#human!roman

And never, ever come back to this wretched place.

Four steps into the meadow, fire pierced his foot and he stumbled. Falling, tumbling into the flowers below, the ground itself stabbed at him, burning his hand, his side, his face. Biting back a scream that might reveal him, he protected his face as well as he could and rolled free of the once welcoming primrose.

Panting where he lay at the edge of the flowers, he pressed his face against the cool, fresh grass and listened to the soil beneath. Iron. The entire field had been salted with iron shavings. Not enough to smell, not enough to taste in the air.

Just enough to burn.

Honey bees buzzed over the blossoms, the music of summer. Their dance mocked him, inviting him, begging him to try again, to step out into the flowers and finally reach home.

The pain of his burns wailed otherwise.

Hidden in the tall grasses, or as hidden as he could hope, Janus lay there a long time as he beseeched the fields, the trees, the skies overhead for a new plan.

As the sun began to set, a thin trail of bright white wood smoke curled through the gold and red sky, beckoning him to follow. Wood smoke meant people. And, if he were very, very lucky, shelter.

Injured foot aching, Janus darted, limped, really, from tree to tree. He stopped at any of the great hawthornes broad enough to conceal him and listen for the tell tale sounds of a hunter’s bugle or the barking of over-excited hound wolves. He would wait until the winds stilled, when the robin’s evening calls might cover the sounds of his stumbling footsteps. Then he would dash for the next tree, as quick as he could manage.

By the time he’d gotten half way to the source of the wood smoke, the sun had sunk completely below the horizon, painting the forest in murky blackness. At least the darkness mean he could no longer see the grey-black lines of poison crawling up from the dagger wound on his hand. The darkness also meant he would need to move even slower.

Finally, though, at the next tree, Janus finally found a bit of luck.

Nestled between its roots grew hundreds of brightly glowing lemon honeycaps. Fighting the urge to race toward the light, he walked carefully, avoiding the tiny crawling night creatures happy to soak up the darkness.

He gathered as many as he dared, the need to balance seeing and being seen knife’s edge sharp in his mind. He picked them slowly, whispering his thanks to each fungal fruit as it gave way from its stem. “I’ll spread your spores farther than you ever could,” he promised, the wind singing, bell-like through the trees.

While honeycaps weren’t the best for healing, at least they wouldn’t make his wound and his burn worse.

The trees thickened here, and mushroom lantern in hand, Janus carefully picked a path through the woods. Before long, he was near enough to spot the glow of a cozy hearth bleeding out from a small hut. Near enough to catch the scents of fresh bread and honey.

Janus approached the home slowly, sniffing the air for any sign of who might live this deep in the woods. No sage or salt, and the rich, heavy aroma of roasting meat meant surely there was no witch on the other side of those squat, stone walls.

No dogs, either, though he was sure he spotted the sparkling green eyes of a cat before it slunk away behind the house, along with the gentle low of a sleeping cow.

The strongest sign, though, that he might have found true shelter, at least for the night, at least shelter in return for some favor or gift, was the sound of singing. A single voice, low and clear and deep. Gathering his courage, Janus crouched in the deep roots of a nearby apple tree and listened.

A bouncy, jovial tune, the voice sang too quietly for Janus to make out the lyrics. But the meaning behind the his words filled the forest between them. He—Janus was certain the singer was a ‘he’—sang of home and food and warmth, a soft bed. Companionship. Even as Janus shivered with pain and cold, he chuckled to himself. This far away and without an audience, the song could reveal nothing but the singer’s internal intent. He was consumed with the simple pleasures his night was meant to bring.

He would easy to bargain with.

It wasn’t until Janus had got closer to the hut did he spot the red and gold crest emblazoned tunic hanging to dry outside.

This was no exiled fae, no spellcaster. Not even a wizard. No, the person inside that hut was something far, far worse.

A human.

Janus shrank back into the hollow of the closest tree. The tunic was old, dye faded from their original blood red. The edges had been mended with large, straight stitches and it had long ago lost its perfect starch-stiffness, now flapping softly in the breeze. This human wasn’t a current member of Her Majesty’s guard.

But that merely explained why he was happily puttering around his home and not out on the hunt for him.

A human, no longer affiliated with Her Majesty or not, was almost worse than the wolves.

Almost.

As if summoned, a low howl broke the quiet night and Janus stiffened. Gathered closer than he ever should have let them, the single howl was soon joined by a chorus of its pack. They were right on his heels. If he was quick, he could make it past this little hut and out to the Old Ones. He wasn’t much for climbing on his best days, but if he could find a tall enough oak, he could hide in its branches until morning.

And then what? Run forever? With the gate to his home now little more than a trap of iron and blood, how would he ever get back? He supposed he could plant more primrose but even with his full powers, that could take ­months before enough bloomed to make a gate he could fit through.

Branches snapping under careless steps and the rough, angry voices of the hunting party ripped Janus from his despair. If he was going to escape, he needed to move and he needed to move now.

But before he could even get his feet under him, the door to the hut slammed open.

Filling the doorway and backlit by the fire’s glow inside, the giant, hulking human’s shadow stretched across the ground between them. Even if he wasn’t a human with silvery lies spilling from his tongue with ease, casting pledges quicker to rend than a rose petal, the human could simply overpower him, cage him in iron, collect his bounty and return to his roast. His honey and bread.

“Who’s there?” His voice boomed through the woods and the hunters heard it, too.

Their shouts grew louder, calling to the pack to head this way.

Janus was trapped. A squeak of fear pushed past his lips and he hid his face behind his sleeve. Too late.

“Who’s there?” the human asked again, softer this time. Tempting him to reveal himself.

The human stepped outside. Without his massive frame blocking the fire, the light spilled out over the entire front garden.

And the tree in which Janus hid.

The hunters’ voices grew louder, drawing both their attention. He looked back at Janus, understanding washing over ruddy features. He nodded once and made his choice quickly.

