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pedrito-friskito · 2 years

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the warrior and the witch - part three

summary: pero comes home, and you both get more than you bargained for.

warnings: magic, canon-typical violence, maybe a bit of not-canon-typical violence, blood, descriptions of assault (a forced kiss only), NO SMUT HERE (who is she we don’t know), but some angst and some yearning and even a bit of fluff

a/n: oh my GOD. full disclosure: this is not exactly the way I envisioned the ending when I came up with this idea, but I kind of love it. maybe a little OOC for Pero (based on the movie) but pretty in-line with the world I’ve created for him and his witch here. and honestly…I don’t think I’m done with these two. gotta focus on the rest of my autumn adventures, but there will definitely be more of the warrior and the witch at some point!

PART ONE | PART TWO 🍂kay’s autumn adventures🍂

Your mouth tastes of copper. Wet and thick, coating your teeth and tongue. Not the best sign.

It’s blood, obviously, and your head feels heavy, a weight on your shoulders like you’ve never felt before. Slowly, you blink your eyes open, sucking down a breath that rattles your lungs. Your hands are bound in front of you, your legs parted around the saddle of a horse you do not recognize.

And pressed behind you, an unfamiliar body.

Unfamiliar until it speaks.

“Ah, welcome back, witch.” Farrell sneers the words in your ear, his chest pressed to your back, a heavy arm wrapped around your waist while the other holds the horse’s reins. The tone in his voice sends a chill down your spine, revulsion pooling in your gut as his hot breath blows on your ear. “I wondered how long it would take you to wake.”

You slip slightly in the saddle, your torso pitching sideways, and you close your eyes as you wait to fall, but Farrell doesn’t allow it. His grip on you goes tighter, pulling you nearer to his sweaty form.

“Where d’you think you’re going, huh?”

You turn your head as much as the pain will allow, spiking along your cheeks and jaw as you try to even out your breathing. Your chest wheezes with the effort, and the memories come sweeping back into your mind.

The cottage, ransacked. The holding circle etched into your bedroom floor. Farrell’s drunk grin and the axe on his shoulder. He’d hit you over and over again, until your legs gave out and you sank to the floor. Then he’d bound your hands, the rope chafing harshly against your skin, making you feel weaker in an instant. How was that possible? What had he done?

Gods above, what had he found out?

With you bound, he’d carried you from the cottage, dumped you in the garden, and headed back inside. You could only watch as the walls started to shake, as the sound of an axe hitting home over and over again reached your ears. You could only lie there, blood on your lips and rage in your gut as the flames started to rise, pouring through the broken windows, licking over the thatched roof, burning away any trace of your life. Of Pero’s life.

Pero’s voice echoed in your head. Our life.

Gone. Turned to ash.

Farrell made you watch, lain in the dirt, his foot on your back to keep you pressed to the earth. You tried to summon your magic, tried to bring some kind of help to the surface, but it escaped you. There was something in the rope binding you, something else that had been added to that holding circle, something that was keeping your magic far beyond your reach.

The rage turned to terror. Lena and Tomas would wonder where you’d gone to, and as Farrell loaded you onto the saddle, turned the mare towards the forest behind the cottage as the smoke billowed high, as the roof started to collapse under the weight of the heat and the frailty of the flames, you knew there was little chance they would find you. That anyone would.

Now, you blink your eyes hard, trying to wash away the strange feeling of sleep and the heaviness of your pain. You’re still in the forest, no path before you or behind you, the trees on either side a broad expanse that blurs together when you watch for too long. Behind you, Farrell pants in your ear, the feeling of him pressed against you making your whole body want to recoil, but the pain keeping you in place. It hurts to move, aches to even attempt to speak.

But then Farrell keeps talking, and your heart sinks.

“There are lots of others like you out in the world, you know? I’m sure you do, clever little bitch that you are. I’m sure you’ve got friends in all corners of the world, awful women like you that would help you at the drop of a hat. What do they call it? A coven?”

My coven is long gone, you want to say, but you stay silent. My sisters are all long dead, killed by the likes of you. I fled to keep myself safe, found that cottage a safe haven for the likes of me. And then I found him. But he’s gone now. I’m gone now.

