#evil ocs

The gold details on the hem of his cloak only flutter when there’s an adult talking down to him as a reminder of who exactly he is. The links of his broaches only catch the sun when he’s meeting a visitor to town for the first time and wants them to be impressed by him. The vibrant hue of his gloves only makes an appearance when he feels that there are not enough eyes on him for the point that he is trying to make in an argument.

He loves the color of gold for more reasons than that as well. Something poetic about sunsets and bales of hay and the memorizing lamp lights during the festivals that the city hosts once a year that sounds like it's stolen right out of one of the poetry books his father insists that Janus reads. 

((And Virgil doesn’t like poetry, not reading it and definitely not writing it, but the sound of Janus’s voice filling the sky with a melody makes him want to.))

There's always a new reason when it comes up in conversation and Virgil wonders if he makes them up as he goes or if he has a list scrawled out somewhere in his room in his perfect penmanship prepared for this question as much as he’s prepared for anything else.

When Janus asks, Virgil says his favorite color is purple.

He doesn’t think much of it-- or rather he thinks far too much about it, a habit of his own that despite his parents best assurances he’s never managed to outgrow. He’s leaning on the front counter, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest, and his arms buried under each other to prevent him from trying to clean the magic crystals on display again when Janus asks the dreaded question. Young Lord Janus Ekans is standing on the other side of the counter, in his new tunic, perfectly shined shoes, fair skin, and so very soft lips that Virgil has long since stopped trying to tear his eyes away from.

“So!” Janus says, somehow unaware that Virgil hadn’t heard a word of his reasoning leading up to this. “Gold is mine. What’s your favorite color?”

“What are we? Children?” Virgil says, swallowing down his panic. His eyes catch on an invisibility potion stocked just over Janus’s shoulder, the shifting wine color looking deep and ominous and he blurts out, “PURPLE!” 

Then Janus returns the next week with a cloak of the finest rich purple material Virgil has ever felt, a cloak that radiates warmth and protection from the runes described in every stitch, a cloak that would have cost his family’s house and their apothecary and every single thing they’ve ever owned-- and Virgil realizes exactly what happened in full detail. When Janus hooks it around Virgil’s shoulders, Virgil can’t find the words to tell him he lied.

Purple is not his favorite color; his parents laugh at his flustered face the moment that Janus sees himself out the door of the shop back to his midday studies. 

Virgil’s favorite color has been gold since the moment that he set eyes on the Ekans’s only son, standing in the afternoon light, laughing at what a street vendor said to him and his mother, and his blond hair had shined so brightly not even the largest, richest dragon’s hoard in the world could have compared.

Gold is the color of Janus’s hair in the sunlight, the color of the gloves he wears most often, the color of the clip that holds his black cloak. It's the color of the hilt on his rapier when he runs through practices at breakneck speeds in order to come see him during his breaks, the color of the currency he hides in Virgil’s pockets and around the store because Virgil won’t charge him for his company, the color of the peonies that Janus once brought him and left behind his ear with a carefulness that had left Virgil humming under his breath for the rest of the days chores.

But Janus had said gold was his favorite color, and while he knows that Janus doesn’t have some mystical monopoly on the colors people can and cannot like, Virgil did not want him to think that he was simply agreeing with him, the way that all their peers seemed to do in the hopes that mindless obedience will win them his favor.

Gold is the color of Janus Ekans, and Virgil has been in love with both for far longer than he thinks anyone is aware, least of all him.

((He still wears the cloak. He can feel the warmth it emits when he’s collecting snowdrops in the early winter mornings, the protection it offers in the marketplace when there are too many people, the reassurance it provides when he wants to hide in Janus’s shadow and avoid the eyes he brings along wherever he goes. It’s his cloak, and it's wonderful and beautiful and he thinks he much prefers the it not to as eye catching as Janus’s so no one calls him out on his stupid love sick staring. It keeps it hanging, ready for a moments notice when he needs to go out, clean and pressed.))

“You--” Janus says without looking up from his book. It’s something adventure-y today with detailed pictures of goblins and bandits and he paid a pretty gold piece for it considering it was written in Dwarvish and no one in a hundred miles spoke that, “--are somewhere far away today, my dear.”

Virgil hums in agreement. He’s sorting the sprigs of spearmint into the piles he needs for the new batch of fire resistance. Since the spearmint is just for taste, his dad makes each with six to eight leaves, while his papa does a strict four to five, so Virgil splits the batch when he makes it: half of them with with six leaves labeled in blue and the other have with four labeled in red. The blacksmith’s daughter hates the taste of spearmint altogether so he has four vials set aside for her where he substituted the spearmint for honey.

