Chapter Text
“So you’re finally learning how to be a normal witchlet, are you?”
Hunter glowered at Darius, who merely chuckled under the attentions. “Tell me,” he continued when Hunter didn’t dignify the (mostly rhetorical) question with a response, “who is the lucky witch?”
Hunter’s lips remained stubbornly closed.
“Well, then, perhaps I can guess. I am no Oracle, but a certain young plant witch by the name of ‘Park’ comes to mind…”
The red of Hunter’s ears as they pinned back against his head was sufficient to tell Darius he had struck upon the correct answer. As if there had been any doubt.
“I far prefer you coming to me with concerns about dressing up for parties than when you used to come to me concerned that there might be moles in the emperor’s closest allies.” Darius sipped delicately at the floral tea he had prepared for the two of them, and which Hunter had largely ignored as he had begged Darius for his help to find the perfect outfit for Grom. “Not least because I in fact was one of these moles.”
“Does that mean you’ll help me?” Hunter asked, his mortification lost in eye-widening hope.
“Well, you certainly need it,” Darius murmured against the rim of his cup. “Yes,” he added so that Hunter could hear. “Yes, I will help you.”
Relief and delight passed over the boy’s face and he poured forth his profuse and sincere thanks. It would have been amusing if it hadn’t been so tragic.
Darius had fought rather hard to try and convince Hunter to live with him as things began to once again settle down following the ousting both of Belos and the Collector from the Boiling Isles. He had a lot to make up for, after the way he had treated the boy during the emperor’s reign. Though he had never stooped so low as to actually attempt to hurt Hunter – unlike, he knew for a fact, Kikimora and Mason the head of the Construction Coven – but he had still been viciously sarcastic towards someone to whom he had owed only concern and kindness. He had been a minor, and so much more susceptible to the manipulative methods of his uncle than those adults who had willingly fallen into the lies, had ignored the red flags to further their own ends. Yet still Darius had openly sneered at the boy, at his earnest attempts to help – though it was to help a monster – at what he had thought ignorance but which had also proven itself to be a heart-breaking sort of innocence.
And then, after that debacle with the airship and those Hexside kids, seeing something of worth in someone he had otherwise written off, Darius had been made to admit just how wrong he had been. And as he had grown to know Hunter for his own sake, over the course of a few sewing lessons and more sociable meetings between him, the boy and Eber, he had come to like Hunter a great deal.
So if, Darius had reasoned following his release from puppet form, he could provide the boy with something, anything – advice, temporary or long-term shelter, money or food or clothes – then he would at least begin to pay Hunter back for all the mistreatment. Darius would never forgive himself, but at least he could mitigate in some wise his guilt.
He had had mixed feelings upon discovering that the human had beaten him to the punch, and that she was far more comfortable expressing her wishes in unambiguous terms. If the family had seemed less completely wonderful – and if Darius had thought that somehow he would make a better parent than someone who already had the care of two children – he might have fought harder. As it was, he did do slightly open battle with Camila Noceda, pointing out that the human realm was alien to one who was a native to the demon realm and that Hunter would find it much easier to remain in the Boiling Isles.
But at the end of the day, it had been Hunter’s decision. Which had been somewhat mitigated by the fact that Hunter spent a goodly amount of time at Darius’ home continuing their sewing lessons, meeting up with old friends – Eber and Steve in particular – or, as in this case, asking for help that Darius was better placed to offer than Camila Noceda.
“We can go out next weekend,” Darius offered, trying very hard not to allow any excitement to leak into his voice. “I know all the best places, of course, and they know me. Perhaps we should go out and get some ideas, although honestly, there’s something to be said for a fully hand-crafted suit…”
Hunter stuttered something about ‘too much work’.
“I shall be the judge of that,” Darius corrected smartly. “There isn’t a great deal of time. But I would rather perish than have a protégé of mine anything less than presentable for such an important occasion.”
Darius was a busy man, but for the rest of the workweek, in amongst his teaching commitments, his social engagements, his research with Alador into creating the sigil-erasing machine and all the other calls on his time, he somehow managed to carve out a precious few hours sketching a couple of ideas for Grom suits.
Hunter was early to their appointment. Because of course Hunter was early to their appointment. Darius opened the door and ushered the boy in, just about repressing a sigh (though it was mostly fond) as he asked whether he wanted any drinks, and had he had some breakfast? “We have a lot to do today,” he explained. “We don’t want you swooning away.”
“I ate.”
“Some bean blood before we go?”
“No, thank you.”
“Perhaps we shall grab something whilst we’re out.”
Hunter nodded. “Oh, Mrs. Noceda said she wanted to talk to you about money. I’ve been doing some chores for her and she’s very kindly paid me, but I don’t think it’s enough for a full suit, so I’ve promised to do more chores for her in the future to work off the rest.”
Sometimes, the boy said such utterly strange things it genuinely stole the words from Darius’ mouth – and he prided himself on being a particularly silken-tongued individual. (He had once talked Hettie Cutburn into refraining from murdering him.) Such an occasion was this, where he was left hopelessly staring at Hunter’s blithe expression, completely unaware that he was being a very strange child.
“Titan, little prince!” (This exclamation was usually sufficient to restart his brain after Hunter had kicked all control from it.) “Talking about money… So uncouth! Of course, since you came to me for the help, I rather assumed I would be footing the bill.”
This had the predictable result of painting horror over Hunter’s features. “Th-that wasn’t what I…! N-no, Darius, I was going to…”
Darius waved his hand as though ushering the concerns over his shoulder and out of consideration. “Well, now that that’s settled, and if you don’t want anything to drink, perhaps we should make like the early bird and seize that worm?” Even he grimaced at his choice of words. Perhaps he had not yet recovered from that temporarily speechlessness…
Hunter wasn’t ready to drop the subject of snails, but Darius pointedly ignored all his protestations and swept from the house making indifferent observations about the weather and Hunter’s current (atrocious) attire to force the boy to give up.
(Another reason, perhaps, that he wouldn’t have made the best parent, Darius thought. He hadn’t the patience of that Noceda woman. But then, Eda Clawthorne, of all people, was raising a Titan. He couldn’t have been worse than the Owl Lady, could he? Titan, Alador, the hack, had three brats himself!)
Regardless of whether it was the right course or not, it did at least eventually have the effect of shutting Hunter up on the subject of purchasing his own Grom suit (this, really, was the absolute least Darius could do, with plenty of snails and only really himself to spend them on) and setting him, eventually, chattering on other subjects. To Darius’ immense surprise, he found himself rather enjoying the easy patter. Always before, casual chat would cause him to chafe after not too long. But there was something so refreshing in Hunter’s wide-eyed way of recounting his world that Darius slipped into his role as active listener with ease and contentment.
“… and my potions teacher says that I’m making good progress, too. It’s thankfully not too taxing on my magic, unlike plant magic, or even beast-keeping magic, so I think I can practice more, which might be why it’s going so well.”
“You’ve not dabbled in much Abomination magic?”
“A little. But it seems to require a lot of power, and, as yet, I just don’t have it.”
“There are little tricks of the trade, of course,” Darius cast out as though casually, though part of him was very keen to have Hunter see the subtle beauty that was Abomination magic. “Things to make it less taxing on the bile sac. Have you tried using pre-infused Abomination goo?”
Hunter shook his head, watching Darius’ face as closely as he could as they stepped along the slightly dusty streets of Skeletalshire, a far more upper-crust place to shop than dreary old Bonesborough.
“I understand that that hack, Professor Homunculus, doesn’t like the method, but it’s a perfectly legitimate one for those just starting out. Having pre-charged Abomination goo allows you to learn the sensation of handling and shaping and manipulating the material according to your will without spending a great deal of your own magic to do so. You can then use slightly less charged material at a later date. It’s like weight training: frequent repetitions and gradual increase is the key.”
Hunter’s eyes were shining by this point. “That sounds amazing! That would make it so much easier… Will you help me?”
Darius, who had rather been hoping that this request would be made, gave a gesture as though this was quite the burden, but he was grudgingly willing to help out such a helpless witchlet. “I suppose, since Homunculus will not…”
This seemed to give Hunter another boost, although he had started the day in good enough spirits that Darius was surprised he could fly higher.
It was about time the boy started smiling more than scowling. Even behind that mask (which still stopped Darius’ heart when he thought of it – it had never fitted Hunter as it had fitted his predecessor) it had been clear that the wearer wasn’t happy, that he didn’t let his guard down, that he neither expressed nor felt anything close to joy. And whilst Darius had got to know him before the Day of Unity, pricking his fingers over the practice sewing pieces he was given, Hunter hadn’t seemed… right. He had snorted and barked out scoffing appreciation of certain humorous things that were said, but he had never actually laughed. When he had smiled, it hadn’t reached his eyes. And he had certainly never seemed totally at his ease.
Now, his whole face expressed his mood; his body, too. And they expressed excitement, and delight, and gentle confusion, and mischief, and happiness more often, it seemed, than they expressed any sort of negative emotions. And it was wonderful to see. Whenever Darius was feeling like the re-building of the Boiling Isles was far too much work to be worth it, one look at Hunter being a normal teenager, spending time with his friends, wilting with longing for one Willow Park, arguing with his new sisters and attending school with all the good and bad things that attended that sorry (in Darius’ opinion) sort of normality… Well, it was enough to motivate him to get through the hardest of his days. It was worth it if it allowed people like Hunter to live without care.
(Not that his was a completely easy life. Darius still suspected his sleeping patterns were other than they ought to be, and although the therapy was doing a lot of good, there were still many overhanging traumas to work through. Still, the difference was marked.)
Darius steered Hunter first to a fashionable little café where bean blood and other hot drinks were sold along with painstries that, even on his strict diet, Darius very occasionally allowed himself, they were so good. He encouraged Hunter to choose one, though he insisted more than once that he had had breakfast (“You are a growing boy! And although Camila is doing a very good job fattening you up, you could still stand to gain a few pounds.”) and bought the two of them some fresh, hot bean blood. Then they stepped back out onto the bustling street, the main shopping thoroughfare of Skeletalshire, and discussed where to go first.
“Have you got an idea what you want?” Darius asked as they meandered along. “Colours, cuts…?”
The bewildered look that was turned his away told him plainly enough that this was not a topic taught in school, otherwise Hunter would have studied it as assiduously as potions and Buggish.
“Very well. It is often a good idea to do a visual survey of what’s on offer, anyway. You never know: you may see something and fall in love. And remember: you have to love it. There are no half measures with clothes. You have to feel wonderful, especially on such an important evening. If you fall in love and you think it’s not the right shape or a flattering tone, we can adapt. But find that piece and build from that.”
Although Darius felt he had explained this very well (especially considering it was very self-evident advice in his mind), Hunter looked, if possible, even more alarmed.
“Finish your drink,” Darius sighed. “We’ll head into ‘Skull Style’ first: they’ll have the best range so you can get an idea of what you might like.”
If Darius had been any less well-known to the owner of Skull Style, Hunter – scruffy, jeans-wearing, baggy-jumper sporting Hunter – might have been kicked out as soon as he had set foot in the boutique. It was well known amongst those in the know as the place for clothes of the highest fashion in all of the entire extent of the Boiling Isles. Every piece was hand-made and individual – nothing off the rack here – and fabricated by artisans at the very height of their artistic abilities. People were scanned as they came in to ensure that they had enough money just to be in amongst the delicate fabrics – if there were some drastic accident, the shop keep had to know that their reimbursem*nt would be forthcoming.
As it was, the few clerks working there – there was only one other customer on the floor at that time – turned their heads and, satisfied that at least one of the newcomers was one of the ‘right’ sort, returned to their work. One of them peeled away from the others to approach the potential customers.
“Darius!” A tall, willowy sort of demon, green-skinned and grey-haired and everything that was elegance, stepped towards him. His name was Favrius and he was the only one Darius trusted to dress him on his visits. “How wonderful to see you again.” Favrius’ eyes flickered to Hunter, but he did a good job of not looking too alarmed at the sight. “To what do we owe this pleasure? Another networking event, perhaps?”
“In fact, I am not shopping for me today.” Darius pushed Hunter forwards gently, watching the terrified expression on his face as he took in the articles lining the walls grow even deeper as he was presented for attention. “We are looking for a Grom suit.”
“You have certainly come to the right place,” Favrius asserted with a small bow, talking more to Darius than Hunter. “I am certain we can find something more than suitable. Please, this way.”
As Darius strode after Favrius, Hunter caught hold of his sleeve.
“I’m… not sure…”
“We shall just have a quick peek,” Darius reassured him gently. “This is more idea shopping than anything else. I have not exactly had time recently to be au fait with the latest fashions, so this shall be an essential re-introduction before a potential accident. We don’t want you turning up wearing last season’s designs!”
Offering the two of them some chilled apple blood (the softer stuff for Hunter) and a seat, Favrius clicked his hooves together and had a couple of the other clerks assemble, ready to fetch for contemplation what they had in stock.
“Before we begin,” Favrius murmured, “may I ask the young gentleman as to preferences?”
Hunter could not have looked more terrified if Darius had asked him to face off against twenty slitherbeasts at once armed with nothing but a stick.
Darius took pity on the boy. “A suit, I think – jacket and trousers. We’ll consider skirts and perhaps a dress or two. Bring me shirts, as well as ties and other accessories as you see fit. Shoes we shall probably get from Kobbler’s.”
Favrius bowed and gestured for the clerks to scurry off to work their magic.
Darius watched Hunter’s face as he was presented with item after item. In hindsight, it was probably all too much. Hunter had never been good at choices, and having too many options could end up paralysing him – no doubt because he had only ever been given one path by his uncle, and had never had to take decisions upon his own shoulders, especially not about what he liked or preferred. But though Darius scoured the expression that sat uneasily upon the boy’s features, he could see no germs of love such as those he knew touched his own face when he saw the right article. Nothing of all the (frankly beautiful) clothes that were draped and twirled and presented for his approval seemed to summon from him anything warmer than acknowledgement.
Finally, Darius decided to put the poor boy out of his misery. Coughing into his fist and standing, Favrius recognised the hint and, betraying no annoyance at the lack of sale, thanked his patrons and bowed them from the shop.
“I’m sorry, Darius,” Hunter muttered as they headed further down the street. “Honestly, it was all very nice. I wouldn’t mind…”
Darius cut across him. “‘Nice’ is an insipid word. Your Grom outfit must not be ‘nice’. It must be perfect. Now, remind me: what colour is your partner wearing?”
“Green.”
“Style?”
“Er… Dress?”
Darius strained a muscle refraining rolling his eyes. “Perhaps that was a rather hopeful question on my part. I should have asked the redoubtable Miss Park to send me a picture so I could match things up. Well, a colour gets us somewhere. I don’t suppose you happen to know the exact shade?”
“… Dark?”
Titan, this boy needed some lessons in fashion. Stupid Hexside and its limited learning opportunities.
“Well, green often goes with yellow or pink. Black and white are obviously options, too – I think you would look very smart in black – but grey might be an option depending on the exact hue your partner is wearing. Well! This gives us somewhere to start.”
But though they visited another five outlets famous for their quality and range, Hunter at no point was touched with the spark of genuine interest. It felt almost as though he were bearing patiently and politely with the work, as though Darius were dragging him all over kingdom come for his own sake, not Hunter’s. Though every time they left the shops, Hunter seemed to become himself again, and chattered and laughed and told stories, so Darius had to assume he was enjoying his company, just not the task.
Eventually, it was clear that Hunter was wiped out. Marathon shopping, Darius well knew, was something one had to train up to, and Hunter was as yet still a baby when it came to such matters. It was slightly frustrating, as Grom was drawing nearer, but Darius had plenty of money to make things go as quickly as they needed should they find the perfect outfit mere hours before the party began.
“Let us head back,” Darius suggested gently. “Come back to mine for something to eat, then I shall let you return to your mother.”
(Hunter as yet did not call Camila anything other than ‘Mrs. Noceda’. Darius, Eda, Raine and the other adults in Hunter’s life continuously referred to her as his mother in the hope that it would encourage him, finally, to do the same.)
Hunter nodded and followed Darius back down the thoroughfare.
The quickest way back home from Skeletalshire was through Bonesborough town centre. Here were the sorts of clothes stores that Darius wouldn’t be seen dead shopping at: mass-produced, sub-par cloaks and trousers, shirts made to last rather than to feel or look good, shoes that were more functional than beautiful… Bonesborough was where fashion went to choke to death and complain loudly in the process.
“Oh, wow!”
Darius turned, but at some point he had lost his charge from his side. Luckily, a six-foot tall shock of blond hair was difficult to lose track of, and he soon found Hunter once more, investigating something on a rack a few metres away. Pushing through the commoner crowd, Darius made his way over.
Hunter turned and presented for his consideration… the ugliest thing Darius had ever seen.
“Look, Darius!” Hunter was puffed up like a bird, his face all lightness. “It’s a jacket.”
“Is that what it is?” He murmured, deigning to pinch one of the sleeves between two fingers. Luckily, Hunter was too busy admiring his find to notice his companion’s lack of enthusiasm.
“It’s got flowers on it!” Hunter continued excitedly. “And it’s pink – you said pink would go with green! And the flowers are yellow, so they’ll go with Willow’s dress, too. Ooh, and look!” He showed off the lining, a loud, patterned affair of dark purple and glittering silver thread. (Whoever had created this had clearly never heard that plain linings should accompany patterned exteriors.) “It’s pretty!”
Before Darius could argue that, no, it wasn’t, Hunter had shrugged it on. He presented himself for inspection, throwing his arms out proudly and veritably beaming. “And it fits!”
It did not fit. At least, not properly. But the sleeves did at least reach down to his wrist when he put his arms to his side, and the chest wasn’t too narrow. Still, the waist would need to be pinched to give it some shape, and that bottom hem might need to be shortened…
Darius shook himself. Why on earth was he thinking about tailoring this mass-produced piece of crap? There was no way he was going to let Hunter go to prom so hideously attired!
But of course, there was no option. That joyous look all over his scarred face (far more scarred now, after his efforts to stop Belos), the brightness of his glittering eyes, the gap-tooth on full display, convinced Darius in spite of his better judgement. Yes, it was objectively the most hideous item of clothing he had ever seen in his life. But it was what Hunter wanted.
“Oh, very well,” he sighed, reaching for his purse. “Though I insist on making the alterations personally…”