Janus scrambled back, taking his chances with a dash out to the oaks beyond the human’s hut. But his small rest had only let his injuries make themselves heard louder and his limp had worsened.

In two long strides, the human was upon him, massive hands grabbing his shoulders and lifting him up off the ground. Instinct pushed out a cry and the human slapped a calloused hand over his mouth. “Hush!” he hissed and hauled him toward his door.

Lanterns danced only a few hundred feet away from the hut, the hunters closing in. Sweat and saliva and the sour sweet scent of victory poured off the wolves, picked up by the wind, filling Janus’ nose and mouth. He shook his head and tried to look away.

Right up at the wrought iron horseshoe hanging over the human’s door.

Panic fueled one last fight, pushing and clawing at the human’s massive arms. But the human only held tighter until, at last, they crossed the threshold and Janus went limp in his arms.

Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as the last of his energy bled away. Iron stove, iron cook knife. Iron bolts at the joints of his bed. Iron lock barring the door.

The human set him down on the bed slowly, hesitating before backing away. Even if Janus had had the strength to run, there was now wa he could get through that doorway on his own volition. He curled into a ball on the human’s oversized bed and wept.

A cozy glow filled the room, an cold reminder of how hopeful he’d been just a few minutes ago. Hands illuminated, Janus clearly saw how much the grey-black lines had grown. His burns had blistered, but if he didn’t get some honeysuckle soon, he’d never get to see if they would heal without scarring.

Three hard bangs at the door pulled the human’s eyes off him for a moment.

Janus imagined he was strong enough to leap out the window while the human’s attention was diverted. And right into Her Majesty’s hunters waiting chains?

“Coming!” the human called in a voice cheerier than the taste of nervousness in his breath. “Stay here!” he ordered Janus and drew a heavy wool blanket over him.

Why would he do that? Unless he doesn’t know they’re the hunters after him? Perhaps he’s afraid the hunters will try to cheat him out of his bounty? Off in the woods, the human would have no proof he was the one who’d found him. Hunters were among the worst kind of humans, lying with impunity even amongst their own. They’d betray another human for a stiff ale and a bite of bread.

They’d betray a fae for even less.

“G’evening, gentlemen!” the human boomed in that same cheerful voice. “What can I do for you this evening?

The hunters were caught off guard, their thoughts jumbled. It is him. “Good evening, Sir,” their leader finally said. Smoky and greasy, his words hung in air. “We are searching for a fae in these woods. He’s wanted for breaking a bargain with Her Majesty.”

“A fae?” The human’s voiced surprise rang hollow to Janus’ ears. “I thought the fae were extinct,” he lied.

Surrounded by iron bolts on all sides, Janus could do nothing but listen.

“We’re gettin’ close,” a younger voice piped up, laughing. "There are only a handful left." The hunter's belief in his own honesty turned Janus’ stomach.

“Still too many," the leader growled. His voice changed, turned unctuous again. "You sure you haven’t seen any of their tricks out in these woods? Y’know you probably should keep your clothesline inside—“

“Or use those iron pins!” another interrupted. “My mum swears by ‘em.”

“I’ll take that under consideration,” the human said and the door squeaked. “I wish you luck on your hunt,” said, lying again. No, a half-lie this time. “In fact…” He grunted, and screech of iron on wood filled Janus’ ears. “… should help you on your way. Fair thee well,” he called and the clamor of dogs and men moved away from the hut.

The human stood in the doorway for a few moments, then closed and locked the door.

Suddenly, the blanket was yanked off the bed. Janus’ eyes were slow to adjust to the light, but he caught what appeared to be concern in the human’s big brown eyes.

Looming over the bed, he reached for him, hands stinking of iron.

Janus recoiled, eyes squeezed shut.

“I won’t hurt you,” the human said. I don’t want to hurt you.

“Hands…” Janus choked out and the human again reached for him.

“I saw,” he said. They look like they hurt. “Let me treat them.”

“No,” Janus cried. “Your hands,” he managed. “Iron.”

“Iron?” he repeated, dumbfounded. “Oh! Iron! I thought…” The iron thing is real? He stepped back, hands in the air.

“You thought it was a myth?” Janus spat out, a sliver of energy returning with the human’s retreat.

“There’s a… Huh.” The human looked around the room. “There’s an awful lot of iron in here. Stay here,” he said, as though Janus had a choice. “I’ll fix it.” He turned toward the door then spun back around. “Wait, what do you need?”

Janus eyed him, lips sealed shut. Surely this human didn’t think he was that foolish. Yes, he’d been caught flat-footed with Her Majesty but he wasn’t stupid enough to reveal precisely what the human could withhold from him as a negotiation tactic.

“Oh, right,” the human muttered. His eyes snagged on Janus’ face and and hands. And the grey lines trailing up his arm. His ruddy cheeks paled. “My name is Roman,” he offered.

“What?” Janus spat back, shaking. “That’s your real name! Don’t—why—you don’t know me! I could do anything with that! I could drag you back to my realm, I could make you mine! I could cast a charm on you that a thousand thousand iron swords couldn’t break! I could—“

“You’re not going to do anything if I can’t help you with that hand,” he countered. “Consider it a trade. You have my name, now tell me what you need to heal. I will only use it to help you,” he said.

Hand tucked against his side, Janus turned away. Perhaps Roman could still get a half bounty with his corpse.

“I promise,” Roman said, the pledge a momentary balm. Janus turned.

Face, voice, and words steeped in sincerity, this wild, too powerful for his own good human actually spoke the truth.

The room began to dim and Janus slowly nodded. “Honeysuckle,” he murmured. “Honeysuckle and rowan berries. They grow—“

“They grow on the south side of the creek,” Roman finished as Janus’ eyes fell shut. “Rest here and I’ll get them.”

Roman’s footsteps drew nearer and Janus struggled to open his eyes. “I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Bells danced in the air and Janus smiled, the strange, sincere promise easing him to a light sleep. “I know. I’ll see you when you return.”

