somehow felt cooler if you puckered your lips a bit. You breathed in place of crying, your body had no more liquid to give. You breathed with your eyes closed until a cloud came, dense and absolute. The redness of the light through your eyelids dulled and for the first time since it had risen the sun's unshakeable scrutiny peeled away from your skin. Mercifully the cloud had been lasting for a while, nearly a minute now. You blinked your eyes open so you could look up at this cloud and appreciate it in all of its merciful glory. However, when you looked up you were not met with a dense white puff of air far off in the sky, but a tall man dressed in all black and a face framed in a wild halo of dark curls.

He regarded you silently, his dismal expression unwavering. The only indicator you had that he had even registered you looking up at him was the slight readjusting of his eyes as he made eye contact with you. You instinctively looked away, no one looked kindly on any of the people who found themselves stuck in these cages let alone an alleged witch. He was taunting you; you were sure. There would be no other reason to get so close. Unless...all black, grim expression. Perhaps the executioner had come a day early. Perhaps, your suffering was to come to an end early.

    He crouched down until he was in your field of view and looked up at you. His dark eyes seemed softer than they had a moment ago as they looked up through his thick dark lashes. You started to turn your head away, but his hand reached out and his fingers brushed one of your dangling legs. You tensed at this touch, too exhausted and drained to be able to properly pull away.

"Look at me." He mumbled warmly. "It's okay, I'm- a friend."

A Friend. That sounded awfully good right about now. Even though you knew he was probably lying, trying to manipulate you in some sort of way you looked back at him. What was he going to do that was worse than what had already been done to you? Your eyes met his, and you held intense eye contact for a while. He seemed to be attempting to soften his gaze and you weren't quite sure what to do with yours.

"Can you speak?" he asked, his eyes running up and down your body quickly.

You tested out movement in your throat, only to be met with sharp dray pain. An arid gasping sound was the most you could muster. You slumped farther forward, looking at him pleading eyes that tried to convey how badly you wished you could speak. He wasted no time in twisting around and reaching for a leather bag closed with a cork that was fastened to his hip. He opened it and slipped it through the bars of the cage, looking over his shoulder for any onlookers. You grabbed the waterskin with a strength that you had doubted you still had left in you and managed to get it to your lips, tilting it just enough to dribble a small stream into your mouth. Perhaps this was his game, to poison you. If it was poisoned so be it, this would be a most merciful way to die.

You swallowed until the waterskin ran dry, your body still screaming for more water. You wanted more, you needed more. You tossed the waterskin downwards in frustration at the limited amount of water it was able to provide and in a show of impressive reflexes the man reached out and caught it before it could hit the dusty road. He snorted and affixed the waterskin to his hip once more, standing.

"Your name?" he asked, his voice was gruff but at the same time kind.

You agonizingly lifted your head to look up at him, your strength hadn't returned, it would surely take more than half a day's supply of water to do that. What the water had done was dull a pulsing nausea that sat in your gut and relieved you of some of the sharp pain in your throat. You tried to speak again, this time your voice, or rather a fraction of it came out. "Y/N."

He nodded to himself. "Family name?"

You blinked hard, the sun briefly flaring up behind him as he swayed slightly on his feet. The way his stray hairs danced in the sun was reminiscent of the portraits that hung in the cathedral, of the gold-leafed angelic halos. If it hadn't been for his grim attire you'd have thought him an angel; although perhaps he was an angel, an angel of death. "Need it for my execution papers, do you?"

"No." he sighed. "I need to know if you're who I'm meant to be looking for."

You looked him up and down. True, he wore dark clothes, but they were not formal nor those of an executioner, but rather a plain set of well-worn traveler's clothes. His hair was longer than most men's in the area, and despite his somewhat disheveled appearance he had at least washed within the last few days. Under one of his exhausted eyes, a long scar stretched across his cheek, no doubt from the edge of a blade. Two of which, you'd only just noticed, were strapped across his back, rather plain and worn leather-wrapped hilts and pommels peaked out over his shoulder. He was a traveler and possibly a duelist, however, neither had anything to do with you.

"W-what if I am?" you croaked.

"Then, you're coming with me." He stated casually.

"Which would entail?"

"No hanging in a cage to roast to death in the sun." he deadpanned. "Now, what's your family name?"

You looked into his eyes. There was no sign of deceit, but then again you were in no condition to be trusting your body nor your mind's capabilities. He was right, though. This was just about as bad as it could get. You swallowed for the first time that day, it felt good to be able to. "L/N."