Does Pero still live? Lena’s words echo in your mind: he will come back to you. You wish you believed it. You wish you knew he still lived. Your spell of protection had been near perfect, the strongest you’d ever cast on the ring you bore to him before he left. It would keep him safe, but the doubt still lingered.

Farrell just keeps talking.

“You have been a plague on our village. With your sinful face and your ungodly temptation. You never should have stayed, witch. You should have left long ago. And I cannot bear it any longer. I cannot live with the temptation that you offer. Not when I cannot have you for myself.”

Bile rises in the back of your throat. Oh. So that’s the source, the reason for his blind hatred. It doesn’t answer for the rest of the people in the village who have treated you similarly, but you don’t doubt that Farrell has had his hand in it, preaching your awfulness to anyone who would listen, rallying anyone he could to join the cause.

Not that it matters anymore.

You continue deeper into the forest, and after another hour or so, Farrell halts the horse and wrenches you down from the saddle. “You wait here,” he tells you, and a strange sort of shock ripples down your legs. Once again, you cannot move.

You look down at your binds. Squinting down at the ropes, you see more runes, like the holding circle, some familiar and others not. You try your damndest to move your feet, throwing your body in the opposite direction you’ve travelled, but you don’t move an inch.

The realization settles over you. Obedience. You’d heard rumours, long ago. Witches who had defected against their covens, revolted against their own kind. They worked to find ways to enslave, to keep magic under someone’s control, but not the witch themselves. It seems they have been successful. How Farrell managed to find the information, you’re still not sure, but none of it really matters, in the grand scheme.

All that matters is that you get away, that you try to make your way back, that you find Pero.

You realize: Pero may come back, but what will he find? Your home, burned to the ground; you, nothing but a mark in the earth and trail of blood deep into the woods. You turn your head and spit into the earth, the saliva and blood in your mouth too much.

Wait.

Blood.

Your cloak is still draped around you, and Farrell had clearly not been clever enough to check your pockets. One of Pero’s knives lays at the bottom of one, and, carefully as you can, trying to make it look as though you’re not moving at all, you reach for it.

It’s sharp as anything, a result of Tomas’s handiwork, and all it takes is a slight press of your thumb against the blade to slice your skin. You wince, the pain harsh, worse to bear without your magic to ebb it.

Farrell reappears, and you school your face into nothingness, holding your hands in front of you, your injured thumb tucked inside your knuckles. You can feel the blood pooling in your palm, and you press your lips together, trying to hide the pain as best as you can.

He fastens a length of rope to your wrists, just below the binds. “You’ll walk the rest of the way,” he commands, that strange feeling moving through you once more. “If you fall, I will drag you.”

You stare at his large back as he mounts the mare, flicking the reins and ushering the horse forward, deeper into the night. The howl of a wolf makes your ears prick, and you wait until he’s focused on the path ahead, not glancing back at you. Slowly, you veer your steps sideways, your knees aching with every step, until you’re closer to the tree line. Once a trunk is within reach, you splay your hand wide, leaving a bloody handprint on the trunk. A path, a trail of breadcrumbs, something to lead the way to wherever it is your captor is taking you.

Now, all you can do is hope that someone finds it.

The path down the mountain had been treacherous. He’d buried William as best he could, working through the only slightly ebbed pain in his body, muttering a few words as a fond farewell to his friend. His own horse had been taken by the mercenaries that had attacked, but he found William’s further down the mountain, the smaller beast spooked and starving. He’d calmed the horse as best he could, finding a nearby stream for them to drink from, for Pero to clean the blood from his body, to try and figure his path back home.

He still had his swords, but little else. There was a village, once he’d passed through on the way to meet William, and when he stops there for supplies, he realizes his money pouch is gone. Desperate, he sells one of his swords to the smithy in town, uses the money to buy a new cloak and some food, fix the bridle on the horse.

And that’s when he finds it.

The shop is filled with people, and in the corner, he hears two men talking lowly. It’s hard to make out their voices, but he catches a few words.

Witch. Problem. Dark magic. Solution. Obedience.

“You have a witch problem?” Pero asks, his voice loud, catching the men’s attention. Both their heads lift, and one of them has a sickening smile on his face.

“Not anymore, lad,” he answers, crossing his arms over his chest. “Took care of the bitch just last week. The king’s been sending folks all over with solutions for the problem. Ways to bind them, make them obedient, keep them at bay. It’s a miracle, really.”