---

Author's note: Rowan berries are real and, in fact, are considered an important part of the balance between the fae and human worlds. (Sounds perfect for Janus, tbh.)

From Grove and Grotto's The Faery Dozen: 12 herbs for Faery gardens, offerings, and magick

Rowan is one of the most-mentioned trees in Faery lore and magick. Celtic tradition tells us that Rowan was originally from the land of Faery, and was brought to Earth by the Tuatha de Danann. It is a tree of great strength and mystery. In North America, the tree is more commonly known as Mountain Ash. Rowan trees grow wild in the Scottish Highlands and are known by their bright red berries. (Scottish tradition bans the use of the wood except under special circumstances.) They are commonly found near ancient settlements and stone circles—probably from having been planted for religious reasons. Individual trees may live over 200 years, playing host to innumerable fairy gatherings in that time. Rowan is dubbed the Witch Tree, and appears in many spells for psychic power and protection. Skim through enough of these, and you may notice an apparent contradiction: Rowan is said to be both attractive to Fae and to offer protection from Fae. Rowan was planted in churchyards to discourage evil spirits. A cross of Rowan hung above a cradle once protected its occupant. And a string of Rowan berries could be worn to deflect sorcery. Rowan is undeniably a Faery tree—she exists as a wise protector and gatekeeper. Compared, perhaps, to the playful fairies of fruits and flowers, Rowan is a stronger, older being who can keep the delicate peace between humans and Fae.

He had called his child to come to him. It didn’t want to. It didn’t like humans, so it wanted this one gone. Janus could relate, he often times wanted humans in his vicinity to just go away but still, this human he wanted to stay.

It evolved into an argument. Granted, he didn’t have the best reasons for not wanting the human dead, but his child was supposed to listen to him regardless of the reason. Fed up with the arguing, Janus had sent his child back to his domain as punishment.

Only afterwards did he notice that the singing had stopped.

And the human was looking directly at him.

…Since when had he been visible? How much had the human understood of what just happened?

For several long moments, nothing happened. Then the human lit up.

“Wow! That was so cool! Where did you send it?”

“Uh, home?” Janus’ answer was more like a question since he did not expect the human to actually talk to him, especially not with that much enthusiasm. Normally humans were scared of what they didn’t understand.

“And where’s that?”

“The realm of the gods?”

“Wow, that really exists? Wait, are you a god?” The human, who had stood up and stepped closer, froze, eyes wide.

“No?” Janus tried. He wasn’t supposed to interact with humans at all but if he did it was supposed to be under the guise of being human himself.

The human pouted.

“Oh, c’mon! Don’t start lying to me now! I, the mighty Roman, am great at keeping secrets!” They struck a pose, pushing their fist over their heart.

“Right.” Janus took a deep breath. He had to stay calm and get this situation under control.

They fell silent once again.

“Oh, where are my manners!” ‘Roman’ suddenly declared. “I have yet to thank you for saving me!” They walked over, kneeled before Janus and bowed their head. “Thank you, oh great deity, for saving my life today and blessing me with your visage.”

Janus immediately lost his composure again as his skin cheek turned deep red.

“I— Uh, you’re welcome!” he said hastily, praying to his mother that the human would leave it at that and just go away.

Of course, they didn’t.

“How can I ever repay you for your generosity, oh divine one? I could build a shrine here to commemorate this glorious deed! Or bring you offerings! Or something grander? A temple perhaps?”

“No, don’t!” Janus protested immediately, before he could stop himself. Just what was up with this human?? He took another deep breath to calm down. “That will be unnecessary. I did not do so to help you, human. My business with my children is of no consequence to you.”

Instead of being upset at this news, the human just looked at him with even brighter eyes.

“You are so humble for such a great being! Of course your outer beauty would match the soul within! Those glittering scales must represent all your acts of kindness, I am certain!”

Janus stuttered but couldn’t find any words. This human was incredibly talented at throwing him off.

“I assure you; I came into existence with all these scales, they did not have to be earned!” he argued once he found his voice again.

“How could I ever make the assumption that you haven’t been perfection from the very beginning, please forgive me, my deity.” They bowed again and Janus was very much regretting having let this human live if all they were going to do was make assumptions and try to fluster him.

“Enough! I am going now!” He took a step back and the human immediately paled.

“No, please don’t! Let me repay you, please! Whether it was your intention or not, you did save me this day and I wish to repay my debt!”

Janus hesitated. This human had annoyed him but the look on their face somehow made him reconsider just up and leaving. And there had been one reason he interfered, so why should he not use this opportunity?

“Very well then, I’ll let you make it up to me.”

“Thank you, oh glorious one!”

“Stop it with the titles! Just… sing me a song.”

The human blinked at him, then the brightest grin appeared on their face.

“With pleasure! I will sing a hundred songs if it pleases you!”

“No! One is enough. Now begin, I have other things to attend to.” That wasn’t true but the human didn’t need to know that.

“I would not dare keep you from your very important duties! I will begin at once.”

And indeed, they cleared their throat before beginning to sing a lovely melody. Janus let himself close his eyes and simply listened until it was over. The human looked towards him with hopeful eyes as soon as the last note died.

“That was… adequate. Consider your debt repaid,” Janus said in a tone that he hoped sounded grand and powerful. Not knowing what else to say and wanting this situation over with, he turned to leave again.

“Wait, please!”

“What else is it that you want?!” Janus groaned but he stayed.

“Please may I know your noble name, oh divine one? You consider my debt paid but I wish to continue offering my gratitude to your name at least if you would let me.”

He should just say no, it would be so much easier, but apparently he was incredibly weak to this human’s pleading eyes.

“Keep it to yourself and never speak it out loud, understood?”

“Yes, my deity, whatever you wish!”

“…fine,” he basically spat out after another moment of hesitation. “It’s Janus, God of Snakes. Now leave.”

“Of course, oh greatest being! I will offer you prayer every day!”

“No! Don’t—” But the human had already hurried away and Janus sighed.