((She gave him a kiss on the cheek the first time she realized what he’d done. Janus had hissed at her for it and she’s never done it again.))

Normally he’d be doing this potion preparation in the back, right next to where the cauldron was cooling with the potion he was going to bottle, inhaling the scents of cedar and cinnamon that wafts from the murky liquid and stains his clothes until he gives himself a headache. 

But with his parents out of town for the rest of the week, Virgil was the lone man running the store and try as he might, he couldn’t always hear the bell when customers came in. 

((His parents had suggested that they close the store and Virgil come with them on their small vacation to a cabin in the woods a day and a half’s wagon ride away. But Virgil couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do less, than be alone with his parents in a one room building for five days during their anniversary. They were already incorrigible on less holy days, staring softly at each other and running fingers over their twin red bracelets of Ilmater and kissing like each one was going to be their last; Virgil had practically begged them to let him run the store while they were gone.))

(((Janus had suggested that he just stay up front and run the shop while Virgil prepares his potions, and Virgil had felt a warm bubbling in his stomach at the way he so effortlessly offered his time, even if Virgil had to inform him that there wasn’t actually a need for the potions at all. He was just bored of doing nothing with his hands. Oh and also Janus has been forbidden to help at the store because they don’t pay him and if Virgil’s dad finds out Janus tried to help again, he’ll banish him from the store, no matter who Janus’s father is.)))

“Virgil, my love,” Janus says again, flipping a page. “I doubt the spearmint is truly this interesting.”

“You would certainly be wrong,” Virgil says, separating two leaves with his nails and waving both at him. “This is the most interesting thing I have ever done in my life!”

Janus snorts with amusement, but somehow he still makes it sound dignified. The same way he made sitting on the counter reading a book look prim and proper and the way that he settled his gaze on Virgil as if he was the most precious thing in the world. 

“Mhmm,” Janus says. “And whose fault would that be, dearest? I seem to recall both of your parents trying to send you off on an adventure for most of the year and a half after we reached age. Remy paid a nice price for that battle leather that has never seen the light of day, much less a scratch mark.”

“I told him I didn’t want the leather,” Virgil grumbles, dropping a pile of leaves into one of the vials.

Janus makes a humming noise from the back of his throat, his hand gliding over the lines of his book as he continues to read. The store is otherwise quiet-- just the way Virgil likes. The way he prefers. The way that it was before Janus made his little non-answer answer and let it linger in the shop pointedly.

“What would I even do on an adventure?” Virgil says shoving three leaves into a vial and then squinting at it because he couldn’t remember if he already put leaves in that one. 

“Have an adventure?” Janus suggests cheekily. He flourishes the cover of his book at Virgil, letting the detailed ink drawing of the dragon on the binding come alive. “Fight a dragon, Virgil! Become a hero of the people! Gain glory and admiration!”

“Admiration?” Virgil scoffs, setting the vial back in the tray next to the others. “Whose admiration could I possibly want? I have all the admiration I need right here!”

“Oh?”

Virgil folds his arms and leans forward in a strikingly bold move. It's still mid-morning, and Virgil doesn’t think that Janus knows how the sun peaks down from the hills and cascades through the partial skylight right over his head, giving way to one of Virgil’s favorite sights: the warm rays that melt his irises to golden browns and give them a sparkle that not even all the magic in the world can replicate. 

Those beautiful gold eyes that Virgil falls in love with every single day, so striking, so mischievous, so intense and wonderful. 

So magical, even if there isn’t a single magical bone in his body.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Virgil says. “Any adventure I take would have me walking away from the greatest treasure of all.”

The way Janus blushes is Virgil’s other favorite sight: the rosy red crawls up his neck, washing over his cheek and igniting the tips of his ears. Gold was his favorite color, but he thinks that red is a good back up, if he ever gets around to telling Janus that purple was a moment of panic and Janus doesn’t die of laughter right there in the middle of his shop.

“You--” Janus says, covering his mouth with his golden gloves like he can stop the way his lips curl upward in the softest, sappiest expression he owns. “You are a curse!”

Virgil has to laugh at that.

“Virgil! I have a reputation!” He complains. “Janus Ekans! Sole heir to the Ekans family! I own this very town! Stop laughing right now!”

“Sorry, Jay, it's hard to believe that you’re such an uppity hardcore snob when you told my fathers you were going to marry me the day after we met.”

“Of course I wanted to marry you! You saved my life!”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “I didn’t not save--”

“I was bleeding out on the ground,” Janus cuts him off. “Unconscious, so many broken bones, hanging on by a thread--”

“I did what anyone would do!” Virgil says, turning away from him. “You don’t even really remember it anyway.”