Pero’s vision goes red. “You don’t say.”

The man just nods, smug as anything. “Yep! Poor bloke was in here just last week from a village a few days’ ride from here. Said he had a problem to take care of and his village hadn’t gotten anything yet, so I let him have what we had left. I hope it worked.”

“What was the man’s name?” Pero asks, trying desperately to keep his voice as calm as possible. His hand flexes for his sword, but he resists.

The man narrows his eyes at him. “Why d’you ask?”

That’s it.

“Tell me his name!” Pero shouts, and his sword makes a satisfying noise as he unsheathes it, tossing it in the air and catching it by the handle, holding the point directly at the man’s throat. “Now.”

“Farrell!” the man cries, his face going bright red, eyes bulging out of his face. Pero presses harder. “He said his name was Farrell! Big bloke, liked his ale, said he needed help! I was just tryna be a good neighbour!”

Content with the answer, Pero storms from the shop, moving faster than his aching body wants, but he doesn’t care. He has to get back. Now. He swings himself into the saddle, the horse nickering at him as he flicks the reins, a loud hyah! echoing through the village as the horse surges forward.

He’s made it halfway back to your village when he spies the black ball of fur, and it’s the only thing that stops him, distracting him from the path ahead.

“Soot?” he calls, his voice soft as anything. He pulls tight on the horse’s reins, urging the animal to a halt, and slides from the saddle. The cat looks more than worse for wear, his little paws raw, a chunk missing from his ear, blood on his maw. “Gods, what happened to you?” he asks, breathing a sigh when the cat lets him scoops his little body up. Carefully, he gets back into the saddle, and the cat makes a home in Pero’s shirt, burrowing against his warmth. This is not a good sign. If Soot is all the way out here, then…

Where are you? What happened to you?

He travels through the night, half-expecting the horse to give him a hard time, but the beast seems to sense the urgency, kicking up dust as he powers on, making better time than Pero had on his journey to William. The stretch that should take three days is done in a day and a half, Pero barely stopping, save to feed himself and the horse, trying to tend to Soot as best he can, catching a fish in a nearby pond for the cat to eat.

It’s nearly nightfall by the time he makes his way into your village. The square is full of people, despite the late hour, and Lena spots him before he sees her, shouting his name across the fountain.

“Pero!”

He pushes his way through the crowds, the horse’s head bouncing as he goes, nudging people’s shoulders until they move out of the way. “Lena.”

“Gods, where have you been?” she asks, and he slides from the saddle, careful not to jostle the cat in his shirt. As soon as he’s close enough, the woman throws her arms around him, squeezing him tight, making Soot yelp against his chest. “Oh.”

“He met me halfway,” Pero explains, and the cat perks up when he spots Lena, a spark of energy making him climb up onto Pero’s shoulders. “I heard something, in another village. They’re hunting witches, and Farrell—”

“She’s gone,” Lena bursts out, and Pero’s heart sinks into his toes. “We’ve been looking for her for days now. The cottage was burned down, but there was no trace of a body. She has to be alive somewhere, but I…” Your friend trails off, shaking her head. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Where is Farrell?” Pero asks, his voice gravelly. Finding Soot was one thing, but hearing it firsthand is another entirely. “Lena, where is he?!”

“I don’t know!” she shouts, tears falling down her cheeks. “We’ve been trying to find her, I just—”

Tomas appears out of nowhere, pushing through the crowd, and grabs Pero’s shoulder. “Come inside the shop,” he says, eyes darting around the square. “Now.”

Pulling the horse behind him, Pero obeys. Soot leaps off his shoulder and into the horse’s saddle, and Lena takes the beast to the stable behind the smithy while Tomas leads Pero inside. The shop is dark, the hearth the only source of light that Pero can see.

On the table lies a brilliant sword, perfectly shined, and he can tell just by looking at it, incredibly sharp. He’d traded his straight blade back in the other village, favouring his curved sword, but this would make a fine replacement.

“Take it,” Tomas says, stepping around the table, reaching into a cabinet and procuring a bow and a sheath of arrows. “It’s yours.”

“What?” Pero asks, incredulous. “What are you…?”

