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edupunkn00b · 6 months

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A Light in the Darkness

Photo by Johanes Plenio via Unsplash. Color and tone edited.

Logan finds a light in the darkness when he needs it most. It leads to more than he ever thought possible.

WC: 2617 - Rated: G - [ AO3 ] - CW: fear, minor injury, blood mention, past major character death referenced, ghosts, happy ending Written for @houser-of-stories as part of the @tss-october-ghostwriters gift exchange for. I hope you enjoy it! I had fun writing it! -

“Keep running, freak!”

Taunting laughter filled Logan’s ears as he stumbled deeper into the dark forest. He tripped on a rock but kept his footing and continued to run. Heedless of the thorns that snagged his hair and his clothes, heedless of the cold. Heedless of the villages’ stories of the ghosts and spirits who guarded the woods.

The trees grew thicker here, wide long branches crowding out the nominal path. The prickly pines tore at his ragged sweater and threatened to snag his third-hand spectacles from his face. He stopped, yanking hard to free himself from the gnarled grip of one sharp-spined bough. The voices, his friends’ voices—former friends’ voices—grew louder and he gave one more hard pull on his sleeve. The yarn snapped and the branch took a bit of his skin in trade, but he surged forward.

Loose soles on his worn boots flapped. One caught on a tree root and he slammed down on one knee. Cold, flickering light from the mob’s lanterns shone through the trees. Logan watched their shadows loom over the thicket.

He’d lost the path.

Again scrambling upright, Logan limped forward and dove into the thick underbrush. He dodged to the left, then the right. The shadows grew shorter. The men drew closer.

A dark mass, a boulder or maybe a massive tree trunk, blocked his path. It swallowed up the dancing lantern light, a flat, empty darkness.

Whatever it was, Logan ran toward it.

Shouted swears as the mob hit the thicket echoed against the trees. “You made me rip my favorite pants, freak!” Someone shouted. The blacksmith. Perhaps the shopkeeper. Enraged, they all sounded the same.

Logan hoped to hide behind the mass, definitely now a boulder—he could just make out a bit of the grey treeline above it. As he drew nearer, though, he discovered it wasn’t merely a boulder, but a gap in the rocky foothills on either side of the forest. A cave.

Bears lived in these woods. Bats, too. Worse, if the stories were true.

Given what Logan knew about the villagers’ stories about him, though, he doubted the veracity of many of their stories.

A rock exploded against a tree only a dozen yards to his left.

“We see you!” a voice jeered as another rock struck the same tree. “Fucking tall ass freak!”

The chance of a bear beat the certainty of the mob, so Logan darted into the cave.

He slowed as soon as he passed the threshold, the utter darkness within making the forest feel brightly light. The tiniest glint of lantern light at the cave’s mouth was the sole evidence flames had ever existed. Shivering, he inched deeper into the cave, stepping toe-heel. Relief flooded his veins when the grating voices faded, the last glimmer of lamp light absorbed by the dark stillness of the dark stone. The cave was cold and dry, his own breathing roared in his ears.

He was alone. He was safe.

Fear-fueled strength waning, Logan sank down and crouched against a mostly smooth divot in the wall. Knees hugged to his chest, he worked to slow his breathing, ignoring the ache in his knee and shin for now.

For now, he just listened.

Save for several breathless moments when the men tromped past the entrance, the cave was dark and silent. Even that moment was brief and it appeared the mob gave up their pursuit.

Logan had no way of knowing how much time had passed, nor how easily sound from within the cave might spill out into the forest, but eventually the throb in his leg could no longer be ignored. Moving as slowly and quietly as he could, he stretched out his injured leg to assess the damage.

Blindly prodding, he found a gash below his kneecap and another above the edge of his boot. The rest appeared to be simple bruising. Nothing was broken, but he would need to clean the wounds so that infection wasn’t his next big problem.

Logan shivered, stifling a humorless laugh. Expulsion meant he’d never need to have that argument again. Not in this village, at least. He shifted again and a warm trickle down his leg told him his current big problem was blood loss.

Feeling around the cave floor turned up little more than a few dried leaves and pebbles. He raised a handful of the tiny dried bits to his nose. Yarrow. He stretched to gather more, then ripped his pant leg from ankle to knee. Wincing, he pressed as much of the dried yarrow over his wounds as he could stand. It wasn’t perfect, but was better than continuing to bleed.

He let his head fall back against the wall with a little thud and a sigh. Eyes squeezed shut, he shoved away the pain to consider his next steps.

It was possible the mob would simply wait him out at the edge of the forest, counting on hunger or the cold to drive him back to the village. Even if they hadn’t torched his home, return was not an option.

Under cover of darkness, this little cave was a sanctuary, but in the harsh dawn’s light, it could quickly become a cage. Though tempted to rest for a few hours before heading out in search of a more permanent safe space, Logan was self-aware enough to admit that, in this weakened state, there was little guarantee he’d actually wake before dawn. The fear of waking to the raucous voices of the mob, their lanterns in his face, shook him from his drowsiness, the imagined gleam of their torchlight snapping open his eyes.

The light, however, had not been imagined.

An arm’s reach away, just above eye level, floated a glimmery ball of light. It shone a soft blue, the color of the sky at mid-day. The color of his late father’s eyes.

The color of hope.

Logan stared at the light for a long moment before shaking himself. Was he dreaming? Pushing up to his feet, a groan escaped his lips at the jolt of pain in his leg. The light flickered, then rose, again just above his eyes.

Fuzzy memory brushed at his mind, an old story his father read to him before (and well after) he could read for himself. Mythical fables of tiny lights that would guide the hopeful, the virtuous, the hurt and the needy home.

“You know I can’t return to my home,” he said aloud to the little light. Sharp laughter edged his voice, shame at his own foolishness. He’d been homeless for far longer than when this village, too, turned on him for his strangeness. Alone in a cave and talking to an imagined ball of light, could he blame them?

Almost in response, the light shifted and a second light sprung to life a few feet from the first.

Instead of leading him toward the mouth of the cave and back out to the forest, it drew him deeper inside. Logan blinked at it. Did he really have anything to lose?

He stepped forward and the first light rushed forward, dancing around his head. “Alright, alright,” he chuckled, the bright blue light impossibly warm and cheery and filling him with… more optimism than he’d felt in a long, long, time. A third light sparked to life and he nodded. “It appears you have a plan,” he muttered. “Just—” he gasped when he stepped and put his full weight on his injured leg. “Just go slow,” he managed, one hand on the cave wall for support. “Please,” he added and the little light bobbed, like a nod, before drifting deeper into the cave.

Well after Logan had expected to hit the back of the cave, the lights continued, leapfrogging ahead each time he drew near enough to touch the closest light. One halting step at a time, he followed. When he stumbled, a fourth and fifth light sparked on either side of him, sharing their strange warmth.

“Thank you,” he murmured and let them guide him. Logan didn’t know how long they’d meandered through the cave and a high-pitched laugh bubbled up from the back of his throat at the image of himself limping in circles in the back of a dark cavern. Not long after that, the wall seemed to fall away, starlight and the thin pink light of dawn glowing beyond.

He managed one more step before falling forward. Logan was already wrapped in a dark blanket of unconsciousness when the lights caught him and laid him gently on the ground.

“Ohh, Jannie!” The familiar sing-song followed by an emerald glow at the edges of his vision was Janus’ only warning before Remus appeared in front of him. Shoulders shimmying, he levitated, one leg crossed over the other, a few inches above the wooden table where Janus prepared both meals and potions. The brilliant green of his eyes over-illuminated the grimoire in its stand as he stared expectantly at Janus. The apparition pouted when Janus didn’t look up. “It looks like Pattycake found another one! Out by the Gate.”

“Hm, really?” Janus graced him with a single eyebrow raise before returning to his work. It wouldn’t’ve been the first false alarm—or outright prank—the spirits in his charge had brought to him. He finished his current sentence before pulling the ink closer to the page.

“Yes, really!” Remus huffed and the lid to Janus’ inkwell popped into place, blocking his quill. “Pattycake says this one’s important, too.”

Full attention drawn, Janus laid down his quill and met Remus’ translucent eyes. “Important?” he murmured.

“Mm-hm… Important and alive, just like you.” Remus’ grin didn’t last. When he dissolved only to reappear next to the cottage door, his eyes were serious. “But maybe not for long.”

“I’ll get my bag.”

By the time Janus had gathered his bag and his cloak and pulled the heavy wooden door shut behind him, Remus had already found Virgil. The pair were exchanging their typical morning greetings, cat’s claws buried in the thick bark of his oldest alderwood. His hiss cut short the moment Janus appeared and started down the path.

Virgil shifted and leapt from the branch to join him, eyes drawn to the medicine bag in his hand. “You’re not headed to the village, are you? Things are… tense down there.”

“That says a lot coming from our resident scaredy cat,” Remus laughed, not bothering to corporate.