He focuses on the wood grain of the floorboards, the edge of the counter sharp under his knuckles, the scent of cinnamon and cardamom and spearmint that speaks of the apothecary in a language no one speaks. He likes to think he’s a good actor when it counts, but Janus… Janus knows him better than that. Always has.

Distantly he hears the way that Janus slips off his side of the counter, the way his boots take careful steps around the crystals and charms and enchantments until he’s right in front of Virgil himself. Distantly. His tongue maps out the back of his teeth, and he pretends like the sudden churning of his stomach isn’t stupid.

They were children back then: Virgil had just decided on a split second sighting of Janus that his favorite color was gold, and Janus hadn’t known that he existed. His mother only took him to town once a week, teaching him how to talk to commoners, how to care about the people of the city that he would one day control, how to be successful in life. Virgil’s parents must have figured out that Virgil’s increased interest in doing chores that got him out of the shop had a direct correlation to the days that the Ekans were in town; he wasn’t subtle about it at all but they had never done more than share a few looks and acquiesce.

It had happened that Lady Ekans had been taking Janus along the shops that day, right down Virgil’s street. She had stopped to talk to the baker and the conversation must have spiraled on as adults had always tended to do. Virgil had been watching from the front windows of the shop, having just finished his chores for the morning-- watching because despite the urges of his dad he’d been too anxious to go talk to Janus, watching because Janus was still something new and different and wonderful, watching because his papa and dad were handling a customer and didn’t want him crawling around under foot when malicious enchantments were being exchanged, lest one hit him.

It meant that he had been watching right as Janus had taken a few too many bored steps back and when the scream from down the street had erupted. It meant that he’d been staring right as the spooked horse managed to shake the harness of its owner and gone sprinting down the streets and It meant he was watching when Janus had frozen in fear right in its path. 

He could remember how Lady Ekans had screamed and how Janus hadn’t. He remembered how blood had splattered across the cobblestone, how Janus’s body had gone so still, how Virgil had been running before he’d known what he was doing. 

He’d been out the door and across the street before his parents had even been able to shout his name. There had been a rock in his hand before Lady Ekans had finished her shriek. He’d dragged the sharp edges over his palm, let his warm blood pour over his pudgy fingers, and… and then he had ripped the violet flowers from the wound and done his first act of public magic.

Janus takes his hands, his gloved fingers brushing over the pale scar left over even after so many years later. He leads Virgil’s hand gently up to his mouth and he presses kisses over his palm, soft and lingering in the way that makes Virgil’s insides feel gooey and warm and present. 

There’s no blood over his face now, no dying light in those eyes. He stands just an inch over Virgil, tall and lively and so very concerned. 

“You saved my life, Virgil,” He says in that careful tone of his that says I am telling the truth, even if I have to change reality to make it true. “It seems only right that I in turn pledge my life right back to you.”

“You really did not need to do that,” Virgil says.

“You really did not need to save my life,” Janus counters, which is absurd. Virgil opens his mouth to say as much, but Janus is quicker.  “Ah- no speaking, darling. It’s my turn.” Virgil closes his mouth.

He steps closer, holding Virgil’s hands captive, although it's still loose enough if Virgil decides he doesn’t like where this is going. Janus steps closer and Virgil’s drowning in the depths of his golden eyes, in the warmth of his body being so close, in the scent of Janus that Virgil still hasn’t been able to put a name to after all these years. 

“You risked a lot by saving me, Virgil. Much more than I or my family can hope to pay back, even if you were accepting payment, which you’ve made entirely clear that you and your family are not, yes I know, Virgil. You were a fae-child in a human world that hadn’t seen magic since before my great grandparents were allocated this land.”

“I am human,” Virgil says.

“I know, I know,” Janus says. “But at the time did anyone other than your parents know? You grew plants from your wounds and used them to revive a person, regardless of who that person was. Other magic users have been stoned to death for doing far more in the sake of helping people this far from any magical civilizations.”

“I was a literal child and not considering any type of consequence,” Virgil says.

“Still brave.”

“By definition I believe bravery requires knowing that an action might have negative consequences and still doing the action. Considering that I didn’t realize that being magical was a crime--”

Janus presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth and Virgil promptly forgets exactly what he was talking about. He turns his head ever so slightly to catch Janus’s lips and chases the hints of spearmint lingering along his mouth. Janus is smiling, warm and smug and Virgil for some  reason can’t find himself to be mad at him.

“Cheater,” Virgil breathes.

“Always,” Janus responds, rubbing his thumbs over Virgil’s knuckles. “What else is there for you to do today, my love?”

“Bottle the fire resistance potions I’ve made. Mr. Teagan should be dropping by with a book I requested for Dad’s birthday.”

“The Beginner’s Curse Breaking book, right?”