Tomas slings the sheath around his shoulder, the bow following suit. “We’re going to find her.”

Pero nearly stumbles back. He’s stricken, for a moment, the man before him a mirror image of the good friend he’d lost, the friend who had given him his life, therefore giving him you. And now, Tomas, a new friend, a wary friend by any stretch, helping him get it all back.

“You have children, Tomas,” Pero tries to reason, reaching for the sword, removing his empty sheath to replace it with the new one. “I cannot ask you to—”

“What kind of father would I be if I didn’t set the right example?” the man replies, and Pero can only grin back.

They meet Lena around the back of the shop, Pero’s horse still saddled and Tomas’s freshly so. Soot leaps onto his shoulder again as Pero mounts, and he glances back to see Lena grabbing Tomas’s face, pulling him into a deep kiss before she presses his forehead to hers. “Save her,” she says, “and come home.”

Tomas simply nods before getting into his own saddle, nodding at Pero. “Let’s go.”

His horse keeps his speed even after the brief stop, and Tomas’s keeps pace. It’s a quick ride to where the cottage once lay, and Pero nearly topples from the saddle when he sees the burned remains. He tosses his reins to Tomas, sprinting for the smouldering pile. It’s all burned wood and shattered glass and books turned to ash. He can’t stop himself from picking through it, trying to find anything that might still be intact, remembering Lena’s words that they hadn’t found a body, but praying to the Gods all the same that he doesn’t find you among the rubble.

He doesn’t, but he does find something else. A long silver chain, a ring similar to the one hanging around his own neck strung on it. The memory surfaces; you’d worn it whenever you left the cottage, carrying it with you into the village for protection. He’d never asked about it, never put it together when you gave him his own, just accepted it for what it was. Accepted you for what you were.

What you are.

Soot leaps from his shoulder when he rounds the back of where the cottage once stood, his head cocked to the side, tail sticking straight up. “What is it?” Pero calls, as if the creature will answer. The cat walks forward, pawing through the grass until he reaches the edge of the forest, then he pauses, looks over his shoulder, and meows loudly at Pero. Not English, but he takes the meaning all the same.

In there.

They leave the horses in the pasture beside the cottage. The gate is still intact, and Pero is surprised to see your mare still walking the green. She’s wary of the other horses, sniffing at Pero’s new horse carefully, but neighs lowly at Pero, leaning into his palm when he pets her nose.

“I know, girl,” he murmurs, “I’m going to find her.”

The moon is the only source of light as they step into the forest. Tomas wonders if they should light a torch, but Pero refuses. “It might be a trap,” he says, and his new friend nods. “We need to be careful.”

Soot leads the way, the tiny black silhouette of him disappearing every once in a while when the moon cannot break through the trees. It feels like hours, every bone in Pero’s body aching in protest, but he does not care. He has to find you, he doesn’t care what it costs. Any pain is bearable, losing you is not.

Then he sees it.

The bark of a tree, scraped away to show the solid wood beneath, and there, dried and dark, but there all the same, is a handprint. Soot paws at the tree, and Pero sniffs at the mark. “Blood,” he tells Tomas, his brow pulling down. “It’s blood.”

Soot disappears deeper into the forest, and they find him again at another tree, another handprint pressed into the bark. Then another, and another, all bearing the same park, the same hand.

“A trail,” Tomas murmurs. “She left a trail.”

It has to be you. At first, Pero is doubtful, only half-convinced by the black cat leading him deep into the forest, but as they continue down the unseen path, that thing that has taken up residence in his chest since the witch first spoke of you, doubled when he first laid eyes on you, blinks awake, stretching across his ribs, pushing him forward. Find her, find her, find her, it chants, and Pero’s hands curl into fists as he steps.

The moon hangs high overhead, the light pouring through the trees, spotting their path witch patches of white, and Pero just keeps going. following the feeling in his chest. Tomas trails slightly behind, and Soot leads the way still, his tail pointed straight up, ears twitching as he goes.

Finally — finally — they come upon something other than trees. But it does not help Pero’s unease, not by a long shot.