“Tense?” Janus asked, ignoring the friendly barbs. "How so?”

Giving Remus nothing more than an eye roll in response, Virgil shrugged at the witch. “The usual ‘you’re not like us so you have to die bullsh—”

As though summoned by the curse, one of Patton’s will o’ the wisps blipped in front of him and Virgil nodded. “Sorry, Pat.”

Shaking his head at the predictable antics, he pointed down the path from his cottage. “Is he still down by the gate?”

In answer, the will o’ the wisp buzzed half-way down the path before pausing. Janus would need to wait until they were all back in the cottage before Patton could speak to him, but for now, the dual message was clear.

“Yes, and hurry up!”

Logan dreamt. He was a child again, small enough to comfortably curl up in a nest of blankets in front of the hearth. He watched as his father stirred the big iron pot, metal ladle clanging gently against the sides. The pot bubbled, full of a broth or stew or perhaps even the dumpling soup he liked… whatever it was, it smelled wonderful.

The fire crackled gently in the fireplace, close enough to warm him, far enough that he had no fear of sparks. His father had always known just how close to let him settle in. The blankets were thick and soft, softer than in his memory, even. They smelled of sage and lavender and black pepper. A tiny black cat curled near his leg, purring gently.

His father hummed as he cooked, an old lullaby he used to sing when Logan was feverish or had woken from a nightmare. He smiled as he dropped a handful of herbs into the simmering water, the fragrant smoke wafting through his shimmering blue hair.

Eyes wide, Logan sat up. “Papa?” Rough and cracking, his voice was low. The voice of a man, not that of a little boy. Hands shaking, he reached up and felt his own face. Two-days worth of stubble scratched his palms, and his fingers were rough and calloused. But he couldn’t deny the evidence of his other senses. “Papa, is that you?”

“Logie…” His father turned and before Logan could blink, was at his side. He smiled, bright and bold, his front cuspid cracked, just like Logan remembered. His entire form was edged in a faint blue, the same shade as the lights Logan had seen in the cave, he held his hand. Wrapped firmly around his, his father’s hand was warm and tingly, sending the hair on his knuckles and his arm on end. “Of course it’s me, Logie,” he murmured in the voice Logan thought he’d never hear again.

“Papa,” Logan clung to him, eyes squeezed shut. He felt real. He felt warm and safe. Familiar broad shoulders, big, fleshy muscles, thick curls tickling Logan’s cheek.

He felt like home.

“Papa, the town, they—” Tears choked out the rest of his words and he cried hot, shameful tears. “I—̛I was alone. I couldn’t fend them off, I—”

“You’re safe, now, Logie,” his father whispered. “You’re not alone anymore. You’re safe here.”

“But you’re—” He couldn’t force the word past his tight throat. “I buried you, Papa,” he finally managed to whisper, squeezing the hand in his.

“I know. And you were so strong.” His father’s hand cupping his cheek, Logan melted against it, just like he would when he was nothing more than a child. “It’s really me, Logie. Just… just a little different now.”

“But…” It was impossible. His father had… “But how?”

His father’s eyes shifted and Logan turned to follow his gaze. A man, a plain, ordinary man stood in the corner. He wore a heavy black cloak, his face half-hidden in shadow. A crooked smile fought its way to the light, the flicker of the fireplace giving him an animated expression. “Logie, I’d like you to meet my friend, Janus.”

The man stepped forward, hand outstretched. He quickly flipped it over, palm up, but not before Logan caught sight of the runes tattooed across the back of his hand.

Before he could think better of questioning the hospitality of the man his father described as a friend, Logan blurted out, “You’re a witch?”

“You got a problem with wiccans, Stretch?” A cloud of green formed inches from his face, molding before him into a wild pair of eyes above a manic grin.

“Smooth, Remus,” spat the cat by his shin and Logan’s eyes whipped back to it and stared.

“Y—you speak?”

The cat stretched and kneaded the floor, claws carefully tucked inside its paws. Logan blinked and a young man dressed head to toe in black wool suddenly sat hunched in the cat’s spot. “Of course I speak.” His smirk and the dark eyes flashing warmly heavy bangs belied the otherwise hard tone. “Don’t you?”

“Oh, Kiddo…” His father squeezed his hand and nodded to the witch. They both watched as he filled three bowls with dumpling soup. Stunned, Logan leaned against his father and accepted the first bowl.

“Eat up, Logan,” the witch murmured with another half smile as he passed a bowl to the man-cat, cat-man… Whatever it was. “We have a lot to explain.”

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