Virgil wonders how possible it is to fall deeper in love with him. There’s a fluttery feeling in his chest, like a little ball of light radiating adoration through him as he stares at Janus. “Yeah. He’s been trying to teach himself it for a few months now. For someone so good at hexing things, he’s pretty terrible at un-hexing things. I thought I’d help him along before Papa enchants him out of the house.”

Janus laughs softly at the mental image, but Virgil’s been enjoying the jinx free passed three days: waking up to find his favorite boots were melded to the floor or that his Papa was moving at less than half his usual speed or that his Dad accidentally made himself vomit up earthworms had been annoying. His dad had apologized profusely every time a hex had inflicted either of them, and Virgil loves his dads too much to be angry for long, but for all their sakes, Virgil had used his saved up funds from working at the store to send the book keeper on a mission.

Mr. Teagan had been all too excited to help; it was still a semi-new thing for the people of the town to send him searching for magical based books.

Janus had been right in saying that what he’d done to save Janus’s life all those years ago had been monumentally stupid: despite being all willing to indulge in magic potions, enchantments, and mystical artifacts, humans didn’t have the best track record with other magical people and Virgil was about as magical as humans could come without having sold their souls. 

((He’d heard the story a few times: his dad had been an adventurer that had travelled all over the world helping anyone he came across-- including several fae who are never the type to forget a debt. His dad had fallen in love with his papa and they had been looking to adopt a child, and the fae had discovered Virgil as a tiny baby abandoned in their forest. They’d given him a blessing to allow him to survive long enough for his dad to make the journey to them. Imagine his surprise when Virgil had first skinned his knee and bright purple flowers had bloomed out of the wound. And Virgil had grown up with his parents fretting every time he so much as got a splinter, making sure that he didn’t create some sort of sick habit of hurting himself for his flowers that could heal just about any alignment known to creation.))

Virgil had been lucky that he’d saved Janus, that the Ekans loved their son, and that the people of the town loved their nobles. Virgil had been herald a hero instead of a monster: his parent’s shop had flourished now with the blessing and favor of the lands nobles and for years the Ekans family had been working to better improve the welcoming of magic users and races in the city as well as encourage their own citizens to utilize magic to make their lives easier. 

There were, of course, those who hadn’t enjoyed that change, but the Ekans had made sure the Inn owner had packed up and left town the night after her daughter had tried to poison Virgil, with the order that if they returned, the whole family would be jailed, if not worse. ((Virgil had talked them back from “worse” at the beginning.))

But for the most part, those that had been wary had forgotten their wariness. The town was fond of their resident magic carriers, and Virgil in turn was very fond of the town and it's very beautiful, very caring, very golden noble son.

“Well,” Janus says, getting a sly look in his eye. “If a few potions and book delivery is all that is on your agenda for the day...Have you considered the benefits of closing the shop early?”

“Not at all,” Virgil says, grinning as Janus guides him back until his hips bump the counter and then kindly lets go of Virgil’s hands in order to place an arm on either side of his waist and hold him in place. Virgil’s own arms find their way to snake around his neck, and trace the gold pattern on his collar. “What sort of benefits would those be, Lord Ekans?”

“Well, don’t quote me on this, but I heard from an incredibly super secret source that your very evil, tyrannical, dictator-like bosses--”

“You like my parents,” Virgil reminds him.

“--are out of town this week. And I have given my overbearing, insufferable, strict parents the slip until possibly breakfast tomorrow--”

“Very unlikely. Your mother has been trying to convince me to come have dinner with your family every single day since she discovered my parents were out of town.”

“--SO!” Janus says, just barely keeping from laughing, and Virgil just barely keeps from pecking him on the lips. “So! I propose that no one will know that the shop is not open at the usual hours and we have access to a very empty upstairs apartment for at an afternoon of uninterrupted f--”

Virgil presses another kiss to his lips, even as his cheeks are heating up. There’s a giddy, bubbly feeling in his stomach floating up through his lungs until he feels like he’s drunk a potion of flight. He’s decently sure that if Janus wasn’t holding him, he’d be floating right up into the air. 

“No pressure,” Janus says, in a whispered breath, drawing back like he might forget his path of thought if he should continue kissing Virgil in such a way. “I’m perfectly content to also sit and spend the rest of the day reading while you sort your magic weeds. Or I can leave if I have made you uncom--”

“If you leave, I will chase you down through the streets,” Virgil says, more serious than he thinks he should admit. “I’m very interested in these benefits you’re offering Lord Ekans, sir. I just need to finish with the fire resistance potions and then I can close up shop and Mr. Teagan will just keep my purchase until tomorrow.”

