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Staying with Shiro was the best decision Keith ever made.
It was difficult at first. Keith was still skittish, unable to turn off his survival instinct that told him to suspect every action, no matter how benevolent. But as the weeks of winter passed and his wounds healed, that voice began to quiet for the first time since his father died, and Shiro had the patience of a saint when it was too loud for Keith to see reason.
Once he was healed enough to move around, Keith set himself tasks to pass the short days. He and Shiro built him his own bed, tucked by the fire against the opposite wall from Shiro’s; Keith patched up the walls of Black’s stable and strengthened the fence around the chicken coop; and finally, when he ran out of repairs to make, he set about making himself a bow.
He’d had one at home that had once belonged to his father. Obviously it was too dangerous to go back for it, but it still hurt to think of it. It was probably in the hands of one of the alderman’s sons now, or been burned to erase Keith’s existence from the village, or was rotting away in his dilapidated old shack.
It took some trial and error, but eventually he wound up with a bow that could bring down a deer if he aimed just right.
When spring came he started making his first forays into the surrounding forest, setting traps for small wildlife and practicing with his bow and handmade arrows. Shiro often accompanied him to gather reagents for his salves and poultices. He hadn’t done much trapping, he explained as they wandered through the trees, and couldn’t manage a bow with only one arm, so he did his best with his chickens and traded at the various villages he visited when he was called to heal.
For Keith, he either hunted or starved.
It was on one such excursion into the woods that Keith detected a soft, high pitched whining. He followed the sound, Shiro on his heels, until they found the source: a lone wolf pup, whining and pawing at the body of its mother.
Keith’s heart cracked at the sight. He remembered all too well the vigil he’d kept over his father, a full day and night, cycling between sobs, pleadings, and foggy detachment, until the other men of the village took him away to be buried, leaving Keith alone in the dark, empty house.
He’d exchanged a look with Shiro, who had given him a soft smile and a nod.
The wolf pup made a stuttering growl when Keith approached, crouched behind the unmoving form of its mother, but was eventually lured out by the pieces of jerky Keith kept offering it, until it allowed Keith to scoop it up into his arms.
“What are you going to name him?” Shiro had asked that night, and Keith blinked into the fire. The thought of a name hadn’t even entered his mind.
He appraised the pup in his lap. He was jet black, with the brightest blue eyes Keith had ever seen, speckled with gold if you got close enough to see.
“Well,” he’d said, “we can’t name him Black,” and Shiro laughed.
In the end they settled on the name Kosmo.
Kosmo grew fast. He followed Keith into the forest every chance he got, and when he couldn’t, he’d tackle Keith when he returned, too overjoyed to remember the commands Keith had taught him.
One warm spring night Keith noticed him sitting just outside the front door, staring up at the moon and the stars. As Keith watched, Kosmo tilted his head back and let out a long, mournful howl that made shivers run down Keith’s arms. Kosmo waited, ears pricked, then howled again. When that too went unanswered, he slumped to the ground with a disappointed sigh.
He was probably reading too much into it, but Keith’s chest ached all the same. Suddenly he was ten years old again, huddled in his drafty shack, jealousy churning in his gut as he listened to the wolves howl to each other through the forest, wishing he had someone, anyone, to call to.
He sat down in the doorway beside Kosmo. Then, only feeling a little bit like an idiot, he looked up to the moon and did his best approximation of a wolf howl.
Kosmo’s head snapped around, tilting this way and that as his ears flickered. Smiling at his adorable confusion, Keith repeated the howl. Echoing against the trees, it almost sounded like the real thing.
Kosmo’s head tilted, and tilted, and tilted. Then he suddenly leapt into Keith’s lap, enthusiastically licking his neck, and startling a laugh out of him.
Feeling eyes on the back of his neck, Keith glanced over his shoulder to find Shiro smiling softly at him.
As spring warmed into summer, the two of them worked to resurrect Shiro’s garden from its winter slumber. The hunting got better too– Keith was confident that they would have more than enough saved for when the snow returned.
It still felt strange to look towards the future and feel excitement rather than dread. It still felt strange looking towards the future at all. Before, Keith’s life had been day by day, a struggle to stay alive with what little he could scrounge up or some tiny charity from a soft-hearted woman in the village if he looked particularly pitiful. Then it was cold stone and hot irons and the bone-deep certainty that he was going to die.
But he hadn’t. Thanks to Shiro, he was still alive. And he didn’t intend to waste a single day.
It was late afternoon in late summer, the sunlight thick and golden as it shined through the branches. Keith wove through the trees, a bucket of river water in one hand and an armful of kindling under the other, trying to ignore the sweat dripping down his spine. It was only a little farther. ‘A little’ being half a mile, but still.