Beyond the last of the trees lies a clearing. Moonlight pours over the entire space, the grass stained grey with the power of it. A tent stands in one corner of the clearing, a small fire built before it. An unfamiliar horse is tied to a tree near the tent, the beast folded up on the grass, asleep. On the other side of the clearing, a large metal stake driven into the earth, and hanging off the stake…

You. Your hands bound before you, your face bruised and your lips covered in blood, your dress hanging off of you in tatters, revealing more broken skin beneath. Just as it had in the other village, Pero’s vision goes red, and he moves to surge forward, but Tomas stops him, grabbing his shoulder.

“Not yet,” he whispers harshly, pulling Pero back. “We don’t know what sort of weapons he’s got with him.”

Pero nods, but he cannot tear his eyes from you. His chest aches, begging him to move forward, that thing encircling his heart trying it’s damndest to push him forward. He wants to run to you, to cut your binds away and carry you away from this place, far from it all, until he finds a place where he knows you’re safe, knows no harm will befall you.

He never should have left.

The guilt eats at him instantly, roiling around in his stomach and forming a heavy weight, but he tries to cast the feeling aside. Now is not the time.

They lay in wait for a while, waiting to see if Farrell will step out of the tent. He can see the flicker of light from within, casting shadows on the canvas walls. Pero’s hands itch to reach for his swords, but Tomas is right. They do not know what sort of threat Farrell stands to be, not yet. And from the looks of you, whatever the man in the other village supplied Farrell with has worked. You look weak, and not just from your injuries, it’s deeper than that. The glow that had always surrounded you is gone. Your magic, Pero realizes. Whatever Farrell’s done, it’s cut you off from it, left you powerless.

It only makes his rage more palpable.

Soot, unfortunately, does not have the same amount of patience that humans do, and after giving Pero what he can only describe as a hard look, the cat leaps through the tree line, sauntering across the grass towards the stake you’re tied to.

Pero curses under his breath as the cat closes the distance between you and him. As soon as he reaches you, Pero sees you perk up, your eyes widening as the cat climbs up the stake, pawing and gnawing at the ropes that keep you bound. “No,” he sees your lips form, trying to bat the cat away with your tied hands. “Soot, no!”

There’s a rustling from the tent, and Farrell finally steps out of his shelter. As broad and stupid-looking as Pero remembers, the man lumbers across the clearing, an angry look on his face when he spots the cat on the stake. You cry out when he swings at the animal, but Soot is faster, ducking the large fist heading for him and sinking his teeth into Farrell’s arm.

“Stupid cat!” Farrell yells, and grabs Soot with his other hand, launching the cat into the forest on the other side of the clearing. You yelp again, and Farrell grabs you by the collar, dragging you to your feet. “What did you do?” he spits, getting in your face, his nose inches from yours. “I told you, I’m taking my time with you, bitch. You don’t want me to build that pyre tonight, do you? Do you?”

Pero turns to Tomas, his chest heaving, and puts a hand on the man’s arm. “Tomas, go home.”

“What?” he asks, incredulous. “I cannot just lea—”

“You need to go back to the village,” Pero says, his voice shockingly even, “and you need to tell them what you saw. Only one man will walk away from this fight, and if it’s him, you need to tell the village what he’s done, why we fought.”

Tomas opens his mouth to protest further, but Pero lifts his hand.

“I have lost one good friend already,” Pero continues. “I do not wish to lose another.”

Tomas’s jaw goes hard, muscle ticking in his cheek, but then he puts a hand on Pero’s shoulder. “I will tell them what I saw.”

“Thank you.”

Pero watches until the shadow of Tomas disappears into the blur of the forest.

“Please,” Pero hears you sob, your voice so broken he has to bite back his anger. “Just let me go. I’ll leave the village, like you asked. I’ll do anything, Farrell, please, just—”

“Anything, huh?” the man repeats, and his hand moves from the collar of your dress to your chin, gripping your face tightly, lifting you higher and higher until your feet are no longer on the ground, your bound hands gripping the stake as he lifts you.

Farrell pulls your face to his, and Pero can bear it no longer. He bursts through the tree line, drawing both swords at once, moonlight glinting off his blades. He roars the other man’s name. “Let. Her. Go.”

Farrell stumbles back in surprise, your blood on his lips, and your face cracks in shock, fresh tears pouring down your cheeks. “Pero, go!” you shout, but he’s too focused on your captor.