Why did he have a sinking feeling that he would be tied to this human going forward?

It’s by a distant sort of static that he registers the weather, peering through a pair of thick lenses and vacant eyes. He’s looking at the harsh snow falling around him, but only experiencing it in a way a mystery enthusiast watches the victim getting bludgeoned with a steel pipe. He could tell you which way the wind was blowing, maybe give an estimate of the temperature, but if you asked him to describe the chill, the words would die in his throat.

Another thing, Logan hasn’t felt in a long time, either.

Between the endless months of travelling, the odd jobs he took just to make a buck, between preparing for winter as the Earth continued her unrelenting march around the sun, Logan’s been far too exhausted to feel cold. Like a thick, heavy cloud in his mind, the fatigue’s been perfect enough to drown his thoughts in condensation, for him to slip away and leave someone else in his place.

That someone else doesn’t need to care about the aching cold. The stress of finding something affordable, practical, safe is enough to distract from what creeps in the defiles of his mind. That someone knows that he won’t be walking in the snow long enough to contract frostbite, that the human body is more than equipped to survive a few days without food, that...

That he’s not in any danger when he wakes up screaming. He’s not drowning when the air around him grows thick and catches in his lungs. He’s not going to die because of something as stupid, illogical, painful as grie—

Nothing.

Absolutely, definitively, nothing.

There’s no one he yearns for, no one he misses like a physical blow. The hollow, aching thing was always supposed to feel deep enough to stick his arm through. He’s fine.

It’s so much easier to forget, than to remember the hole in his chest might’ve ever been full.

There's nothing left to stop him when he does.

Wiping the sleet from his glasses, Logan looks up. A painted sign stands tall against the white snow.

Pottsfield, New Neighbors Just Around the Bend!

Logan forces himself to move forward.

~

The wooden floor of the establishment creaks under his weight. He wipes his feet on the scratchy welcome mat, streaking the warm letters in mud.

“Hello,” he says, “I would like to buy a house.”

The woman at the counter—the owner, he presumes—locks him with a fixed gaze. She’s formless, bundled up in a pile of grey flannel and blankets. A scholar could write their senior thesis on debating where her mound ends, and she begins. She straightens up, letting the blanket around her shoulders fall down to her lap.

“A house,” she repeats, testing each syllable on her tongue, “...In the middle o’ winter?”

He nods, removing the satchel around his waist and to procure his funds. “Correct. I was under the impression that you had a number of vacancies, and after assessment, I've found this town to be the most satisfactory.”

“‘Satisfactory’.” She snorts. “You’re somethin’, aren’cha? Where you from? Jersey?”

Logan stiffens for a fraction of a second, before he slides a wad of cash onto the counter. “I don’t believe that’s necessary information. What is necessary, however, is the information regarding your available residencies.”

The owner unfurls, eyeing the wad of cash with jilted curiosity. She bites her lip, and pulls a stack of papers from her desk. “Alright, hun, I'll bite. What kinda house you lookin’ for? All our fancy ones are sold, but you don’t seem like the type. We can start touring near the town homes sometime after the weather calms—“

“That won’t be necessary,” Logan interjects. “I simply require something convenient, and preferably, secluded. We can forgo the tour.”

“I—“ The woman pauses, considering everything she’s done wrong in her life to end up here. Sellin’ a house to some lunatic who appeared in the middle of a snowstorm, talkin’ like a dictionary, and askin’ to skip the tour for an immediate purchase is on her list o’ things she’d thought hell would freeze over before she did. But...she gazes at the stranger's tattered cloak, his moth-eaten gloves, the exhaustion that radiated from every inch of him, and it clicks.

There’s no way this man is anything but acutely, achingly desperate.

“Alright,” she sighs. “There’s an old place down at Two Cat’s Lane.” She slides a file over to Logan, wiping the dust off it with a flick of her sleeve. “’S not a complete shitshack yet, but it might as well be. Still, it runs a good price for what ’s got. Open lawn, dense forest, nice property when it’s actually tended to. ‘S not wholly isolated, but the nearest house is still a ways away. I think you’d like that.”

Logan nods, inspecting the paper with interest. “Where is the estate?”

“Few miles from here. I'm assumin’ you got no family, right?”

Logan—

Logan shakes his head, completely calm and composed for what was a completely unremarkable question. The shopkeeper doesn’t seem notice him crack, doesn’t see him shoving old memories where they belong, six feet underground.

“I don’t,” Logan rasps.

“Then you’ll have more than enough room for yourself.” She smiles, almost genuine, before it slips off her face and something dark overtakes her features. “Although...”

Logan swallows, resisting the urge to bolt from the shadows covering her face. “Ma’am?”

“...You’re not one for superstition, right?” At Logan’s bewildered expression, she grimaces. “You're not gonna believe me on this, but...I swear to you that place is haunted.”

“I—” Logan tilts his head, because surely he misheard. “Haunted?”

She nods, her grave expression deepening. “They say there’s something stalkin’ the woods, like a vulture would circle its prey—People have seen things, too! One day their tools go missin’ and the next a basket of skulls appear on their doorstep. Mysterious paths in the forest open up the second they turn their heads. Great shiftin’ and boomin’ soundin’ n the dark, like the Earth herself opened up and came to say ‘hello’. No one knows what’s out there, but whatever it is, it sure as hell ain’t human.”

The silence sits, settling into the air like an aroma, before Logan breaks it with a cackle.

“Oh—come on!” The agent flushes at the hysterical giggle bubbling past his lips. “I know it’s hard to believe—but I ain’t pullin’ your leg! I swear!”

“I’m sure you aren’t,” he wheezes, “b—but consider, for a moment, that I’ve seen far too much of this world to think that—that—”

Logan coughs, straightening himself out before he can dissolve into another fit. Something heavy and crawling settles onto his shoulders. “I’ve seen my fair share of ghosts. I severely doubt one more would do significant harm. I would like to purchase the house.”