“We’re going in circles.”
Keith jerked to a stop, the water bucket banging painfully into his knees. The voice was dim, coming from some distance to his left, and he automatically shuffled a few steps to the right.
People came to Shiro’s cabin sometimes, seeking out his healing themselves rather than relying on letters or messengers. Keith made himself scarce whenever they did, worried about being recognized, of being dragged back to that cellar where they’d kept him before condemning him, and even more worried that Shiro would face the same fate for sheltering him.
Right now it was especially important that he didn’t get caught– his sleeves weren’t long enough to cover the brand on his right wrist.
“My pa said it would be here,” answered another voice as Keith considered his options. They were to his left, not ahead of him, so if he was quiet he might be able to slip past them and back home– “And we can’t go home until we get that salve from the healer, Ma said so.”
Well, there goes that plan. He couldn’t go home if these people were just going to show up there eventually. So he’d stay in the forest, lay low until dark, then creep back and wait for them to leave.
“We should go back to the river,” said the first voice, but didn’t get any further before a third interrupted.
“No. I know where we’re going. Come on.” The brush began to rustle, leaves and twigs snapping under their feet as the three continued. Not towards the cabin, but towards Keith.
He hissed a curse under his breath. They were far enough away for him to conceal his water bucket and kindling in the brush at his feet before throwing himself behind a wide tree trunk.
The footsteps and rustling came closer. Keith held his breath, waiting for the sounds to reach a point where he would have to slither around the tree trunk to stay out of sight.
“I don’t think it’s this way.”
“What do you know?” It was a snap, savage and biting. “My father gave me very specific directions.”
The voices were closer now, much closer, and Keith’s blood turned to ice.
They were voices he knew.
“My pa said–”
Jonas was rudely interrupted. “No one cares what your pa said! My father’s the alderman, he knows better than your pa!”
It was Griffin, the son of the man who took his whip to Keith’s back and locked him in that cellar, accompanied as always by his two favorite tag-alongs, Jonas (whose father had received a bite mark from Keith in that cellar) and Peter (whose mother had been the first to accuse Keith of being responsible for the black blood outbreak that killed her husband).
Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. They couldn’t see him– if the village found out that Keith was alive–
They were still bickering with each other. The voices split, going around either side of the tree Keith was pressing himself to. He had two options, up or down, and the first branch on this tree was too far to reach without jumping and risking a miss. So he dropped, flattening himself under the brush.
His lungs burned. He took a big, deep breath and went right back to holding it as the three figures emerged from either side of the tree, digging his fingers into the mulch beneath him to keep his hands from shaking.
From where he was he could only see their backs, but he didn’t need to see their faces. He remembered Griffin’s clearly enough, watching with undisguised glee as his father pulled cries and blood out of Keith that night, knee deep in the falling snow. His skin prickled with shivers, flashed hot, and prickled again. He could only pray that their arguing was loud enough to drown out the pounding of his heart in his chest.
“I still think we should go back to the river,” Peter was saying as the trio passed Keith’s hiding place. “Darrel said if we followed it we’d see the withered tree–”
“Which we did,” Griffin responded hotly.
“We saw a tree that was struck by lightning, that’s not the same thing.”
Griffin snorted and tossed his head. They were almost out of Keith’s sight line, almost there, he just had to stay still a few seconds longer, and–
Griffin’s eyes fell on the brush Keith was hidden under. Through the gaps in the leaves their eyes met, and Keith knew he was screwed.
“Hey!”
Keith burst from the brush and made a run for it, heading in the opposite direction of the cabin.
Footsteps thundered after him mixed with the shouts of the three boys. Keith couldn’t spare the breath to yell– he flew through the forest, dodging trunks and stumps on pure instinct, the setting sun bright in his eyes. If he could get far enough ahead he could lose them in the trees, and maybe they hadn’t seen him well enough to recognize him.
Instinct was good, but it wasn’t perfect. His toe caught on a tree root, sending him sprawling; he caught himself on his hands and turned the fall into a roll, ignoring the sting on his palms and his shoulder, and a few seconds later was back on his feet. But those precious seconds were all it took for someone to catch up and lock their hand around his skinny arm.
Adrenaline pumping hot in his veins, Keith whirled, throwing all of his weight into his fist. He felt Jonas’ nose crunch, saw the splash of red, then yanked his arm free and made it three more steps before being tackled to the forest floor.
“Get off of me!” He bucked, trying to throw the weight off of his back, but it did nothing to stop them from rolling him over, exposing his face to Peter’s wide eyes and Griffin’s narrowed, angry ones.
“Holy shit,” Peter said. “Is that Kei–”
“The witch,” Griffin snarled down at him. Keith retaliated by driving his knee into Griffin’s side as hard as he could. His breath left him in a pained gasp, and Keith tried to pull himself out from beneath them, but Peter had a firm grip on his shoulder, driving it into the ground until he felt the sharp edges of rocks and pinecones digging into him.
“You’re– supposed to be– dead–” Griffin said, wheezing. Over his shoulder Keith could see Jonas, holding his bleeding nose and muttering curses.
His blood was rushing in his ears. He swung a fist up, hoping to catch Peter off guard, but he caught it and pinned his wrist to the ground beside his shoulder. He tried again with his other hand, only for that one to be pinned by Griffin.
“Get off!” He thrashed, scraping his back raw against the forest floor, feeling every ridge of his scars throbbing in time with his heart.
Keeping one hand on Keith’s wrist, Griffin held out his other. “Jonas, give me your belt.”
It wasn’t really a belt, just a length of rope wrapped around his middle, but Jonas untied it and handed it over without comment, a cold glare locked on Keith. Panic welled up in his chest, scorching behind his ribs as Peter and Griffin worked together to bind his hands.
Shiro’s name was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t call for him, he couldn’t, they would just hurt him too, he couldn’t get Shiro hurt, so he turned it into a wordless roar as he continued to struggle.
Griffin pulled the rope tight. The fibers bit mercilessly into Keith’s wrists. Just like before. Just like the cellar. His breath came in sharp, fast pants as Griffin leaned down, bringing his face closer to his, and growled, “How did you survive?”
Keith didn’t think. He just did the first thing that popped into his head, which was to surge forward and knock his forehead against Griffin’s. It made the forest spin into a blur of green and brown, but Griffin was swearing, blood dripping down the side of his face, so as far as Keith was concerned it was worth it.
“James.” Peter was speaking softly, but it sounded deafening in Keith’s ears, focused only on what was happening around him. “We should take him back to the village. To your father.”
“No,” Griffin snapped back.
“What’s wrong, Griffin?” Keith heard his own voice from far away. His heart was in his throat, his chest too tight to breathe, and his blood ran hot under his skin until he feared it would melt. “That desperate to prove yourself?”
Griffin’s face twisted. It was no secret that Griffin craved his father’s position, the respect and power that came with it, and he’d never been subtle in his intentions to inherit it regardless of what the other villagers had to say. He raised his fist and slammed it against Keith’s cheekbone, snapping his head to the side with a burst of blood in his mouth. Keith spat it back at him, just as he’d done to Jonas’ father.
Rage boiling in his eyes, Griffin undid his own belt. Unlike Peter and Jonas, his was made of leather that he forced between Keith’s teeth, moving too quickly for him to try and bite.
“My father didn’t get it right the first time. This time, we’ll make sure the witch is really dead. Jonas, get over here.”
Leaves crunched as Jonas obeyed. Keith made defiant eye contact with Griffin and Peter; the former just glared back, while the latter at least had the decency to look away.
“Give him your belt, Peter.”
Peter, too, did as he was told. Keith’s hands were tingling and going numb from how tight the bindings were. His cheek hurt. And he was hot. So hot. Was it supposed to be this hot?
“You know what to do.”
The rope passed before his eyes. This was one of the options the villagers had discussed– hanging, flames, throwing him into the river to see if he sank or floated. He still didn’t know why Darrel had decided to leave him instead. Now it didn’t seem like it mattered. It wouldn’t be a long drop and a sudden stop, but it would be the rope all the same.
No. No. Keith resumed his struggling as the fibers scraped under his chin. This wasn’t the same as last time, when he’d been alone for so long and life was nothing more than a gray slog driven by the instinct to survive. He had a home now, and somebody who wanted him there, and Kosmo. He couldn’t die. He didn’t want to die. When the pressure began he sucked in the deepest breath he could through his nose and held it before the rope dug in.
The lack of air made everything sharper. There was loud keening in his ears. The canopy overhead spun in a swirl of green. The sky was getting darker. He felt every twig and rock as it dug into his back, into his scars.
All of it was drowned out by the heat. His blood was boiling, running molten under his skin. It drove him to dig his heels into the ground, to buck underneath the other boys’ weight, but none of it was enough to make the pressure lessen. His lungs began to burn in a very different way than his blood was. The forest was getting darker.
It burned. It burned, it burned, it burned.
Somehow, he heard the words when Griffin spoke, his lips moving in slow motion. “Good riddance, witch.”
His heart stuttered, and suddenly the heat burst from him in a wave of pain so intense his vision went spotty. Bright light flared behind the spots. Then the pressure was gone, sweet air rushed down his throat and into his lungs, and all Keith saw was red.
All three boys reared back from the witch as flames erupted, seemingly from nowhere.
Griffin’s sleeve was on fire.
He frantically patted out the flames as confusion replaced the vindication he’d been feeling only moments earlier. None of them had brought fuel or a way to ignite it, he was certain, so how were there flames licking the branches ten feet above their heads?
Once the cloth was merely smoldering and he was no longer in danger of burning, Griffin’s determination returned. His father had made a mistake leaving the witch in the snow, just assuming nature would do his job for him. Well, Griffin wasn’t his father, and mysterious flames or no, he was going to see it through to the end.
But his companions weren’t as brave as he was. Jonas stumbled to his feet, shouting, “Let’s get out of here!”, while Peter sat where he’d fallen, staring in mute shock.
Before Griffin could answer a black streak came barreling out of the woods. He barely had time to notice the angry growling that followed it before the wolf was tackling Peter to the ground, forcing a scream from his lips as it dug its teeth into his shoulder.
When the hell had Keith gotten a familiar?
“Leave this place!”
The voice suddenly booming through the trees made Griffin jump, and Jonas went ten shades paler.
“What the fuck was that?” Griffin spun in a circle, scanning the trees, but he saw nothing other than branches in the fading sunset. “What the–”
“Leave this place, or suffer the consequences!”
The wolf lifted its head from Peter’s shoulder with a snarl, blue eyes locked on Griffin as its white fangs dripped blood. Peter clutched his shoulder with a muffled sob as Jonah began shouting again.
“It’s the Devil! The witch summoned the Devil!”
“Flee!” The branches and leaves trembled as the unseen voice boomed louder than thunder. “Flee for your miserable lives!”
Jonas, that coward, turned and fled as commanded. Griffin clenched his fists, staring down at the wolf that had stepped off of Peter to advance on him. Its hackles were raised, teeth bared, growling like a demon summoned from hell.
He stared firmly into its eyes. Eye contact was a challenge with wolves, and if Griffin didn’t back down, eventually it would–
The wolf leapt forward with a snap of its jaws. Adrenaline surged through his body, and before he knew it Griffin had turned on his heel and taken off.
“Wait,” he heard Peter call after him, followed by stumbling footsteps. “Wait for me!”
Griffin didn’t wait.
Shiro felt sick.
His ears were ringing, and not just from the spell he’d used to amplify his voice. Guilt and fear and rage battled in his gut as he crashed through the underbrush to Keith’s side, where Kosmo was already whining and bathing his face with licks. Thank the gods for the wolf, who could hear Keith’s cries when Shiro couldn’t.
Shockingly, Keith wasn’t burned. His clothes weren’t even singed, despite the flames Shiro could’ve sworn he saw, and the sudden relief made his head swim. He’d been expecting the worst.
But unburned didn’t mean uninjured. He was still bound, dead leaves and clumps of dirt caught in his hair, with a swollen cheekbone and closed eyes. Kosmo whined and pawed at his limp body.
Swallowing hard, Shiro reached out his trembling hand and pulled the rope away from Keith’s throat. He had to bite his tongue when he saw the lurid red marks underneath; they would bruise, maybe even scar where the skin had split. But there was a pulse under his fingertips. Shiro let out a shuddering breath.
He didn’t know what he would’ve done if…
He shook the thought away. Now wasn’t the time. He needed to get Keith home.
As gently as he could, Shiro pulled the leather belt from Keith’s mouth, wincing at the deep grooves his teeth had left behind. Keith’s hands were already tinged purple when Shiro undid the rope binding them, leaving behind more rings of red rope burn.
“Alright,” Shiro murmured. “Let’s go home.” In an unsettling return to the night Shiro had found him in the snow, he hauled Keith’s body up and over his shoulder. His muscles started protesting almost immediately, but Shiro just ground his teeth and turned in the direction of the cabin, determined to get back before dark.
Kosmo followed close at his heels. Usually the wolf would be ahead, chasing whatever animals caught his eye or hunting for decent chewing sticks, but now he stuck by Shiro’s side, ears pricked and alert to every noise. His muzzle was still wet with blood.
By the time they made it all the way back to the cabin the golden light of afternoon had faded, replaced by twilight. Once again Shiro used his teeth to pull the string attached to the door latch, but this time when he staggered inside, he lay Keith to rest on his bed rather than the floor. Kosmo immediately jumped up next to him, as he did every night, and Shiro numbly went to fetch the things he needed.
Last time was easier. The injuries were worse, but he didn’t know Keith back then. He didn’t know how kind he was, how stubborn, how determined, how endearingly awkward he was sometimes. Now he knew what it felt like to not be alone. He could barely handle the various items he pulled from his cupboards with how badly his hand was shaking. A small, dark part of him wished he’d been more forceful with the attackers, used his magic to throw them against trees or feel like there was no air left in the forest, or that Kosmo had gone for the throat.
He hushed that voice. Keith was the one who deserved his attention right now, not them. With that, Shiro got to work.
He tended to his neck first, murmuring quiet words of healing as he applied soothing salves and poultices. The magic would hopefully heal any internal damage the rope might have caused. Then he moved to the bruise on his cheek, the rope burn around his wrists, and the scrapes on his palms. Keith slept on, but his breathing and heart were steady, so Shiro resolved not to worry about it quite yet.
Getting his shirt off of him to check his back was harder than it was last time. Eventually he managed it and got Keith flipped over, and a wince hissed through his teeth. The skin was scraped raw and red, and the skin had split in several places, oozing slow trails of blood. The cuts were small compared to the old scars, but they only made the scars more obvious, more painful.
He spent the most time on his back. Fresh wounds on top of old scars would hurt more, Shiro knew from experience, so he was liberal with his application of the salves and poultices, a few enchanted bandages for good measure, and pushed as much magic as he could muster into the wounds. The last thing Keith needed was more scars to remind him of how cruel people could be. He had enough.
“Alright.” Shiro sat back and rolled his shoulders, cracks running down the length of his spine. He’d been curled over Keith for a long time and darkness had fully fallen. He needed to get the fire built up, start some food for when Keith woke up, go and check on Black in the barn–
Kosmo whined and pawed at Keith’s shoulder. The wolf had been quiet since they got back to the cabin, but now, apparently sensing that Shiro was about to move on, he nudged and pawed at Keith’s side, trying to shove his nose underneath him.
“What is it, Kosmo?” Shiro’s voice sounded exhausted even to himself.
Kosmo whined again and headbutted Keith’s shoulder, then shot Shiro a pointed, expectant look.
“His back is all scraped up. It’ll hurt more if I move him again.”
The wolf whispered a quiet boof and repeated his headbutt.
“You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?” Shiro sighed.
Boof.
Well, the wolf hadn’t been wrong earlier when he’d started barking and jumping at the door like he wanted to break it down, and he had led Shiro to Keith, so Shiro did as the wolf wanted and carefully rolled Keith onto his back. And his breath caught.
He hadn’t noticed them on his arms or his neck or his back, obscured by the other wounds, but on Keith’s bare chest they were obvious. Burns. Not even a half inch wide, running in perfectly straight lines from his shoulders, down through the center of his chest, branching off to go down his arms to his palms, down his legs, up over his neck, disappearing behind the darkening bruises.
Shiro sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Kosmo was watching him with a surprisingly smug look for a wolf, but he paid it no attention. Slowly, Shiro reached out his hand and barely brushed his fingertips over the line going between Keith’s collarbones. Something sparked against his fingers. He snatched his hand back and just stared.
He knew this pattern. His mother had taught it to him. Usually they were invisible, but Shiro had seen and felt his magic travel them towards the brand on his wrist before the explosion.
Leylines. Keith had leylines. Those boys hadn’t tried to set him on fire– Keith had set himself on fire.
Keith was a witch.
For the second time, Keith was surprised to be waking up. For the second time, he didn’t wake to the things he expected, like the rough forest floor or the cold stone of a cell. For the second time he woke feeling warm, lying on something soft, and in less pain than he’d feared.
For the second time, he opened his eyes to Shiro’s fireplace, to the cabin, to home.
The one difference was Kosmo’s head resting on his chest, staring intently into his eyes. The second they made eye contact Kosmo scooted forward and started licking his face.
Keith huffed a breath that could’ve been called a laugh and raised one sore arm to scratch Kosmo behind the ears. His wrists had been wrapped in bandages that gleamed silver when the firelight caught them– Shiro’s magic.
A quiet gasp reached his ears. A moment later Shiro was at his side, kneeling by the bed so that they would be at eye-level, looking at Keith with such intense relief and concern that it made something behind his ribs ache. That could’ve also been the weight of a half-grown wolf pressing on them, though.
“Keith,” Shiro breathed.
“Hey,” Keith croaked back, immediately followed by a painful cough. Shiro was prepared– he pressed a warm cup into Keith’s hand, then once he had a firm grip on it, moved his hand to Keith’s upper back to help him sit up.
“Drink that,” he instructed as he let Keith lean against him. “It will help your throat.”
For once in his life Keith did as he was told. The liquid stung a little going down, but the warmth was soothing, and his throat felt less scratchy by the time he finished the whole cup. Shiro took it from him and eased him back down onto the pillow; his back stung against the sheets, and only then did he realize that he wasn’t wearing his shirt.
“What happened?”
Shiro’s throat clicked as he swallowed. Now that he didn’t need to hold Keith up his hand went to Keith’s hair, the way Keith had only just begun to allow, and threaded his fingers into it. He thought he was pretty relaxed already, but a few more of his muscles went lax at the touch.
“Kosmo heard you yell.” Shiro’s voice was quiet, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. The cabin was dark– it must’ve been past sunset. “He led me right to you. We scared those boys off and brought you home.”
Peeking down at Kosmo, still lying with his head in Keith’s lap, he noticed the brownish flakes clinging around his muzzle and couldn’t help the little smile. “Looks like Kosmo got some bites in.”
Shiro let out a soft chuckle. “He did.” A pause, then: “Did you know them?”
Keith’s muscles ached as he tensed back up. He felt exhausted, hollow, not hungry or emotionally, but like his veins had less blood in them, or his soul had shrunk. His voice rasped as he answered yes, and his fingers drifted to his neck. Shiro caught them before they could touch and sting.
“You’re alright,” Shiro said with a squeeze of his hand. He waited for Keith to let out a shaky breath before continuing, “Were they from your village?”
He nodded. “One of them was the alderman’s son. They were, uh, looking for you, actually. Wanted a salve or something.”
“But they found you first,” Shiro guessed, and Keith nodded again.
“They wanted– they wanted to, um…” He couldn’t quite get the words out. They wanted to finish the job. They wanted to kill me. They wanted me dead, again.
“I can imagine,” said Shiro, sparing him from having to finish the sentence. There was another pause, another moment of hesitation where Shiro’s eyes flickered, and Keith’s narrowed.
“What?”
“It’s nothing.” But his eyes moved away too quickly, and he started to stand up. “I should let you rest.”
Keith grabbed his wrist and held on tight. “No, what? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Suddenly his breath was coming faster. His heart pounded like it was trying to break through his ribcage. Shiro had never looked at him like that, like he was unsure, and Keith’s bones turned to ice.
Of course. How could he have been so stupid? Griffin and the others had been so close to Shiro’s home– if they came back, or found out that Shiro used magic, then they would come after him. It was too dangerous for him to be here. Shiro was so kind that he brought Keith back to heal him and didn’t want to tell him that he had to leave while he was still hurt. Or maybe he just remembered how volatile Keith’s temper could be and didn’t want to tell him that this was no longer his home–
“Keith.” Without him noticing Shiro had slid his wrist down in Keith’s hold until he could grip his hand again. “Keith, you need to breathe.”
Huh. Is that why his lungs were burning?
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here, but I need you to breathe.” He squeezed Keith’s hand hard, and for a moment he was back in the cabin where he could see Shiro’s worried eyes before the panic swallowed him up again.
Too dangerous, have to leave, going to be alone again–
A heavy weight settled over his chest. It forced the breath out of him, and when he instinctively breathed in again, the haze diminished enough for him to realize that it was Kosmo, lying across his torso and licking his cheeks with intent. Something on his skin stung under the wolf’s fur.
“Can you hear me?” Shiro asked, still holding Keith’s hand. Keith managed a nod, and Shiro smiled. “Good. Keep breathing just like that. Neither of us are going anywhere. I promise.”
It was several long, excruciating minutes before Keith stopped feeling like he was being chased by a bear. All the while Shiro and Kosmo sat with him (or on him, in the wolf’s case) until his breath slowed to a normal pace, leaving him even more bitterly exhausted in its wake.
“I just wanted to ask you some questions,” Shiro explained gently as Kosmo settled his head down on Keith’s chest again. “But I didn’t want to overwhelm you when you just woke up.”
“Oh.” His throat was hurting again, and he let his heavy eyes fall closed, but he didn’t let go of Shiro’s hand no matter how bad it made the scrapes sting. “What did you want to know?”
Shiro’s thumb dragged across the back of his hand. “Do you remember the fire?”
Keith frowned. “No? I mean, I felt hot, but I thought it was just the adrenaline or– or something.”
Wait… if there was a fire…
He forced his eyes open again. “Did they try to burn me?”
Shiro, though his expression was solemn, shook his head. “I don’t think so. I saw flames, but none of your clothes were burned. Can you tell me more about the heat?”
“Um.” He screwed his eyes shut, trying to remember. It was all a blur of fear and desperation and lost breath. “I just started feeling hot during the fight, and it kept getting hotter and hotter, and right before I passed out it all left, like a wave.”
Shiro hummed thoughtfully. “I want to show you something. Kosmo, scooch.”
Kosmo let out an unhappy huff at Shiro’s prodding, but allowed himself to be pushed to the side a few inches, enough for Keith to see what had been stinging under his weight.
“What the hell is that?” It was a burn, but Keith had never seen a burn go in such a straight line before. And Shiro had said his clothes weren’t burnt.
“They’re called leylines,” Shiro said softly, gently tracing the line up and over Keith’s shoulder. They weren’t just on his chest– they went everywhere. “Normally they’re invisible. I think you burned through yours with that fireball.”
Funny. He was pretty sure Shiro was saying words, but he couldn’t make sense of any of them.
Licking his lips, Keith whispered, “What does that mean?”
Shiro took a shuddering breath as his hand returned to Keith’s. “I think you made the fire, Keith.”
His throat tightened. That didn’t make sense. Unless– unless–
“I think you’re a witch.”
For a long moment, Keith’s face was blank as he stared down at his burned leylines. Heart in his throat, Shiro heard himself start to ramble, as though more information would help. “Leylines are the channels that carry magic through the body– people without magic don’t have them. If you put too much power through them they can be damaged– that’s how I lost my arm, all of my magic went to the same place at the same time– you put out a lot of power with the fire, but it looks like it was pretty evenly distributed, so–”
Keith’s hand tightened around Shiro’s and he shut up immediately.
“So…” Keith’s voice was painfully quiet, and he still wouldn’t meet Shiro’s eyes. “Were they right? Did I…”
Shiro’s stomach dropped like he’d just jumped off of a cliff. “No, Keith, no. The black blood wasn’t you.”
“How do you know?” He was shaking. Kosmo whimpered and shoved his nose under Keith’s other hand. His fingers automatically buried themselves into the wolf’s fur, but it didn’t seem to assuage any of the tension. “If I made fire without even knowing, how do you know I didn’t make that happen too?”
Shiro rubbed his thumb over Keith’s knuckles, cursing his lack of another arm to give him the hug he deserved.
“Magically speaking, fire is easy. It’s instinctive, it reacts to emotions. Summoning and causing disease takes time, and effort, and intent. It’s not something you could’ve done unconsciously.”
Keith’s expression twisted.
“You’re not what they said you were. You didn’t deserve any of this.”
His eyes went wide before he turned his face away, trying to hide in the pillow, but not quickly enough for Shiro to miss how his face crumpled. Keith wasn’t making a sound, but Shiro could see how his breathing stuttered.
To hell with it, he thought before heaving himself up onto the bed. Kosmo let out an offended huff as he was crowded even further to the side, giving Shiro the room he needed to run his fingers through Keith’s hair again, even as Keith kept trying to bury himself in the covers.
“It’s alright. I know it’s a lot all at once.”
Keith raised a hand and locked it around Shiro’s wrist like he’d never let go. Shiro just pressed closer, murmuring a steady stream of encouragement, and Kosmo wiggled further up the bed to lick the tears from Keith’s face. Shiro would’ve been content to stay there as long as Keith needed, but when he finally let out a quiet sob it was immediately followed by a peal of harsh coughing that sent Shiro scurrying for another cup of tea for him to drink. When he came back Kosmo was lying across Keith’s lap, giving Shiro a possessive glare.
Shiro stuck his tongue out at the wolf before turning back to Keith. “Here, I have more tea for you. Think you can sit up?”
Burying his hands in Kosmo’s fur, Keith used the wolf’s weight to pull himself upright. His face was pale, streaked with tears, but Shiro dutifully said nothing about it as he handed the cup of tea over. The marks around his throat had darkened, now a deep, bruising red, and Shiro’s fist clenched on his knee.
Shiro had tried not to feel resentful after his own botched witch trial, and for the most part succeeded, the feeling muffled under the pain of losing his arm and the guilt of hurting people when the explosion went off. But seeing the marks on Keith stirred that feeling that he’d shoved down into the darkest pits of himself.
More than that, Keith looked exhausted. The dark circles that perpetually hung under his eyes looked even darker against the tired pallor of his skin.
There would be no more talk of magic that night, Shiro decided. Keith needed food and rest, not earth-shaking revelations or anxious queries about the future.
So, once he’d finished his tea, Shiro served them both up some of the soup he’d made while Keith was unconscious; it was the only thing he was sure Keith would be able to eat with minimal pain until his throat healed.
The cabin was quiet as they ate. The fire crackled and popped, and Kosmo was breathing slowly and heavily where he was still sprawled across Keith’s lap, but the two of them didn’t add their voices to the harmony. They sat together on Keith’s bed and ate, and it would’ve been like the uncountable nights before if it weren’t for the bruises and scraped skin.
By the time they finished Keith was swaying as he tried to keep his eyes open. Shiro set their bowls aside and turned back to him with the best smile he could manage.
“You should rest.”
Keith, blinking slowly, reached out his hand. Shiro obligingly set his own hand into the offered palm and waited for Keith to put his words together.
“Would you… I mean, can we…”
Shiro’s smile inched a little wider. “Of course. Come on, I’ll help you up.”
With Shiro’s assistance Keith managed to climb out of bed and stand up. Technically there was nothing wrong with his legs, but the exhaustion and post-adrenaline haze left his knees shaking. Kosmo gave an offended huff when Keith pulled away from him, but still dutifully followed after them for the few steps it took to reach Shiro’s bed on the other side of the room.
Shiro let him have the inside, closer to the wall, and once settled beside him, wrapped his arm around Keith’s shoulders. Keith melted into Shiro’s side, and when Shiro told him to speak up if it hurt too much, his only response was to grumble and fist one of his hands into Shiro’s shirt. Kosmo hopped up to join them, lying pointedly across Keith’s feet and settling down with a sigh.
They did this sometimes. Not often, but after a nightmare, or a bad pain day for Shiro, or a day when Keith had to fight his own mind to keep from going back to survival mode, it helped to just be close, knowing that the other didn’t expect anything more. A reminder that they weren’t alone anymore.
Staring up at the ceiling beams, Shiro couldn’t help thinking about the burned leylines that now flowed around Keith’s body. It would make sense– magic was usually inherited, and if Keith’s mother had it, she may have left the village to keep herself and her family safe, never knowing that her son would grow up to have the same gift.
“There’s only one thing that doesn’t make sense,” he murmured.
He expected Keith to already be asleep, but he shifted under Shiro’s arm and asked, “What is it?”
Shiro opened his mouth, fully planning to brush it off and insist Keith get some rest, until he remembered how Keith had reacted the last time he did that. Kosmo raised his head and gave Shiro a look as though to say, you’ve dug your grave, now lie in it.
“I’m just wondering why your magic triggered today, but not back then.”
Keith knew what he meant– that day when he’d been beaten and branded just like Shiro, yet his magic lay dormant even as he was left to die in the snow– and was silent for several long moments.
Finally: “I guess I didn’t care that much the first time. About living.”
Despite his efforts to remain impassive, Shiro felt his breath catch in his chest. Keith’s shoulders tensed, like he was thinking about pulling away, but his hand curled even tighter in Shiro’s shirt in direct contrast.
“I didn’t want to die, exactly. But I didn’t really have anything to look forward to if I lived, either. If they’d pardoned me I would’ve gone right back to how I’d been living, but always knowing that they could come after me again, and if I’d gotten away on my own I wouldn’t have anywhere to go. Dying didn’t seem like that bad of an option.”
Shiro swallowed hard. “And that was different this time?”
“Yes.” Keith’s voice was so, so soft. Tears were pricking at Shiro’s eyes, but he blinked them back. Keith didn’t need to be worrying about him right now. Instead of crying he turned his head, resting his chin atop Keith’s, and ran his hand up and down his shoulder. He felt Keith shudder– he still wasn’t used to being touched kindly, even all these months later.
“I’m glad it was.”
Keith exhaled, long and slow. “So am I.”
Once again Shiro thought that would be the end of the conversation, but a few minutes later Keith spoke up again.
“Shiro, what if they come back?”
Shiro had been thinking about that, too. “I can put some wards up, so we’ll know if anyone gets close. I could show you how, if you want.”
Keith wasn’t convinced. “But what if they come here? We should build a closet, or a cellar, somewhere I can hide if they come looking.” Then, much more quietly, “I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”
“We’ll figure it out tomorrow,” Shiro answered, rubbing Keith’s arm again. “Right now the only thing you need to worry about is resting.”
He let out another breath and sagged into Shiro’s side. “Ok. I can do that.”
Shiro lifted his hand from Keith’s shoulder to bury it into his hair instead. Keith tucked his face against Shiro’s neck.
And they slept.