The sun rays paint Janus in a blinding golden halo when he beams, like a mythical paladin being blessed by the divines themselves like a character from one of Janus’s favored novels. It’s breathtaking and heart stirring and spine tingling and Virgil has to wonder yet again if Janus is some sort of god on his own. The god of warmth, maybe? The god of the sun? The god of everything amazing and wonderful and Virgil is so completely in love with him, Ilmater help him. 

He gently presses a kiss to Virgil’s temple, leaving the skin buzzing with anticipation when he takes a step back to allow Virgil to move again. “While you’re finishing up, why don’t I go get us a light lunch--”

The door chimes.

Virgil jerks out of habit; the clanging of the bronze bell over the entrance had trained him to put on his best customer service smile over the years. Not that he needs to force a smile much anymore: their customers are usually routine, coming every week like clockwork, loyal and kind and caring and always stopping to ask how the rest of the family is doing. The week that his papa had the broken foot from how the cauldron broke from its stand and landed on him, the florist brought them a wonderful bouquet that his papa enchanted to last all through the spring. The tanner gave them a discount on new winter furs last year in exchange for the discount his dad had given them on the healing potions for their newborn’s cold. The jeweler brought with her spiced cider when she dropped in to pick up an alchemist's kit for her nephew’s birthday, and had stayed an extra hour exchanging stories of the adventures they’d done in their youths.

“Hello!” Virgil says, spinning around and startling only slightly at the sight of four complete strangers in the lobby of his shop. “Welcome to Pharmagician!”

Outside of their loyal customers, there was an occasional traveler that stopped by to restock on magical defenses before heading back out of town, especially if they got turned around and lost on their way to a more populated location. They liked to haggle about prices that his parents had set, and Virgil hoped to the divines these ones wouldn’t be like that. Haggling was his least favorite thing in the world, even though Janus seemed to enjoy it plenty.

He doesn’t have to see Janus’s face to clock the flicker of suspicion in his eyes: the city was by no means unknown, but it was out of the way for casual adventuring parties. More noteworthy groups tended to send letters ahead to locations they were planning on visiting, but Janus hadn’t mentioned that they were expecting any new travellers, and he certainly hadn’t dressed to impress today. The irritation was pretty clear for someone who had spent far too long being aware of every twitch of Janus’s muscles.

The strangers in his shop seemed to fill the whole building, leaving Virgil feeling slightly off center even if he couldn’t place the reason why. The leader of the group is older than him by at least a dozen years, wearing a silver metal breastplate with an insignia that Virgil does not remotely recognize: some kind of bird with a heart in its mouth. He has a cloak of deep indigo, nearly black that matches both his hair and his beady eyes. His smile is pleasant enough, though, with the jagged white scar at the corner of his lips that makes his smile appear lopsided and too wide and must have hurt a lot.

"Hello there," the man says, heading straight to the counter and them, as his friends spread out around the shop, poking at the bits and bobs.

His friends are similar in aura: what looks like a textbook Paladin cloaked in white with a chain linked shirt underneath and a quarterstaff with three dangling crystals that clinked the air; a bard with a Lyre on his back, pan flute on a necklace, and a shirt with a deepened cut that showed off puckered burn scars across his chest and beginnings of black inked tattoos; an alchemist, whose hands are running over a few jars of raw ingredients that were for sale, but his eyes are firmly on Virgil with an expression that makes some type of alarm ring in the back of Virgil’s mind. There are scars on him too: four long cuts that slice through his face in the same pattern of a human hand desperately clawing at his face.

He knows better than to assume at first glance-- Virgil’s seen his dad’s scars before, the physical ones that ache when there’s bad weather on the way, and the mental ones that leave him unable to sleep for days at a time. But even so Virgil feels the urge to step back at the entrance of these men. It’s only Janus’s hand on the small of his back that keeps him steady.

"Quite the shop you have here,” the leader says. “Impressive selection.”

“We aim to please,” Virgil says with a false calmness as he glances around at them. “Anything specific you’re looking for? We have a discount going right now for Potions of Icy Breath and Antifreeze enchantments.”

The bard laughs, picking a vial of darkvision from the shelf and swishing it around. The red liquid swirls in the container like blood. Not far behind them Virgil can make out their horses with another member of their team, who looks to be speaking to the animals in a calm, unhurried tone. Which, while not entirely illegal, it's still a bit of a jerk move to have your horses blocking half of the road like that even if you’re right inside a shop. The town has a public, well kept stable for this reason...

“Is that so,” the leader says, dragging Virgil’s attention back to him. His boots make a surprisingly heavy noise as he glides over to the counter, stopping just a foot back from the collection of crystals in their cases. Virgil has to tilt his head back to keep meeting his eyes with his friendliest expression even though his brain just started whispering that there are only two exits to this building and these people blocked both. He gathers his cutting board covered in spearmint and the tray of vials and moves it to the side so there’s more room for anything they might want to purchase, like a good shop owner who is definitely not freaking out right now.