The woman’s brow crinkles. After a moment, she hands a pen to Logan, lips slanted. “Alright, be that way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when the wind starts howlin’ your name.”

Logan takes the pen, and the owner shows him to the dotted line. After the usual legal menagerie, she sticks her hand out, a rusted key glinting in the candlelight. “Good luck with it, hun. Take care out there.”

Logan takes the key, and his cold hand brushes against something still warm.

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

~

The house groans when he steps inside.

The seller had called it a miracle it stood after all these years. The wood rots, the dust suffocates, and the furniture is decorated with a layer of cobwebs thick enough to supersede rope. Everyone who’s ever come here has given up, decided the shelter wasn’t worth the monsters, and left for something better.

Logan plops a sack down on the creaking floorboards, and nearly chokes when a spray of dust flies into his mouth.

He doesn’t have that luxury.

He’ll be fine. He’s never been one for painted wallpaper or crown moulding. If the walls need replacing, the forest will supply. If he can’t afford tools, he’ll make them. If the open space is too suffocating or the silence makes him want to tear off his ears, then he’ll...

Logan swallows, acutely aware of the stillness around him. There’s no laughter chiming from another room, no padding of feet on the stairs, no crackle of a fire under a brick oven. The emptiness claws at him, wrenching the hole in his chest open another yard wide. He shoves the flaps closed with a painful shudder.

He’ll get through it, just like he always does: perfectly stable, perfectly distracted, perfectly alone. It was always like this.

It was.

It was.

Logan explores his new house, and tries not to feel like he’s falling apart.

~

For the most part, winter goes well.

He spent his first night on a tarp in the living room, collapsing after a failed attempt to dust off what was once the master bedroom. From there, it was planning, sighing at the cobwebs covering the cleaning supplies, and thanking the stars the walls didn't need to be demolished. Cleaning indoors busies his hands, and the dust settles into his mind like a weighted blanket, smothering his dreams.

For a time, he’s at peace.

It all falls apart, of course, when he awakes one morning to find his rations torn apart, and a pack of rats scurrying away as his shadow falls over them.

Logan stares at the remains of his food, the resources he had meticulously organized, strewn on the floor in shredded residue. He does not breathe.

Only when panic clogs his throat and the walls close in does he move.

He lunges for his coat, fishing out his wallet with trembling hands. A quick glance and a lurch in his stomach confirms what he already knew; he’s out of funds.

Logan hisses through his teeth, shaking the wallet as if some missed bill would flutter out. This—this couldn’t be it. He couldn’t have been so utterly, monumentally stupid. Why hadn’t he hidden his rations better? Why hadn’t he gathered more before the move? Why, after everything, did he not take the steps to ensure he wouldn’t perish like everyone els—?

Logan takes a breath, deep and measured. If he’d given up at the first sign of death these past long, hard months, where would he be now? He wouldn’t have even made it out of—

Nowhere.

He yanks a knife off his dresser and dawns his dirt-caked boots. He's never hunted before, but he knows how to use a blade well enough. He’ll be fine.

He returns that evening with a damaged knife and a tattered cloak. Hunger, exhaustion, and something far blacker rips a hole through his stomach.

He sighs, collapsing into the torn armchair, and begins to ration.

The next few days are abysmal. A rabbit slips from his fingers, snow obscures the remaining fauna too much to read its edibility, and his supplies dwindle. The night Logan decides to make the trek to town, he wakes up to snow piled to his knees, and the road ice.

Logan is, for lack of a better word, completely fucked.

Tighter rations would give him, what? An extra week? Even if he did starve himself, he wouldn’t have the strength to do anything but shiver. He drools over the remainders in his ice box, pondering whether to wait for the snow to clear or give in to his hunger now. Every time, he walks away, having reached forward only to realize his skin was colder than the remaining scraps of meat.

He doesn’t sleep. It wasn’t as if he slept willingly before, but between the nausea and the tremors and the gnawing, aching want, Logan finds himself too exhausted to rest.

He’s sitting on his porch—not even his for a month—when it hits him.

Logan, by the cruel fate dictates his existence, survived all these months only to die when he was safe. He clawed his way out of a ruined home, dirty streets, an ocean of sweat and pain and heartache for what? For this?

To fight with everything he had, to hang by the thinnest thread, to fall when he finally, finally reached solid ground, makes something brittle and freezing settle into Logan’s chest.

He stares down at his hands, clenching his raw, frozen fingers. The tear that slides down his cheek mixes with the falling snow. At least, after this, he’ll be able to see his family agai—

A flash of fabric catches his eye.

Logan blinks.

There, at the edge of the clearing, is a sack; stark grey in the bleak, white snow.

Logan heaves himself up, trudging over to the object as curiosity prickles in the back of his mind. It’s large, a bundle of thick fabric tied up with twine and force. From the way it creaks into the snow, it’s heavy. Perhaps someone’s hiking gear? Who would even be out here in the middle of a storm? The object’s too large to have been carried by the wind, and Logan’s neighbors aren’t exactly a stone’s throw away. A wild animal? A lost traveler? Someone like him, caught in the cold?

You're not gonna believe me on this, but...I swear to you that place is haunted.

The dry skin on Logan’s hands cracks and bleeds.

It’s just a neighbor. It has to be. A lost traveler means at best new company, and at worst, a corpse. A neighbor was curious, that’s all.

He shakes himself, kneeling down in the wet snow, and opens the bag.

Hunger hits him like a freight train. Logan doesn’t notice he’s salivating until a line of spit freezes down his chin. Inside, stacked together and gleaming in the winter afternoon, is enough supplies to last him weeks.

Oil. Butter. Salt. Canned vegetables and beans and fruit. A block of cheese and a loaf of bread. Even the frozen blood of venison seeps into its own plastic bag. All right there, all ripe for the taking.

Logan bites his lip. Surely, whoever left these goods wouldn’t mind if—

The trees groan.

Logan, pauses, peering up into the snow-blanketed woods, only to throw himself back as the forest begins to move.