“Now, why on earth would I wanna do that?” Farrell asks, giving Pero an unkind grin as he wipes your blood from his mouth. “I’ve got your little bitch right where I want her.”

“Let her go,” Pero repeats, slower, “or I cut you down where you stand.”

The man starts to laugh. “You think you’re tough, don’t you? Big scary warrior, big shiny swords. I still have the scars, from the first night we met. You were truly terrifying back then, I’ll admit. Barely scraped away with my life, after what you did. But I lived.” He takes a little bow, and Pero growls. “Pity neither of you will walk away from this. It’s a shame, really.”

“You’re a monster,” Pero spits, taking a step forward, tightening his grip on his swords.

“Me?” Farrell shakes his head. “Oh no, the only monster here is this—” he grabs you by the collar again, shakes you against the metal stake, “—unholy creature. She’s tricked you too, hasn’t she? Lured you into her bed and kept you captive. If you’d stayed away, I bet you would have lived a long life, warrior. Or maybe you’d die in the street like any other poor swordsman.”

It’s a taunt, the man poking at any part of Pero he can, trying to find a way beneath his skin. It’s not going to work. He’s here for one thing, and one thing only.

You.

“Let her go,” Pero says a third time, taking another step, “and maybe I’ll let you live.”

He laughs again. “You keep saying that, but you see, I have another trick up my sleeve, warrior.” He turns to you, pulls a knife from his belt. Pero lurches forward, but Farrell doesn’t hurt you. He cuts the rope binding you to the stake and shoves the knife between your still-bound hands. Holding you by the collar, he drags you towards Pero, who readies his swords, waiting for an opening, searching for a moment where he can cut the man down without harming you, but it never comes.

Farrell hauls you close to him, putting his mouth by your ear. His voice is barely above a whisper, but Pero hears it all the same, sees the ripple that travels through your body at the command, the way your face pinches in pain and tears roll down your cheeks, creating tracks in the blood on your face.

“Kill him.”

It’s a cruel trick. A cruel joke. Pero’s swords clatter to the ground as Farrell shoves you towards him. You’re gripping the knife with both hands, the blade pointed up, but your fingers are trying to turn it downward. As Pero catches you, the tip of the blade drags against his collar, just glancing off his skin.

“Do it!” Farrell shouts, and you let out a sob as your body shakes.

“It’s okay,” Pero murmurs, his anger abated now that he can touch you, can feel your body in his grasp. “I am here, mi amor. You’re safe now. It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” you sob, squeezing your eyes shut as your hands try to point the blade at his chest. You wrench your hands down, yanking the blade towards your own ribs, and Pero grabs your wrists. “I have to do what he says,” you cry, your shoulders shaking with the force of the command, the strength of your will. “It’s not fair.”

“I know, amor,” Pero says, his voice soft, pulling your head into his, pressing your temple to his cheek. “I know. It’s okay. I’m here. I will not leave you, never again. It’s okay.”

He says the words over and over, turning his head to kiss your cheeks, your lips, your nose, your forehead. Anywhere he can reach, while you wrestle with your own body, trying to defy the order. But you’re weak without your magic, weaker still from the injuries Farrell has given you. It’s not enough.

“It’s okay,” Pero tells you, brushing the hair back from your face as he leans in to kiss your lips. “I love you.”

Your bottom lip quivers as you stare at him, those eyes he’s come to love so much so big, filled with tears.

“Kill him!” Farrell roars, and Pero kisses you again.

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, and your hands surge forward, the blade sinking in deep in his gut. “I love you.”

All Pero can hear is your sobs, the gut-wrenching sound making his chest ache as the pain floods him. But he found you. You’re alive. This isn’t how he wanted things to end. But he found you.

You wrench the blade out of him, dropping the handle as Pero sinks to the grass, blood pouring from his wound. Dimly, he hears Farrell’s laughter, the unkind noise growing quieter and quieter as you lean over him.

“I’m sorry,” you say, repeating the words over and over. “I’m so sorry. I love you. I love you. I’m sorry.”

You’re too caught up in your tears and apologies to notice him grab the hilt of the knife.

You can barely see through your tears, the wetness on your face making everything feel blurry. Everything hurts, and you can’t hold back the sobs as you curl yourself over Pero’s body, feeling the blood pouring out of him soaking into what remains of your clothes, dampening the grass below. Your entire being shakes with sadness, pushing your face against his collar, sobbing against his skin.