They’re just customers. And Janus is here with him. If something happens the town guards and the baker across the street will be here in seconds.

“I fear my friends and I aren’t interested in cold weather deterrents at the moment…” The leader says, “We heard there’s a mage here who sells extraordinary healing potions.”

Janus’s hand on his back gives him a slight squeeze and Virgil doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking at. His own skin prickles at the closeness of this stranger, even with the counter between them. He doesn’t think that something like a wooden table will do much if the man decides to draw his short sword.

“We do have potions of healing and greater healing,” Virgil says, keeping his voice light and even. “How many were you looking to buy?”

“I’m afraid you misunderstand,” the man says. “We’re not interested in the potions. Just the person who made them.”

The paladin’s crystals clank together as he hovers by the shelves with bundle kits for alchemists and brewers. Virgil’s eyes dart to him and back to the leader with an unease he really doesn’t like, his shoulders tense up without his permission. 

“What exactly could you want with the potion maker?” Virgil asks.

The leader’s smile is slick and oily, his perfectly white teeth are aligned but his dark eyes are missing that flicker of warmth that comes from being genuine. Virgil’s hands grip the edge of the counter and wonders if he really wants to know the answer.

“We have a proposition for them,” the leader says. 

“A proposition?”

“Our last healer decided to take time off from our journey together, and we heard that there was a young man here who bleeds flowers that have healing properties that can bring people back from the dead.”

Virgil’s heart beats in his throat. “It’s not--”

“The darkvision potions are worth a silver piece per vial,” Janus asks suddenly, his voice booming in the small shop. “Would you like to buy some, sir?”

Virgil’s head jerks over to the potions where the bard has two of the vials in his hands, just barely aborted from shoving them into his side pouch. 

“It’s really bad manners to come to a new town and attempt to steal, not to mention steal in front of the town's own nobles,” Janus says casually, giving Virgil’s back another light gentle squeeze before he lets go and slides around him. His gold gloves flutter into view, fingers dancing through the sunbeams and drawing all the attention in the shop to himself like some sort of master puppeteer.

“Lord Janus Ekans, heir to the Ekans family.” He pauses, the same way he always does when he uses his full title and switches from being Janus-who-once-accidentally- drank-a-glowbrite-potion to Janus-the-richest-and-most-powerful-teenager-in-this town.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, although… one has to wonder why there was no letter of arrival from the Mighty Raven’s Heart. If I didn’t know better I would almost suspect that you were trying to slip into town unnoticed.”

The leader’s jaw sets as he regards Janus, in a way that makes Virgil think that the man thinks Janus is bluffing. It almost makes him laugh: Janus by himself appears more expensive than the shop building itself even when he was dressed casually like today and he carries himself in a way that shows that he knows it. His chin juts up in that bold, confident way and his charming smile is downright lethal.

The leader glances back at his bard, whose robust expression didn’t show any remorse for the attempted theft or being caught, and the leader jerks his head. The bard rolls his eyes skyward but drops the vials back into their trays on the shelf carelessly enough that one of them shatters.

“Whoops, clumsy fingers!” he says. He pulls a silver piece out of thin air and places it on the shelf in the puddle of leaking liquid-- and surprisingly Janus isn’t impressed with the sleight of hand at all.

“We didn’t want to bother the nobles for such a short stay,” the leader says, returning the attention back to himself. “We didn’t expect to find the son of such a pres--”

“How short?” Janus cuts him off.

“We were planning to leave just after this visit,” the alchemist says and Virgil realizes that for a man who is standing next to the freshly harvested eye catching feverfew and lavender and blackthorn, he hasn’t once stopped staring at Virgil. Janus’s step forward had blocked his view, so the man had also taken a step forward, putting himself in the shadows of the store that made his scars look deeper and more sinister than before. 

There’s something about the way that he’s staring at Virgil that makes his stomach queasy: an emotion flickering behind his eyes that does not look right and Virgil’s skin crawls like he needs to scrub the gaze off of himself.

“Well,” Janus says too politely to actually be polite. “I believe that your visit is over. Now. Get out.”

“Do you often let your nobles make decisions for your business?” The leader asks Virgil. “It doesn’t seem like a very successful strategy. I would hate for the rest of the town to hear that this shop is being coerced by the rising nobility. It might make the citizens uneasy about their future rulers.”

Janus bares his teeth in warning. “I haven’t had to call for my childhood bodyguard in eight years, but I will gladly do so if you do not get out of my town immediately.” 

“Janus,” Virgil says softly.

For all that he’s been taught about historic battles and trading agreements and farming rotation techniques, Virgil’s long since known that Janus has never been taught how to back down from a fight. Where that accident with the runaway horse should have made him terrified of horses, Janus had demanded the stable boy at the inn teach him how to mount and dismount for an extra three gold pieces. When his parents required that he practice his rapier forms daily, Janus had mastered them and ran through them as quickly as he could so that he might use his free time to come to town. When Virgil had told him that saving his life did not require Janus to pledge it back to him, Janus had straight up ignored such a thing and decided that he was going to ask his parents permission to marry Virgil anyway.

Virgil hooks a tentative hand on the cuff of Janus’s sleeve. There was a very bad feeling in his gut, a dryness to his own mouth at the sight of their weapons and obvious years of experience. Janus doesn’t know how to back down and they really know how to fight and Virgil really wishes his parents were around because he doesn’t like where this is going.

“I’m sorry you came all the way out here,” Virgil says to the group. “But I’m not adventuring material and I have commitments here.”

“Commitments? Like what?”

“This--”

“We’re getting married,” Janus cuts in and Virgil nearly chokes on his own saliva as he whips around and looks at him. Janus for his part doesn’t acknowledge his obvious floundering at all, continuing to give a hard stare at all of them, and especially the alchemist to their right who's taken another step forward just to stop dead at Janus’s words.

“You can imagine how awkward it would be to stand before the altar of Ilmater with a ceremonial red cord tied to nothing at all,” Janus says.

“Yes,” the leader says in a measured tone. “Very awkward.”

“Super awkward,” Virgil says like all the air in the world hasn’t just spontaneously left his lungs. His skin is buzzing, shaking, and he thinks that if he looks into Janus's eyes he’s going to do something pitiful like ask if he means it. 

It’s one thing to see seven year old Janus burst into the shop, rosy cheeked and breathing hard from having sprint across the entire town the moment his parents looked away, and have that be the first thing he screamed at Virgil’s parents. It's another thing entirely to hear calm and collected nineteen year old Janus state such a thing like its a fact of the world, the same way he might state “The weather is wonderful today” or “The sky is blue” or “I could take over the world if I wanted to but I’m content with this for now.”

 “So, if that’s cleared up--” Virgil says, even as the group seems to share a look around them. Virgil twists Janus’s sleeve in his fingers. “I think you should be on your wa--”

“I guess there really is no choice here then,” the leader says with a theatrical sigh. “Such a pity, but if the wedding is stopping you from coming, I guess we’ll just have to stop the wedding! Midas!”

“Virgil, run!” Janus moves faster than Virgil can think, twisting his arm out of Virgil’s hands and pushing Virgil fitfully behind him. Virgil lets out a yelp and the alchemist lunges forward with a handful of a fine gold powder that he throws directly into Janus’s face.

For a second Virgil thinks its sand, ground into tiny, barely-visible specs, that tastes like dirt but also not, that coats the inside of Janus’s mouth and nose and throat. For a second Virgil’s brain disconnects from his body and he thinks about all the times that his parents warned him away from accidentally inhaling ground poppy seed powder because it can get into the lungs so very easily and that type of thing will kill you slowly and painfully in a way that he cannot heal anyone from. For a second, Janus gasps for air, coughing violently, nearly doubly over as he stumbles back and he shoves Virgil further behind him, still intending to be some kind of shield between Virgil and these men and whatever that powder was. 

For a second, Virgil’s spine hits the decorative shelves of crystals knocking several of them to the ground at their feet and then that second is over.

The world seems to have stopped, the air seems to have dissipated out of the shop, and everything is gravely, deathly silent. Virgil stares at Janus's back.

Except that it’s not really Janus’s back, because the sunlight is streaming down over him making him shine and sparkle and shimmer--

“Janus!” Virgil screams.

Because where Janus was standing, so bold and lively and courageous, there’s a gleaming solid gold statue, standing at his same height, wearing his same clothes, holding the same position that Janus had been. 

“What did you do?!” Virgil yells. “Janus! JANUS!”

The leader leaps the counter and grabs Virgil by the upper arm. Virgil throws his weight back, but the man is far stronger than he looks and hefts him forward kicking and screaming. Crystal fragments shatter under their feet as the leader unceremoniously throws him towards the paladin. Virgil lunges back towards Janus, but the paladin wraps an arm around his middle and hoists him into the air, leaving him scrambling on empty space.

“JANUS!”

“Check to make sure he’s the one,” the leader says to the paladin, already heading towards the lockbox where they keep the shop's earnings. “Filch, Midas, grab whatever you want, but make it fast.” 

The bard lets out an excited cheer and tears through the shelves of potions grabbing handfuls of things and pouring them into a side pouch that definitely shouldn’t be able to hold that many things. The alchemist knocks over the trays of invisibility potions, and pushes the rest of the locator potions off the shelf and the shattering of glass rings in Virgil’s ears even as he thrashes against the paladin’s hold on him. 

“So demanding,” the paladin hums right in his ear, and Virgil tries to throw his head back but he only hits the chain linked shirt the man is wearing. His nails claw at the arm holding him, digging into every bit of flesh he can find, and he swings his heels back as hard as he can into the Paladin’s leg. “Fuck! You little shit!” 

He lets go, and Virgil drops to the ground without warning, gasping for breath, but he flings himself towards the door as fast as he can. “HELP! SOMEONE HEL--!”

“Vine Wrap.” 

Something snags his ankle, twisting around it and yanking him back so hard that Virgil slams into the ground, his head cracking against the wooden floorboards. The world around him blurs and buzzes, and Virgil swears he hears his papa calling out for him like he did that one time when Virgil was eight and Janus was dying out in the road. He claws at the floorboards as he’s dragged back towards the men by his feet.

“HELP!” Virgil screams. 

“Belias,” the leader says from somewhere. “Shut him up.”

Whatever caught his leg, tightens around his ankle and knots around his other leg binding his feet together and then coiling around his knees and binding those too. Virgil struggles against it, screaming as more of the bindings snake around his left wrist and then the other, and pulls them back behind his back and buries them under countless wraps around his chest. It’s not until one of them crawls around his throat and squeezes that Virgil realizes it’s some kind of magical living plant with pinprick thorns tearing his skin and his clothes as he writhes against them.

He opens his mouth to scream again, please anyone please help-- and the plant coils around his neck, between his lips and tightens around the back of his head in a gag that tastes like grave dirt and leaves.

He yanks and struggles and pulls and anything, but the vines are too tight and his vision is blurring and he can’t move. His lungs heave for air, shuddering against the constriction that keeps getting tighter, until his ribs-- until he can hear his ribs creaking and threatening to break. His vision is blurry, and he chokes himself on the sob as the plant pulls against the edges of his lips to muffle his voice.

A hand curls into his hair and drags him up from the floor. Virgil jerks the best he can, but the grip is too strong, always too strong and firm and tight, nearly ripping out his roots. The face of the alchemist appears in front of him, a palm coming up and thumb drifting over his cheek to wipe away Virgil’s frantic, terrified tears as carefully and gently as Janus might have.

His smile drowns Virgil in a cold feeling, and he snaps his head trying to escape the touch.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” he says, his warm breath settling over Virgil like a cloud of smoke and smelling like something rotten. He reaches under Virgil’s chin and forces his face forward again, and there’s a flash of silver in the corner of his eyes.

Virgil has just enough time to think oh they’re going to kill me, before the blade is tearing across his cheek, sharp and quick. For a breath there’s not even any feeling of what they’d done, just a numbness as Virgil’s gaze zeroes in on the drops of scarlet along the dagger, and then Virgil’s entire cheek ignited in a fiery pain akin to having stuck his face in a lit fire.

He screams into his gag, and someone else, probably the paladin slams something heavy into the back of his head. Virgil’s vision dances in dizzying black shadows, and the floor slips out from under him as his knees buckle.

“Yeah,” someone says far away. “There’s definitely healing magic in these. They practically radiate pure magic. Where the hell did a kid get a gift like this?”

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s get out of here.”

Virgil feels his body hoisted to the air again, his vision swaying and pitching like the ocean and he can’t focus on anything concrete. The inside of the shop bubbles and boils like staring into the surface of a potion: flashes of the soft pink crystals his papa likes and keeps hung around the store, the chestnut brown of the shelves that he’d grown up being told not to climb, greens and blues and purples of potions leaking into each other, and silver glass fragments on the ground that look like fallen stars. There’s gold-- Janus… Where is Janus…?

“HEY!” someone yells, “LET GO OF HIM!”

“VIRGIL!”

There’s something dripping down his cheek, slow and sticky and Virgil thinks he can almost make out the petals of a flower. There’s a dull pain in his cheek, aching and deep and--

Someone is screaming. There’s an explosion, he thinks. The smell of smoke and cider and Virgil’s head lulls to the side, trying to chase a thought that might be important. 

Someone is laughing. It’s not a kind laugh.

Sunlight. A horse. Voices. Yelling.

His head hurts, and it's all too much. He should sleep. It’ll be better when he wakes up. Janus will tell him what happened. Janus always knows what’s going on. Janus and his lovely smile and soft hair and golden eyes.

Virgil closes his eyes and his last thought is that, for some reason, he shouldn’t like the color gold anymore.