It’s a storm in motion. Trees whipping, bending under the weight of something. The violent rustling gives way to heavy, rhythmic booming, reverberating through Logan down to his core. It’s like the woodland itself has come alive, earth-shattering shaking and groaning pronouncing its newfound consciousness. Logan’s heart jams into his throat as for one, heart-stopping moment, the rumbling seems like it’s coming towards him.

Suddenly, the trees snap back. The resulting silence blares.

Logan has never quite felt so small.

He swallows down a mouthful of bile, pushing off the ground with frozen fingers to a shaky stand. He takes a step. Another. Blood roars in his ears.

The forest stays still.

Logan sinks to his knees and chokes on a scream.

He lost it. He’s completely lost it. Ten months of starving and two months of hell and he’s finally gone mad, because there is absolutely no way to describe the forest suddenly coming alive unless his mind’s as dead and gone as—

Logan slams his teeth down on his tongue. He tastes blood.

The fog and the trees and the eye-searing white are too thick to see anything, and even something as—as earth-shattering as that would have to be visible. It was an earthquake, or a hurricane, or a hallucination. People hallucinate from sleep deprivation. He’s had, what? A combined total of six hours this week? That's as good as three days, right? Right?

That’s all it was: a trick of the mind. Nothing a dreamless sleep can’t fix. He’s safe, he’s alive, and most importantly, he’s alone.

Logan shakes himself, shuffling backwards. The sack is someone else’s. It’d be wrong to take it in, even if the mere thought of reaching forward didn’t turn his stomach to ice. Perhaps a traveler left it, figuring it would be safe in the yard of a rotting house. Perhaps one of the locals dropped it, fishing for a debt to hold against him.

Perhaps it’s a gift, an aid someone gave him in good will.

He turns away and marches back to his house.

He doesn’t need it. There’s always a price to these things, and this time, Logan’s not going to be foolish enough to ignore it. He’ll figure—something out. His stomach may be burning a whole though his flesh but he’ll be fine. Fine.

All these months, and Logan knows his curse is to keep living.

~

Five days later, Logan’s storage grows bare, and his patience is running even thinner.

The bag stayed where he abandoned it, frozen in the early January snows. No one’s come to claim it—the thought that there’s no one to makes Logan’s stomach lurch—and it appears no one will. It sits, a dim grey against the snow around it. A hope of survival in a field of cold.

The snow piles up to his knees. Once, he stepped outside in an attempt to forage, and almost collapsed with exhaustion. He can only spend his days indoors, chugging his last bit of bone broth, huddling under every blanket in the house in an attempt to keep warm.

Logan’s out of options.

Some part of Logan’s mind finds it funny he could think he ever had any to begin.

The bag slams against his back as he heaves it over his shoulder, the last of his strength dwindling away with every trudge back to his house. He can already feel his gut churning with hot, blazing, want. But...Logan stops, ignoring the roar his stomach lets out in protest, and turns to the woods.

He stands there, alone in the cold winter snow, and stifles the urge to throw the sack behind him and sprint somewhere safe.

“Thank you,” he says, voice reverberating through the clearing.

No one answers, and Logan shoves down the relief that threatens to clog his throat.

His legs carry him back inside. His hands find his stash of firewood. His arms bring the food out and onto the fire.

He eats.

Cranberry sauce and venison, vegetables and cheeses, stale bread that melts in his mouth. His self-control flies out the window the second his hands are on the platter. All these months, and he could never quite convince himself that good food was going to stay on the table the moment he turned his back.

Self-control seems like a funny concept, now, considering Logan crawled back from the brink of death, considering he doesn’t even know if he’ll see the morning sun.

A taste of adrenaline, one he hasn’t felt since his wounds were fresh, threatens to cloud his mind.

He lets it.

He scours the house, finding the sturdiest cloth he owns and tying it in a bundle. He gathers good fabrics, thick rope, old leather, soft wool, and a pair of shears. He heaves it all to the edge of the clearing, before setting it onto the ground, and facing the unknown.

“Thank you,” he says, and this time, it almost feels like someone’s listening. “I...believe you have just saved my life.”

Logan’s mysterious benefactor, whether it be a generous human, conniving Good Neighbor, or—Logan shudders at the memory of the forest groaning—that living earthquake, would hopefully be pleased with his offering. Gifts were always paid for, and though he didn’t have much, Logan would be a fool to ignore what people expected of good will.

At least after this, things might go back to normal, and Logan could continue his life the correct way: unbothered, uninvolved, and alone.

He turns his back to the forest, oblivious to the glowing violet gaze that watches him retreat, and hopes his payment will be accepted.

~

Of course, nothing in Logan’s demeaning existence could ever be easy.

He awakes the next morning to the offered bundle gone, and figures that’s the end of it. He replaces the pantries, triple-checking to make sure his rations are sealed, and freezes the perishables. All the while, he relishes in the warmth seeping through him, comfort enveloping his body from head to toe.

Life goes on.

With his new-found energy, he continues his work, stitching up the re-opened holes in his heart and furniture. All the while, the forest stays silent. It’s when he’s shoveling the snow from the dirt path that leads up to his house that he notices anything different.

Another bundle, this time wrapped up in a battered blue tarp, rests in the same spot as the last.

Logan walks over to it, feeling a familiar curiosity prickle his mind. He’s already explored one of these gifts, and despite the damage to his nerves, he’s still alive.

He peers inside.

It’s not a divination, or a bind, or any magical curse that reaches up and grips him, but the waft of fresh, juicy meat.

Logan blinks.

The display here is similar to the first, the only difference being the unfrozen meat and a few spices. Unlike the haphazard arrangement of the other gift—which Logan hadn’t noticed until after his first can of beans and few nights of good rest, anyways—every object here is organized, set in a way that feels almost...tender?

Beneath him, the bag begins to rustle. It takes Logan a moment to realize his hands are shaking.