Behind you, Farrell just keeps laughing. Anger rattles through you, the beast in your chest screaming in pain. He did this. He did this he did this he did this.

“C’mere, bitch,” he calls, and you look over your shoulder to see him beckoning to you. But no sharp shock of obedience zips through you. You feel nothing, save for the ache in your chest. Your fingers flex, curling into the fabric of Pero’s cloak. You’re frozen in place, confused, and then you look down.

Pero’s eyes are closed, the blood that had been oozing from his wound slowed, and in his hand lies the bloody dagger.

The binds that had kept you Farrell’s hostage, kept you bound to his commands, lay in your lap, cut away from your wrists, sliced through with the very blade he’d forced you to use on your love, your soulmate, your Pero.

“Did you hear me?” Farrell shouts, and this time, when you flex your hands wide, you feel the welcoming warmth of magic shooting through your limbs. “I said come here. I’m not finished with you yet.”

Your hand closes around the hilt of Pero’s sword as you stand, dragging it out of his grasp and pulling yourself to your feet. Farrell just stares at you, his brow pinching in confusion.

“Wha—” he starts, and stumbles back a step, but you flash a hand out, keeping him frozen in place, as he had done to you in the woods, as he had when he made you watch your house burn to the ground, watch your every possession turned to ash.

You scream as you drive the blade into him, striking true, slicing through flesh and muscle as you pierce his heart. His eyes go wide as you push hard, sinking him to his knees, your scream echoing through the clearing, shouting until your throat is raw and your eyes blur with fresh tears.

“B-bitch,” he chokes out, blood bubbling out of his mouth, and you just shake your head, wrenching the sword back, watching as your captor falls to the ground, what remains of his life pouring out of him, until his eyes go dark.

The sword clatters to the grass as you spin on your heel, sprinting back to where Pero still lays. His chest is eerily still, and you reach beneath his shirt, praying that the ring you gave him still hangs around his neck.

Instead of one, you find two, your own chain also looped over his head, both rings nestled against his sternum.

All you can do is wait.

You curl up on the ground against him, tucking yourself against his still-warm body. Your palm is pressed flat to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your hand. It never slows, never falters, and you can’t help but smile to yourself. Your magic worked. You kept him safe, kept him alive.

And he came back to you.

You don’t know when, but Soot makes his way back to you, a furry warmth at your back as you curl against Pero, the three of you falling asleep on the grass, the moon watching above, the terror and rage of your ordeal slipping away to become a memory, nothing more.

When you wake, the moon has taken leave, the sun in its place, and Pero is holding you close. You’re both a mess, covered in blood and bruises, but you can’t bring yourself to care, feeling the familiar weight of his hands on your hips, pulling your body onto his, offering you his warmth. You dig your hands into his shoulders, trying your best not to hurt him, avoiding injuries best you can. The gash you’d left in his stomach is closed over, the skin around it bruised, but you know in a few days, it’ll only be a scar. A memory.

“You came back,” you murmur against his collar, feeling him shift beneath you.

“I swore to you, did I not?” he replies, lifting his jaw and kissing your forehead. “William died.”

Your hands clench on his shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

“I should have died on that mountaintop,” he says softly, and new tears prick at your eyes, “but my witch kept me safe.”

You nod, and summoning some strength, lift your head to look down at him. Your thumb reaches up to ride the familiar ridge of his scar. “Our home is gone.”

Pero shakes his head, leaning into your touch. “Nonsense, amor. Our home is wherever we go. My home is you.”

For the first time in days, your lips stretch into a smile. “And my home is you.”

You lean down to kiss him properly, the kind of reunion kiss you’d been dreaming about since the day he left. It tastes of iron and salt, your blood and his, tears and dirt and magic. Both your bodies ache like nothing you’ve ever felt before, but you don’t mind it. It’s a reminder, that you lived. Both of you.

Pero groans beneath you when you lean up, your knees either side of his waist. “Gods, how I’ve missed the feel of you on top of me.”

You bite out a laugh, reaching a hand down, pulling both the rings out of his shirt. “You found my ring.”

“In the ash,” he tells you, hands finding your waist again as you loop both chain and cord over his head, both rings resting in the middle of your palm. “I wanted to give it back to you.”

You nod, and Pero just watches as you untie the cord, unclasp the chain, pulling both rings off.

“Lena told me something,” you says softly, reaching for his hand, holding it between yours. “What they call love like ours where she comes from.”

He smiles. “What do they call it, amor?”

“Twin souls,” you reply, taking the larger of the rings, holding it over his fourth finger. “I carry a piece of you with me, and you carry a piece of me with you.”

Pero nods. “I do.”

“Witches don’t get married,” you say, staring at the ring, at his hand. “Not in the traditional sense. No churches.”

“That is understandable,” he replies, and pushes his hand up, so the ring slides down his knuckles. “Warriors do not marry either.” He takes your other hand, pulls the ring from your palm, reaches for your left hand. “We do not usually survive to return to our wives, leaving them widowed too early in life. It was never something I thought of. Until I found you.”

“We’re supposed to make vows,” you murmur, breath hitching as he puts the ring on your finger.

“We are not traditional, are we?” he quips, and you laugh.

Pero pulls you down to him, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, the weight of the ring on his fingers pressing into your skin. “I love you, amor, this day, until my last.”

“This day, until my last,” you repeat. “I love you.”

He kisses you long and hard, breathing life back into you with his love and affection. Slowly, you both get to your feet, Pero draping his cloak around your nearly bare form, the pair of you looking around the clearing at the mess Farrell left behind. Pero keeps his arm around your shoulders, presses a kiss to the side of your head.

This day, until your last.

The body is burned. The tent is torn down, any evidence of your captivity removed from the clearing. Pero is meticulous, refusing to let you lay hands on any of it, urging you to stay at the tree line, Soot in your arms and his cloak still around your shoulders.

Once he’s satisfied, he rouses Farrell’s horse, lifting you into the saddle before taking a seat behind you. For a moment, the memory flickers, your captor pressed against you, but then Pero reaches around you for the reins, his arms loose around you, letting you lean back against his chest, and the memory is gone. You fall in and out of sleep as the horse travels through the forest, Pero warm and familiar against you.

You rouse fully when you reach the field where your cottage once stood. Pero murmurs softly in your ear, kissing the curve of your neck until your eyes open. You’re surprised to see Lena and Tomas standing at the road, your horses saddled and standing behind them.

“You’re alive!” Lena cries as Pero steers the horse close, helping you slip down from the saddle. Your friend hugs you close as soon as you’re within reach. “Oh, thank the Gods.”

You hug her back tightly. “I am.”

“What is all this?” Pero asks, gesturing to the horses, putting an arm around you when Lena releases you.

“Soldiers arrived in the village today,” Tomas answers, a hard expression on his face. “Direction from the king, to help with the witch problem.”

“Witch problem?” you repeat, balking. Then the realization settles over you. “Farrell.”

Pero tightens his grip on you. “I met a man in another village, on my way back. He was the one who supplied Farrell with the means to capture you.”

Your swallow hard, heart racing in your chest. You turn to Pero. “I cannot stay here.”

“We cannot stay here,” he amends, kissing your temple. Then he turns back to Tomas and Lena, extending a hand to Tomas. “Thank you, my friend.”

Tomas just nods, shaking Pero’s hand.

“Oh, I don’t want you to go,” Lena cries, her eyes wet, and she hugs you close again. “Write to us, will you? Once you’re safe. Let us know you’re okay.”

“We will,” you agree, hugging her back. “Kiss the children for me, will you?”

She just nods.

Pero hands Tomas the reins of Farrell’s horse, takes his and yours from his friend. He helps you into your horse’s saddle, Soot making a home in your lap, and starts walking down the road, both horses trailing behind him. Your hand finds its way onto his shoulder, squeezing lightly.

You think about looking back, to the place where your home once stood, to the friends you’ve made, to where your live once was. Your chest aches with melancholy, but once it’s all disappeared from view, once Pero swings himself into his own saddle, leans across to plant a kiss on your lips, both of you nudging your horses into a gallop, the feeling eases.

“Are you worried, amor?” Pero asks.

“No,” you answer, your words honest, a hopeful smile pulling at your lips. “As long as I have you.”

—————

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