The man's face lit up, if you could call it that. Compared to the dismal amount of emotion before, he most definitely was happy by your response. He looked over his shoulder, shoving his hands in his pocket, and whistled. He jutted his chin towards you while still looking at someone across the way. From behind him, you heard footsteps, sporadic and clumsy. Another man appeared from over the dark-haired one's shoulder, his hair was even longer, and he bore a well style mustache as well as a set of finer clothes. He had flaxen hair that was neatly tied back into a long ponytail down his back and his emerald eyes betrayed much more than his partner's dark ones. He smiled down at you, his expression pure relief and delight. When his eyes fully settled on you his apparent happiness wavered, but he collected himself quickly and was back to smiling at you.

"Hello!" he said in a sing-song voice, that you're sure you would have adored just three days ago. "You're our lady?"

You looked up at him, his positive disposition providing a strange sense of comfort. If he was also looking for you, perhaps wherever you were needed wouldn't be so bad after all. "I- I don't know, am I?"

"She is." The dark-haired man confirmed. 'I- I'm sorry to have to prolong your situation but, do you think you can last until nightfall?"

You looked up at the two men. Were they meant to be your saviors? If so, you most definitely could last until nightfall for salvation. But, if they weren't... you shoved that fear from your mind. Your suffering was inevitable any which way but trusting them, it was the only choice you had that could turn out better. The blond man's beaming smile shrunk into a less charismatic gesture and into a comforting genuine expression. The dark-haired man had softened once again, every time you looked back to him he seemed to become more human to you. It was as if he was evaluating you just as you were him, and every inch you gave he reciprocated.

You nodded silently, wanting to save what moisture you still had left in your throat after draining the waterskin.

"Good." The dark-haired man hummed. "Zash, do you have your waterskin?"

The blond-haired man reached around to the back of his belt and without missing a beat freed it from its tether and handed it to you. You took it readily, and as you did with the first one drained it slowly until not even another drop would come out. Even though you still felt cheated with the finite amount of water in the waterskin you decided not to through this one, it felt rude. The blond man took his waterskin back and tucked it back into its respective place on his belt.

"We'll be back after sundown," The flaxen-haired man started in a hushed voice, "just hold out until then."

They both started to turn away from you, towards the bustling market across the square. Fear rose up in your chest, a fear that had managed to subside in the last day or so as you resigned to your fate. You had just been offered an impossible sense of hope, and you didn't even know their names.

"Wait, wait!" you called out after them in a hushed tone.

They both stopped, the dark-haired one didn't turn back to look at you, instead keeping his eyes trained on the crowd in the market across the street. The blond-haired turned around, looking at you expectantly.

"W-what are your names?" you stuttered.

"I'm Hizashi," The blonde smiled kindly. "that's Shouta."

Shouta tugged on Hizashi's sleeve, looking towards a cluster of people, at the center an older woman who was unashamedly looking back and forth between gawking at them and staring you down. Hizashi turned away from you and the two men disappeared into the crowd, the flurry of villagers and merchants swallowing them entirely.

CHAPTER 2

4 Days Ago

The sun was low enough in the sky for the bugs to start buzzing again and the poor animals covered in fur to try and hunt some sort of game before it got too dark. The hot summer sun had given way to a cool night that smelled of rain and brought cool breezes from the west. The dried herbs that hung in bunches in your window cell swung to and fro, small pieces of brittle stem and leaves tearing away from the bunches and littering the freshly swept floor. You watched the bunches sway in the breeze until the wind grew strong enough to snuff out some of the candles around the window and decided that perhaps a storm really would roll through and that it would be better for both you and the drying herbs if you were to pre-emptively close the shutters. So, you plucked the bunches from their hanging nails and closed the wooden shutters. Locking them in place with small brass latches and placing a heavy stone behind each shutter for some extra hold.

The world grew darker and you found yourself lighting more candles, bringing them slowly towards the center of the room and away from any stray breezes as rain began to fall and cooled the air. It was the perfect night for a warm broth, and you had some fresh bones from the last day's meals. As the night wore on your meal came close to finished and you were able to finish wrapping the small medicinal pouches for farmer Wayland's boy and set them aside for the morning. You stood and stalked over to the pot atop the embers in the fireplace and lifted the lid, the broth was boiling but the roots you had tossed in had sunk to the bottom and could be burning. You looked around the fireplace for a spoon or stir stick but found you had left it on the opposite side of the small home. You turned back to the pot filled with golden liquid and held your hand out above it as if you were holding a spoon to stir it with. From your fingertips, a spectral spoon handle twinkled into existence, inch by inch until a spoon head appeared and you were able to dunk it into the pot and give it a quick stir.

Usually, you were a lot more vigilant when using your magic, but since your shutters were closed and a storm was raging outside you were sure there would be no spying eyes lurking outside your windows to catch you. You had never used your gift for harm, not that you believed you could begin with. You could conjure objects into a semi-realistic form, they acted the same as their real counterparts in every which way except that they appeared semi-translucent and were perpetual purple collar. You could make a knife, a stone, and even a dress if you so wished. You had tried fire and water once or twice, but it always turned out as if it were frozen in time, the way artists capture fire or water in their paintings. You supposed you could conjure up weapons with which you could wage violence and war against the poor villagers around you, but you were no witch and held no hatred of that kind in your heart.

The sound of something hitting your door sent a jolt up your spine and the spectral spoon blinked from existence. You stood in silence for a moment, wondering it had truly been a knock at your door or a piece of debris lost in the storm. You turned to your door slowly, scanning it for cracks or gaps that prying eyes could have spied through. You found none but you were not calmed in the slightest. A second knock came at the door, this time it was a clear series of deliberate knocks. You scanned the room around you for any items you may have injured up and left out.

You tiptoed to the door, hoping that if you took enough time your uninvited guest would leave. But just as you arrived at the door a third set of knocks came, these were powerful knocks, frustrated and ill-tempered to be sure. You took a breath and lifted the latch to the door, opening it just enough so that you could stand in the doorway but no one else could, and held the door tight to your side. Before you stood a man, his arm raised and ready to knock again, so soon. He was draped in a waterlogged cloak that looked like it could be a rich red tone if it wasn't soaked nor the middle of the night. The hood was drawn but you could still make out a strong chin, pointed nose, and dark brown ringlets dripping with water.

"Can I help you?" you mustered. It wasn't unusual for you to get customers at your door for medicinal help, but it certainly was unusual for someone would have enough money to be wearing fine red robes to show up at your door, let alone at this time of night. You eyed him carefully catching a glimpse of a rather gaudy crest made up of two swords and a great hunting hound with something in its mouth, his nose stuck into the air.

"I'm afraid we've got caught in a storm, miss. We're looking for a place to stay the night and wait out the storm." His voice was thick and proud, and he spoke as some with years of formal education might. At the mention of 'we' you looked past him to the gate of your front garden where four men were tying their horses to your wobbly fence post and trodding on your lilies.

"Apologies on behalf of the weather, traveler," You smiled warmly. "but my home is far too small and cluttered to house you and your men. You'll have better luck at the inn in town. It's just down the hill, not but a ten-minute ride; seven if you're swift."

The man's heavy brows knitted together, and his jaw squared, he seemed displeased with your answer. "We haven't any coin, no inn will take us."

"The Innkeeper is a kind man, prone to taking on charity." You responded, inching backwards into your home and getting ready to slam the door if need be.

The man's jaw twitched and his hands, balled into fisted at his sides, were turning white with exertion. No was not a word he had heard much of in his life, you gathered. He laughed a sharp cruel laugh that sounded more like a dry cough. "I'm afraid that won't do."

The man was fast, and indeed much larger than you realized as he lunged forward. One of his large hands grabbed your shoulder and the other shoved the door open with tremendous force. You stumbled backwards and tried to pull away from his firm grip but he clamped down even harder around your arm with bruising strength. His second hand clasped itself roughly over your mouth and he shoved you backwards until your back hit the table that lined the opposite wall. His hand was so large that he was able to clasp down on your nose with his thumb, cutting off your airflow entirely. "I'm not asking this time; we plan on taking full advantage of your hospitality. You can willingly give it to us, or you can find out what your lovely little cottage looks like painted in red."

As if to provide evidence of his cruel nature the man unsheathed a small dagger, one that reflected the dim golden light of the fireplace as it was brought towards your face. He held there, lightly trailing the tip across your skin as you shuttered. With a dangerous glint in his eyes, he flinched his hand, the very tip of the blade biting into the skin of your jaw and trailing up toward your ear. You froze, where the chill of fear should have gripped your bones, instead a flare of anger ignited. Who was this man to think he could invite himself into your home and make threats on your life? Something told you that even if you went along with his requests this would turn out badly for you. You closed your eyes and focused on the crushing grip your assailant had on your face.

It was in that darkness and growing fury that a spark of brilliant purple came to you. It was in the form of a long dagger, jagged and cruel. Your restrained arm pulled back with enough force to break free and met your other between you and your attacker's chests. You could feel the cool bulb of the pommel against your palms and suddenly you could breathe. There was a warmth running down your hands and soaking through your shirt now, a wet ragged breath sputtered in your face until the full weight of a dead man crashed down at your feet. You looked up forward through the doorway and saw the pale face of a small man, a hefty coin purse at his hip and terror glimmering in his eyes alight with purple light. Purple light. You looked down at your blood-soaked hands. A great spectral gnarled dagger blade shone out in front of you, thin ribbons of blood dripping from it.

And in your sudden clarity, the dagger blinked out of existence, the cottage falling back into the dull golden firelight of the fireplace.