There’s no heaving of the earth, trees cracking like thunder and the ground rumbling like the rolling of clouds. The only thing in the clearing is him, the bag, and the pounding of his own heart.

He doesn’t need more food. His rations are planned out to avoid making the same mistake. He’d be a little hungry, sure, and some days he might not have the energy to work, but he’d be fine.

He’s more than prepared to spend the rest of winter cold, hungry, and alone. Logan wouldn’t live, per say, but he’d survive. Isn’t that enough?

But...it’d be nice to have a back-up supply, just in case things another incident occurred and he found himself a few stumbles away from death. It’d be more than relieving to know he wouldn’t have to starve himself to make ends meet.

Logan tries to imagine leaving the bundle to rot, and his stomach churns.

It’s just a polite gesture, a courtesy he could decline at any time. He’d repay his debt again when the spring comes, and the need for a transaction will have passed.

And if his mysterious benefactor leaves a gift after this, wrapped up and waiting for Logan’s to offer his own then...He wouldn’t mind. Neighbors should be kind to another, shouldn’t they?

And if what lies deep within the forest, the rumbling that Logan grows more and more convinced wasn’t a hallucination, comes and reveals its true form with a howl and a tremor, then...

Well, he’d supposed he’d have an answer to the question keeping him up at night.

Maybe he should feel more than this, fear or anger or mortal terror at the thought of being so close to an end.

He twists the loose flaps of the tarp shut, heaving the bundle over his shoulder.

Nothing he hasn’t felt before.

It was good for the living storm to intervene when it did. Otherwise, Logan might’ve found some other way to make his own demise.

At least now, a Croft grave won’t come from an uncaring wind.

Logan carries the gift inside, and feeling a strange sort of peace wash over him.

 “Because emo nightmare!” Roman slung an arm around Virgil’s shoulders, ignoring the glare he was receiving. “We’ve made a breakthrough on project Dime!”

 Virgil had just pushed Roman’s arm off of him when Roman exclaimed the news and his eyes widened. “What? Are you serious?”

 Roman laughed and grabbed Virgil’s hand as he led him through the labs. “Yes! Now come on! We’ve been waiting on you before we test it!”

 Virgil allowed himself to be dragged into the Dime Project lab. When they arrived, he noticed the large ray pushed slightly into the corner, with a smaller one now taking up the center of the room, covered by glass and pointed down at the table. Roman finally let go of Virgil’s hand and ran over to grab the tablet, handing it to Virgil.

 “What’s with the scale model?” Virgil asked as he took the tablet, quickly scanning the information on the screen.

 “It’s how we’ve decided to test it. We made a smaller version to try and pull something smaller over.” Roman paused for a moment. “And to make less of a mess if it fails.” Virgil hummed, agreeing with that.

 His eyes continued to scan the documents. “So...you want to try and bring over a borrower? Why?”

 Roman grinned. “It was my idea of course and because of several reasons. First of all, borrowers are small enough for our test. And we have a clear image of them because they exist in fictional form in our dimension. And they’re completely harmless. If we tried with any animal or other mythical creature we could run into some trouble. But a borrower is just a human but small.” Roman explained. Virgil nodded, following along.

 “And borrowers can talk, so they could give us information about the dimension they came from.” Virgil added on.

 Roman grinned. “Exactly!”

 Virgil put the tablet down, heading over to the machine. He nodded in greeting to the other couple of scientists surrounding the main system. “So, we’re all prepared to test this thing?”

 Roman came up beside him. “Just about. We just gotta hook onto a signal and then we’re golden!”

 As if on cue, one of the other scientists exclaimed. “We found it!” Roman and Virgil went over to the monitor, seeing the spike of activity.

 “Perfect! Then we are ready!” He turned to Virgil, motioning with his hands. “On your command, Dr. Lead scientist.” He teased. Virgil rolled his eyes but smiled. This was it, their big moment.

 “Goggles on.” Everyone followed his lead, placing the goggles over their eyes and lowering the glass down so the laser was contained to a small square. “Alright...start it up!”

 Buttons were pressed and a whirring sound indicated that the machine had started. It got louder and louder, the laser building up with energy and light before suddenly shooting down. It got so bright, that even with their goggles on, the scientists had to turn their heads. Only allowing themselves to look again when the light died down.

 Virgil’s eyes widened as he pulled his goggles slowly off his face. Kneeling on the once empty table, was a small humanoid figure.

 “It worked.” Virgil whispered, shocked. 

 “Amazing.” He heard Roman mutter next to him.

 As he continued to watch the figure, the borrower, it seemed to finally gain its bearing and take notice of where it was. Its eyes widened and as it connected eyes with Virgil, it became panicked. Virgil bit his lip, his heart going out to the little guy. But still, they weren’t here to hurt him. The little borrower would be fine.

 “I’m marking this down as a giant success!” Roman exclaimed as he grabbed the tablet once again, furiously writing down more information. “At this rate we’ll have portable Dimension Watches in no time!”

 Virgil chuckled, turning away from the borrower. “Easy Princey. We still have a long way to go before that sci-fi fantasy becomes real.” He turned back to the borrower. “But we are one step closer.” Virgil noticed the borrower seemed to be having trouble breathing and decided that was enough standing around. 

 “Roman, I gotta look some more things over but we need to move the borrower. Can you take it to Logan to prepare while I finish up here?” Virgil asked.

 Roman grinned. “Of course! It would be my pleasure!” Roman, of course, was excited to see the little thing up close. 

 “Great.” Virgil took the tablet from him. “I’ll try to be quick. Make sure you fill Logan in and try not to traumatize the borrower any further.”

 “I’ll try my best.” Roman said, knowing that was much easier said than done. Roman came over to the table, picking up the glass case with the borrower inside. “Come along little borrower, you’ve got an appointment with Dr. Logan!”

 Virgil watched the two leave, not missing the terror on the little borrowers face at Roman’s words and proximity. He did feel bad. After all, the little borrower got pulled from his home so suddenly, with giant strangers no less. Also, Virgil was pretty sure the borrowers whole thing was that humans weren’t supposed to know they existed, which kind of made this all worse.

 Virgil did feel bad but hopefully after some explanations the borrower would understand he was in no danger here. And Logan and Roman could take care of that, right?

 Right?

 Virgil paused for a moment.

Patton could have smacked himself. Had he really forgotten to tell Roman? What else might he have forgotten? “Yes, Virgil, that’s um, well that’s the name of the lil’ guy. Sorry, I meant to tell you that… he also really, really doesn’t like to be touched. You haven’t grabbed him, have you?”

There was a long pause on Roman’s end. “No.”

Patton sighed, rubbing at his temples. “Just- okay, don’t do it again, and apologize, probably. And he likes pancakes.”

“Well, ah, I would, although I sort of doubt he wants to see me at the moment…” Roman explained slowly. “Last time I entered your room I got cussed out.”

“What? Really?” Patton frowned. That didn’t sound like his little scared Virgil. Patton didn’t know if he wanted to hear what Roman could’ve done to earn such a reaction.

Patton jumped, suddenly distracted by a round of loud shouting from the other room. 

“MOM MAY BE A BITCH BUT YOU’RE THE FOOL WHO MARRIED HER!”

“THE APPLE DOESN’T FALL FAR FROM THE TREE!”

Patton bit his lip, trying to decide if he should even bother trying to keep them away from each other’s throats at this point. It seemed he just kept making things worse, always getting accused of taking sides no matter how impartial he stayed.

“...Sounds like things are going great on your end as well.” Roman awkwardly chuckled.

“Yeah, uh, I should probably get back and mediate.” Patton cringed, but he made no move to do so. “So what about your lil’ guy? How’s he doing?”

“He’s doing alright.” Roman explained. “Both of them were very cold when I got back, the heat got shut off.”

“Oh no!” Patton gasped.

“Oh yes.” Roman said mournfully. “But it’s alright, they’re warming up. Virgil seemed no worse for wear; mine’s a bit under the weather, he’s been passed out on my chest all day.”

“Aww.” Patton at least got a happy chuckle at that image. “That sounds so adorable, I wish I was there.” He grimaced as a smashing sound from the other room- he wished he was anywhere but here, actually.

--------------------------------------

“Oh, hold on, he’s waking up.”

Logan let out a soft yawn, trying to remember what was happening. He was still exhausted in his bones, but his mind seemed to have decided it was time to be awake. Logan was against this decision, determinedly nestled further into the warm surface beneath him.

Roman covered his mouth, overwhelmed with a sense of awe at how adorably sleepy Logan was as he cuddled into his chest.

“I’ll call you back.” Roman whispered into the phone, hanging up and carefully setting his cell phone to the side to not jostle the tiny. Roman brought his hand up, gently brushing Logan’s back. “Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

Logan groaned, recognizing the teasing tone. He blinked his eyes open, taking in his surroundings. What…why was he out in the living room again? And- Logan felt his cheeks turn a bit pink, realizing that the surface he had been nuzzling into moments ago was Roman himself.

Roman laughed, watching at the tiny frantically pushed himself, looking quite embarrassed. Before Logan could stumble right off Roman reached out, scooping Logan up in his palm and sitting up further.

“I had no idea you were such a little cuddler.” Roman teased, bringing Logan closer to his face. “If I had known, I would have done this sooner.”

Logan growled, pushing Roman’s nose away when it came forwards to nuzzle his chest. What a positively tedious way to wake up, if only because he knew Roman wasn’t going to let this drop anytime soon.

“At least you seem to be looking better.” Roman relented his touching, giving Logan a slight break. His face fell, remembering the image of Logan shivering helplessly at the bottom of the cage. Roman gave a little shiver of his own. “You really scared me back there.”

Logan was of the opinion that it was Roman’s own fault. If he was truly so concerned, he wouldn’t have left Logan alone. Indeed, the borrower had a strange phenomenon occur over his brief period of alone time. He had found himself… missing Roman. Logan attributed that to the fact that when the human was around, Logan was never bored, for better or worse.

Not to mention, Logan wasn’t feeling right in the head.

“You do feel warm though.” Roman murmured, moving his thumb to Logan’s forehead. The tiny squirmed weakly, and the lack of a true protest was just another indicator that Logan was ill. “Alright, let’s get you some tea.”

Logan let out a squeak, startled as he was suddenly placed in Roman’s pocket. He tried to struggle, but Roman just wrapped his hand around and kept him gently contained. Logan gave a tense sigh, trying to relax as he heard Roman moving about. He vaguely remembered being in this pocket before… what happened yesterday? Did Roman take him somewhere?

Roman hummed to himself, carrying out the delicate balancing act that was attempting to craft tea one-handed. What sort of tea would Logan like? Did tiny people even drink tea? Well, there was only one way to find out, seeing as how Logan certainly would not answer him if he asked.

The human prepped the kettle, waiting for it to make a noise that it was ready. The high-pitched shriek seemed to startle Logan, who jumped.

“It’s alright.” Roman assured him, brushing his shoulder with his thumb to remind Logan he was there. “Just the kettle.” He poured some into a little teacup, putting in a bag, some honey and an ice cube for good measure. It wouldn’t do for Logan to burn his tongue.

“Here you are.” Roman set the cup and the tiny person on the table, stirring his own mug. “Please be careful, it’s hot.”

“I can see that.” Logan rolled his eyes. Steam was still rising from the cup at an alarming rate, but slowly it looked more manageable. Still, Logan approached the mug with caution. Ever since coming into Roman’s care he had consumed a variety of warm foods, but never a warm beverage. Once he felt comfortable enough drinking it, the beverage was indeed quite soothing.

Logan looked up, only to see Ro staring at him. “...what?”

“Nothing.” Roman poorly hid a grin behind his own cup. “How are you feeling?”

And then, it suddenly all clicked in Logan’s foggy brain. His breath hitched, realizing what he had just done: