author's notes: Written for Snowbarry Week 2016, Day 2: supernatural.

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& LOVE HER ANYWAY

part one

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why is it always the woman who has to see past the beast in the man?
why does she always have to clean his wounds, even after he has damaged her beyond repair?
why is it always the man who is worthy of forgiveness for being a monster?

I want to see the beast in the beauty. the half smile, half snarl. the unapologetic anger.
I would like to see the man forgive the monster. to see her, blood and all, ... & love her anyway. C.S.

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"Once upon a time, when the days were long, and the nights were deep, the Dark dwelled in the fringes of the human world.

"Each night it tried to invade, and each night it failed, beat back by the Light that lived in every living being."

"Inside me, too, mom?" Barry asked, and looked up from his pillow, at his mom's red hair gleaming in the moonlight, at her soft mesmerizing smile, and skin that shone as if kissed by diamonds.

His mom stroked a hand down his cheek. "Especially you, my beautiful boy."

"Why would the Dark even try?"

Nora Allen thought on this a moment, watching as stars danced in her young son's eyes. "The Dark knows no right or wrong like we do, Barry. It knows only how to destroy and take away the Light."

"Tell the story about the boy," Barry insisted.

His mom nodded. "One night, many thousands of years ago, before mankind could speak or write, a young boy wandered too far from his tribe.

"Before long, he got lost. He called out but no sound came. He ran far, but found nothing but unrelenting desert. And so, the Dark came for him.

"It was careful at first, for in this boy, too, there lived a Light, a Light that could destroy the Dark. But as the night grew deeper still, the Light got smaller and smaller inside the boy, scared that he might never find his family again. Scared that he might never make it home.

"The little boy, too young to know the real dangers the night held, looked inside the Dark, and found the Dark staring back at him.

"That is, how they say, the first Demon was born. Preying on a helpless child."

Barry shivered underneath his sheets, and cuddled closer to his mom.

"For centuries the Dark tried, and came, and infected those most vulnerable, turning humans into monsters. Humans, in turn, made those monsters into myth."

"Why would they do that, mom?" Barry asked. "Make up stories when they were real?"

"People are afraid of what they can't explain."

"And then the Purge came, didn't it, mom? All the demons wanted to kill us."

"That's right. The Dark wanted to rid the world of humans, kill all the Light inside us, so that it could reign eternal."

"But the Light came too," Barry jumped ahead in the story, to his most favorite part he'd learned by heart. When he grew up he would be as great a storyteller as his mom; he knew that for a fact. "And beat back the Dark."

His mom smiled. "That's right."

"Is the Dark gone, mom? Do demons still exist?"

Nora Allen leaned in and kissed her son's forehead.

"Light can't exist without the Dark, Barry."

.. wake up...

Barry wakes with a start, in a sweat set cold on his skin over the course of the night. Startled, he rubs over the burn his dream leaves behind, right over his heart, one he's gotten used to, because even after all these years the ache persists.

He sits up, blinking at the harsh sunlight filtering through the curtains. It's too hot for the time of year, inside and outside the house, as if the Sprites and Undine had stolen pockets of heat over the summer and brought them out to play. They were meant to have shifted into fall weeks ago, closing in on winter, but while the leaves browned and fell and rotted on the forest floor, the temperature hadn't kept pace. He'd like to say that's unusual, but nymphs were often free and whimsical.

A clatter sounds through the bungalow, followed by muffled profanity. He throws on a shirt and heads down in search of his dad, tracking him underneath the sink of their small picturesque kitchen.

"Dad? What's going on?"

"It's this damn leak." His dad curses, and clinks a wrench against a random pipe.

"Stop!" He runs over, stealing the wrench before his dad can do any real damage, like the last time he tried to fix anything in the house. "I got it."

He crawls in next to his dad, who leaves to give him more room, and gives one bolt a few stern turns, shutting down the steady drip-drip that'd accompanied many of their meals. He probably should've gotten to this sooner.

"You have to give it a little love," he says, stands, and closes the kitchen cabinets.

His dad slaps at his back. "You have your mother's hands, son."

The familiar words set ablaze his heartburn, but soothe it at the same time—it's a sad yet calming thought, to think his mom's magic still alive, a dormant reminder he carried with him. Dormant, because for all the magic his mom and her family had been blessed with, not an ounce of it lived inside him.

Most half-breeds tended to inherit something from both parents, but his mom's Sprite magic had never shown in him. The thought that somehow that magic might exist in his natural ability to fix things barely helped staunch his disappointment. Being human never put anyone at a disadvantage, but he would've liked to carry some part of his mom with him.

Barry makes himself and his dad an omelet, flavored by herbs he tries to keep alive in the garden, and watches his dad read the newspaper at the kitchen table, like he does most days.

He bites the inside of his cheek. "I had the dream again," he says, none too sure it's a subject he should broach.

His dad hums, acknowledging that he heard what he said, but leaves it at that. He'd spoken about the dream before, because he'd had the same one every night for the past three weeks. What if someone out there was trying to tell him something? What if a creature had sprinkled dust in his eyes, bringing him dreams of his mother for a specific reason?

"Dad."

"What do you want me to say, Barry?" His dad looks up, something akin pity in his eyes. "It's not uncommon for you to dream about your mom."

Dreaming about his mom wasn't odd, but the same dream word for word for weeks on end couldn't be a coincidence.

His mom used to tell him that same story before bed almost every night, and as he grew older the story grew with it. Now the Purge was no longer set 'once upon a time' but only a few years before he was born. Demons had referred to it as a cleansing, hoping to eradicate all that was good in the world one human at a time. If he could believe the stories, and he did, the world had come close to the end times.

Without help from the Light, mankind would not have survived.

The world owed magic a lot.

It is said that magic itself –both Light and Dark- breathed life into the universe, into the first small living cell that evolved into everything they knew today.

In the years following the Purge the big metropolises found their footing again, and humans and magic kind alike rebuilt, repopulated, restarted life as it had never been lived before. Side by side.

In the fringes of that world, the Dark continued on. Waited. Anticipated.

Often, the Dark still won, like it had fourteen years ago, when it came for the Light inside his mom.

It was for that reason his dad had moved them both out to the country, where there were plenty of humans who'd decided on a quiet life undisturbed by magic, and were all of them in need of a doctor.

After breakfast and a shower he meets his dad in his study, waiting for him to fill the prescriptions he delivers around the village every week. Many of the villagers were either old or infirm and his dad never expected them to travel the distance for their pills.

A brisk walk from town, right out by the lake, the cottage they rented was nothing more than a large bungalow where they each had their own room, shared a bathroom, and his dad had a study where he could see to those patients that did make the trip.

Back in the city things had been different. His dad shared a practice with his mom, where she healed magic kind with her hands and herbs she grew out in their small garden, and his dad tended to the humans in his care. Every day there had been an adventure, there'd been something new to learn, a new creature to get to know, and the Dark never crept into his nightmares quite so often, or so easily.

"These are painkillers for Mrs. Bates," his dad says, stapling his instructions to a small paper bag holding the pill bottle. "It's really important that she takes one every day."

"I'll let her know."

His dad holds the bag just out of reach.

"I'll tell her three times, dad." He laughs. "Don't worry."

Smiling, his dad relinquishes the last of the prescriptions and lets him go on his way. He grabs his backpack and stores all the prescriptions inside, along with a book and an apple for the road. He likes to consider these his days off, so he tends to drag out his rounds for hours.

North Hollow, Connecticut moved at a speed the city unlearned decades ago, and he daresay he still hadn't quite adjusted. He still couldn't resist racing into the woods as fast as his legs would allow, slowing down right before he hit the bridge over the stream where he could listen to the unbroken cascade of the water- the wood of the bridge creaky and slippery, in a constant state of disrepair, but somehow it survived each winter intact; the woodland spirits saw to that.

Despite now living in –what he called- the middle of nowhere, the woods managed to bring him the kind of calm and peace his mom instilled in him by simply being near him- her own connection to the forest, from the dark soil where everything sprouted to the bird's nests high up in the trees, made sure he appreciated his surroundings all the more.

He pauses, breathing in the rich green scent of moss, the birdsong, the wind rustling like whispers through the trees. If he reached out he could touch the gentle breeze bringing the forest to life, track its current through the tree trunks, and tune into a timeless rhythm.

He kneels and stretches five fingers deep into the ground, the soil beneath cold and wet.

He smiles, and closes his eyes, thinking back on the days when his mom did the same and saplings would sprout, or flowers in the most vibrant colors.

His fingers aren't quite so magical.

The woods that border the village on three sides are about the only things North Hollow had going for it. Each day since the morning they arrived had been the same; he and his dad had breakfast together, and then went their own way- his dad tended to his patients, while he did his chores and disappeared into his books; he made his dad lunch and brought it to him, went back to his books, and then later they had dinner together.

Since North Hollow didn't house a school, most of the kids around here were homeschooled, and so he learned everything he knew from the books he ordered online, or his mom's books, which he snuck down from the attic and read in secret.

When he turned eighteen he'd hoped to go into the city and apply to the small community college there, but his dad wouldn't allow it. Deep down he knew his dad's reluctance was born out of fear, that Henry Allen would never survive losing his son too, but he couldn't help but somewhat resent his dad for limiting his choices. Choices that should've been his own to make.

He had the smarts to make it as far as his dad and become a doctor, but he dreamed of being a healer like his mom- help not only humans, but every creature under the sun, the moon, and the stars.

His dad argued that any degree he wanted he could acquire online these days, and while that was definitely true, studying on his own had grown tiresome and lonely, especially with his dad doing overtime. Every day looked the same. Every day got harder than the one before. It's been three years of online courses, slowly watching his degree creep closer, and they've been the longest of his life.

He'd give about anything for some more excitement around here.

"Good morning, Barry," say Mrs. Bates, and Mr. Corcoran, and Mr. Blanchard, as well as the baker, and the bookshop owner, and every other person he runs into as he skips into one house after the other, delivering ointments, pills and bandages.

"Morning," he greets time and time again, sticking around for small talk, coffee and pie in more than a few instances, and socializes with people who wouldn't know he existed if his dad didn't send him on these runs.

He likes it here well enough; he's not a contrary guy and gets along with most people- he just wants more. More than this provincial town.

His last stop is a new one, a Zacharia Hunter who recently moved to town and had a bad heart, so he needed a lot more delivered than merely his medication. New arrivals weren't uncommon; plenty of older people got tired of city life, the crowd and the haste of the busy streets, a world that moved faster each short moment that passed—

What he wouldn't give to live in all that frenzy, to watch humans and magic kind live and work side by side, to be smack in the center of a life his parents both envisioned for him- a doctor and a healer, or maybe something in between.

Had that future faded with his mom's Light?

His new route takes him deeper into the woods, well past any part he'd ever explored.

A narrow unpaved access road leads from the main road into the forest again, winding around trees, both saplings and elders, deeper and deeper into the woods. He hopes the trail doesn't take him much further; each inch of this forest looks the same and if he missteps it's easy to get lost.

He's been walking for close to twenty minutes when a small car honks behind him, forcing him off the trodden path.

Mr. Albert raises his hand and waves from behind the wheel, probably on his way to deliver groceries to Zacharia.

.. Barry ...

—something whispers behind him.

He whirls around and calls, "Who's there?" to the trees along the road, the shrubs and dead leaves, but as soon as he does he can't be sure he heard anything at all. Had he not heard his name? Who around here would call out to him? There's never anyone out in these woods.

Looking back at the path, safe to travel again, he thinks he should be on his way to see Zacharia, finish his rounds so he can settle in his favorite spot near the church, and read.

He should keep going.

... over here ..

Wind catches at his fingers.

.. come ...

What could be out there for him to see? He hasn't explored this part of the woods, not as extensively as west of the village, because nothing's brought him this far out before. It might not be safe.

A shiver traipses up his spine. Straying from the paths around here can be dangerous; the Dark lurks in the shadows as surely as it does in the city, and he'd do well steering clear.

... help ..

Still.

Where's the harm in having a quick look?

Barry trips a step to his right, further off the beaten path, into an unknown part of the forest- it looks no different than the parts he did know, the same shifting hints of green, the same kind of birdsong filling him with peace and calm, so what's drawing him here? Who's calling to him?

There might well be Tricksters behind this.

He pushes deeper still, and soon, through the thick foliage of trees and shrubs, he can make out a house, paint flaking around the windows, rotting wood-

He moves in closer, the wet leaves beneath his feet making him stumble, but he's afraid that if he blinks the house will disappear like a mirage, as if it were never there.

Are his eyes deceiving him?

Sunlight bathes the clearing he comes to in oranges and browns, falling over a once beautiful home, left abandoned to nature. One side of the house has overgrown with evergreen ivy and periwinkle, purple flowers winding inside some of the first floor windows, while the sun surely catches at the dust dancing in the rooms downstairs.

Something giggles at his shoulder.

He startles, and looks to his right, but finds nothing but air.

There's a force at work here, following him through these woods. Was it his imagination, or was he being led?

He looks back to the house, and shivers.

Despite the obvious wear and tear exposure the elements caused, it appears to be in a fairly good state—no holes poked through the walls or the roof, the porch intact, and while the windows appear dirty, few of them were broken. It's a big family home, and it appears out of place here; his forays into the woods had made him stumble onto an old church and some hunting cabins, but never anything of this size. Who would build something so grand way out here?

The three steps leading up to the porch and the front door appear inviting.

What could be inside that's so important?

He glances over his shoulder, thinking on the last pill bottle in his backpack he has yet to deliver. He should get back to the path, retrace his footsteps before he'd been led astray and forget about this place. What if it's a trick? What if the Dark is waiting for him inside the house, waiting to kill the Light inside him?

.. Barry ...

A whimsical breeze catches at his neck and whispers the season's change, his name, another cry for help.

... help ..

He heads up the steps to the porch.

It takes him three firm tries before the front door gives way, but he soon falls inside the house, quiet like a graveyard. Dust crawls into his nose.

There's a broad staircase straight ahead, two large free spaces to his left and right; one dark with the windows blotted out by the weeds, the other light, open.

It's stiflingly hot inside the house, heat trapped in every nook, the house barely breathing under the weight of this unusual Indian summer.

The dust in the air he breathes sings, as if puppeteered by the sunlight—

.. upstairs ...

He swallows hard, his heartbeat picking up speed.

He can still go back. He can still leave.

The door slams shut behind him with a bang, and he jumps, too scared to move another inch- the noise travels through the house like a storm, rattling shutters, glass—

Upstairs, a rustling starts.

And all the sounds from the woods die out.

What has he gotten himself into? Who would want him here? What's up there?

... help her ..

His mom taught him a lot about woodland spirits, being one herself, and while there were those that might wish him harm, he should be able to sense danger if there were any- the magical world built on rules similar to theirs.

There's no danger here that he can sense.

So, balling his hands into fists he takes a step forward, and another, and yet another, until he's set a steadfast pace up the stairs.

At the top of the landing, a long hallway cutting through the house left and right, he stops and waits for another sign. If he's truly needed here magic will guide the way.

To his left, at the far end of the dark hallway, a door screeches open, its hinges crying.

A thump sounds, coming from the attic.

.. hurry ...

He grabs for his phone and turns on the flashlight, brightening the path ahead, and makes his way down the hallway to the attic door.

A dark staircase leads the final stretch upstairs.

A metal clinging sounds.

Had some poor animal found its way inside the house and gotten stuck?

Sweat drips down his back as he ascends the stairs, lighting his way until he reaches the top step, and finds some light filtering through a round broken window, letting in more heat still. Even though trees circled the clearing, the sun beat down on the house relentlessly, heat radiating through the attic roof.

He studies the lighted side of the attic, making sure to check the darkened rafters where the ceiling sloped, and around the central column of the chimney, but finds nothing but dirty rags, old carton boxes, thick layers of dust showing his footprints.

Come to think, there aren't any other marks in the dust.

Another metal clink echoes, coming from the darkness.

His jaw clenches. What in God's name is he doing here? What if he was wrong about not sensing any danger? The heat's so oppressive up here it's making it harder to breathe, his lungs are heavy, and he's wearing too many layers to be comfortable.

Still, he pushes into the dark, raising his phone higher to shed light.

Two white eyes stare right back at him.

"Holy Jesus!" he shouts and jumps back, and his phone drops to the floorboards.

He stands paralyzed for a moment or two, the white piercing eyes flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinks, his heart beating like a jackhammer, until other details start seeping into his peripheral vision- pale blue skin, shocks of long white hair.

A girl.

Chains clank, along with a scuttle, like fingernails being dragged along wood.

He quickly grabs for his phone again and shines the light, falling over a defenseless creature dressed in rags, barely moving.

That's why he was led here, to help this poor thing out of this scalding hot attic, and make sure she gets the medical attention she needs.

Then, his eyes fall to the shackles.

"Oh my God," he breathes, and runs a hand through his hair, moving in closer.

One end of a short chain of shackles is locked around a rafter, the other around the girl's ankle, the rust leaving behind an orange stain that's started irritating the bare skin underneath.

And he can't move.

Someone brought her here and did this to her, someone locked her up inside this house, chained her up so she wouldn't be able to escape. There's no telling how long she's been here, a prisoner, afraid for her life, and—

What kind of beast would do this? Who'd leave her here? Who—

Cold sweat grabs around his neck like an icy claw. Who wouldn't come back for her?

A pale hand grips helplessly at his feet.

"Help," the creature whimpers, voice weaker than a whisper, a final cry before she drifts out of consciousness.

He falls to his knees and pulls at the chain, at the side stuck to the rafters, but no matter how hard he tries, or how fiercely he tugs, the chain nor the wood budge; the round cuff around the girl's ankle, too, is too strong for him to open without a key.

He doesn't have the time to search the house for one.

So he does the one thing he can think of.

Without another thought he sprints down the attic stairs, down to the ground floor again, the front door swinging open for him, and each shrub or branch he had to push out of the way coming here gives way before he has to touch it.

It all makes sense now; the spirits alive in this forest led him to one of their own in need of help. How she'd gotten there and who'd put her through such horror seemed questions for later, because each minute now counted towards her survival.

He runs all the way home without stopping, down the access road and through town, across the bridge over the stream where his sneakers find sound footing, the wind at his heels giving him wings. All the while making a mental list of everything he'll need once he gets there.

He heads for the garage, where he finds a pair of bolt cutters and a flashlight, a first aid kit packed with everything he'll need. In a box on one of the shelves he finds some of his old clothes.

Outside, looking at the cottage he shares with his dad, he hesitates.

Should he ask his dad for help? He'd know more about this than anyone else in town, he'd know what to do and how to help, and—

No. His father swore off that life -his mother's life- a long time ago.

It's up to him to save this girl.

He skips into the bungalow and fills two large bottles with water, and grabs a box of defrosted Eggos.

Anything else he can come back for later.

Before he knows it he's back at the house, and nothing or no one stood in his way- he'd found his way back blindly, with little to no effort. The front door falls shut behind him once more, and he braves the stifling heat of the attic again. When he gets there, the ivy and periwinkle have disappeared from the other window, letting in more light.

Someone is watching over them, and that's an astoundingly reassuring thought.

He shrugs out of his jacket, and takes the bolt cutters out of his backpack, walking over to the girl, awake again. Whoever did this to her left her without the strength to break her own cuffs.

"Sorry that I ran off," he says, and sits down by the girl's side. "I had to get some things to help you."

"Hot," the girl chokes out, her skin turned gray.

"Yeah, I know it's-"

It strikes him then that he has no idea what species the girl is; he hasn't seen any of her kind before, not with her specific features, and if she's a half-breed like him this might not be the form she lives in. Many half-breeds, especially shape shifters, could change to and from their human form at will. Maybe the girl's a night dweller and shouldn't be exposed to the light, or maybe it's the heat or the sun that's changing her.

How should he cool the house down?

He cuts through her chains with one swift move, cutting again at the link around her ankle.

The girl instinctively pulls her leg closer, whining at the pain.

Who would do this? What monster would chain her up in the first place, and then leave her here to die?

"Hurt," the girl cries.

"I know," he says, and reaches out carefully, making sure she can see him at all times so he won't scare her. He touches a hand to her forehead, hot and clammy, though the girl seems to be shivering too. Her breathing's shallow and her heart beats rapidly, and considering she's been losing consciousness—

"I think you may have heat stroke," he says. "We need to lower your body temperature."

It's impossible to be certain, since he has no clue how long she's been here or when she last ate or drank anything, but he has to get her out of this attic no matter what. If she stays up here much longer, she'll die.

"Here." He offers the girl the bottle of water, cupping her cheek gently. "Drink this."

She takes a small sip, and starts coughing, her head lolling back and forth on the floorboards.

Best to lower her body temperature first.

"Okay, how are we going to cool you down?"

He pushes a lock of white hair from the girl's face. "I'll be right back, okay?"

Even if she might not hear him he doesn't want her to think he left her behind again.

Downstairs, he tries the door opposite the attic's, but it's locked. The door across the hall to his left does open, but one glance inside tells him it's a bedroom.

The next door is the bathroom.

"Now we're talking."

He laughs as he heads inside, wondering if anyone's listening in on his fascinating monologues. This is the last thing he thought he'd be doing when he woke up this morning, and he's still not sure he should be doing it on his own- his dad would know what to do, and he'd probably take her to a hospital, but helping magic kind hasn't been in his dad's job description for many years.

The bathroom's quite small for a house this size; a broken mirror over a small sink, while the bathtub seems to have been moved to a different angle, set beneath the window overlooking the woods. A light layer of dust mars the white acrylic, so he's surprised to find the water's still connected when he tries the tap- he opens the cold tap all the way, plugs the drain, and hurries back upstairs.

There, he shoulders his backpack again. He carefully slides an arm underneath the girl's shoulders and one underneath her knees, and picks her up from the floor. She's so light it's a wonder she's alive at all, and he prays with all his might she makes it through this- no one deserves this torture, this kind of abandonment. Why hadn't the creatures in this forest tried to find help sooner?

In the bathroom he lowers her into the bathtub, steadily filling with cold water. The girl shrieks, but doesn't struggle, settling in the tub immediately.

That's when he notices the tears running down her cheeks.

"Hey," he hushes, "You're okay."

He cups some water in his hand and traces it along her neck, hoping to cool her down as fast as possible. Ice packs would work faster, but he can't stand the thought of leaving her all alone. She's been alone long enough.

"You're okay," he whispers, and drips some water onto her forehead too, down her face, mixing gently with her tears. If he didn't know any better, he'd think her skin bluer, healthier, but that can't have happened in the two minutes since he lowered her into the tub. At least he doesn't think so.

He closes the cold tap.

Like that, silence returns to the house- the tap drips a few last drops of water, and the girl closes her eyes.

"I'm so sorry this happened to you."

His eyes trace down the girl's face, down her deep blue lips, down her neck, where he can make out needle marks along her jugular.

The clothes she's in, a dark blue dress, show obvious signs of tears, holes ripped through, possibly at her own hand. All her nails are cracked, blood where her skin's broken.

What in God's name had happened to her? What beast stole her from the world and shut her up in this forsaken place, in a town where little magic lived? How did she get here? Who was she before this?

As if reading his mind, the girl opens her eyes, all white and piercing.

"Hot."

Dipping his fingers in the water he finds it's remarkably warm already, heated by the girl's frail body.

He unplugs the drain and starts the water running again.

"I can get you some ice," he says, and brings up the bottle of water he'd offered her earlier. "Can you try and drink this while I'm gone?"

The girl looks at him, then the bottle, and nods, reaching for it with both hands.

Assured that she won't pass out again while he's gone, Barry heads out to the small grocery store in town, where the owner's kind enough not to ask why he came in to buy two 5lbs bags of ice. He's not sure he'd be quick enough to come up with a decent lie.

Back at the house he finds the girl still resting in the tub, water still running, the bottle of water empty on the floor.

Good.

Again, as if sensing his presence, the girl opens her eyes, falling to the bags in his hands.

"Please," she begs, and he shoots in action- he rips the bag open and pours it inside the tub in its entirety, hoping it won't be too much of a shock to her system.

The girl sighs gratefully, grabbing both of her hands around a few ice cubes and holds on tight, unbothered by the cold. For a moment he fears he might've been too late, that her brain has forgotten that kind of cold should hurt, so he brings his hand to her forehead, and kneels by the side of the tub.

Her fever breaks beneath his touch.

He blinks. Is that even possible? She's a magic creature of some kind and clearly not fond of the heat- maybe all she needed to regain her strength was to cool down.

"You like the cold," he says, and sits down, watching her pale-blue skin turn paler yet.

The water ripples, and the girl sticks out her ankle, the one that had been shackled. Completely healed.

"Okay"—he chuckles—"cold makes you stronger. That's one thing we know about you."

It doesn't explain how she ended up chained in the attic of an abandoned house in the middle of the forest, but he'll get to the bottom of that later- maybe once she's stronger she'll be able to say it in her own words.

"More," the girl urges.

He dumps the second bag of ice into the tub too.

The girl sits up and starts tugging at her dress until it pulls free.

His eyes widen.

"I'll just-"

He turns promptly on his heels, unable to settle his hands anywhere.

"There's some clothes in the backpack," he says, and nods, closing the bathroom door behind him. He hears the wet plop of clothes hitting the floor and more water splashing.

He should give her privacy.

At a bit of a loss for what to do now, he checks the bedroom he'd found earlier. There's a four-poster bed against the wall, and a small dresser with drawers- the room otherwise bare.

It doesn't hit him right away, but when it does a cold chill sets along his spine.

Why are there sheets on the bed?

Why is it made at all, if the house is empty and fallen into disrepair? Why was there running water in a house that hasn't been lived in for years, and had a girl chained up in the attic?

He walks over to the dresser and opens one of the drawers.

His mind reels.

There are clean clothes inside, red and blue plaid shirts for a man much bigger than him.

He stuffs the clothes back inside the drawer and closes it.

None of this makes sense.

Why would someone bring an innocent creature here, chain her up, keep her drugged, if not—

No.

No, it can't be. Not here.

He walks back out into the hallway and heads straight for the door he found locked, jiggling the doorknob. There's no key in the lock and the door seems heavier than all the others he's so far encountered in the house. Why? What made this door different? Why had the forest invaded this room from the outside and not the others?

The lock jumps open in the door.

And for the first time today he's not sure he should thank whatever magic has been looking out for him.

He pushes the door open.

It's indeed the room he'd seen from the outside, invaded by ivy and periwinkle through a broken window- but it does nothing to alleviate the sinister sense of foreboding that sets his hairs on end.

There's another unused pair of shackles on the floor.

And in the dead center of the room, there's a gurney with restraints for both hands and feet.

Not here.

A long steel table stands along the wall, all manner of tools on top. Other people might not recognize them, but being his father's son he can identify more than a few; surgical scissors and saws, amputation knives, artificial leeches, forceps, a scarificator for bloodletting, a trephine to bore into a skull- anything a surgeon might've needed in the Stone Age of medicine.

But this is no surgeon's equipment.

These are a Hunter's tools, those bogeymen who showed up after the Purge and—

He pulls the door shut and finds support against the wall, his stomach turning. Never in his life did he think he'd have to deal with this. Hunters were stories, newspaper articles that made him afraid for the world, but not anything he'd ever have to face. They're beasts who shouldn't be allowed to live; they preyed on magic kind the way the Dark had on that little boy strayed too far from his tribe and were no better, despite being human. They were the lowest of the low, selling blood, hair, bones, skin of whatever innocent creature they trapped.

One of them had brought the girl here.

Why had he left her upstairs? His footsteps were clearly visible in the layers of dust spread everywhere in the house, so no one had been here for a long time.

Why?

Had he gone elsewhere? Had he found a richer hunting ground?

Would he come back for her?

The door to the bathroom opens, the girl soon stumbling into the hallway, holding onto the doorframe to stand.

"Hey, you shouldn't try to walk." He shoots forward to help her; she's soaking wet and wearing one of his old sweaters, but her complexion has brightened, her skin has healed and dark sunken bruises have disappeared with the help from the cold.

It's nothing short of a miracle.

He helps the girl into the bedroom against his better judgment; she shouldn't be forced to remain in this place her captor created, but she needs to rest, and he doesn't have anywhere else to take her. No one in town would take her in; they've all grown too accustomed to living without the visible influence of magic- the irony is there are few aspects of their world magic didn't govern or keep in balance.

The girl sits down on the bed, and he kneels in front of her, feeling a hand to her forehead.

"Your fever's gone."

The girl makes a grab for his hand- for a second he's afraid he's overstepped his boundaries, that another man dictating her life is the last thing she needs and probably brings back bad memories, but she holds his hand, studies it as if it's the first time she's ever seen it, and looks down at her own hand too.

"I'm Barry."

She speaks, somewhat, and she's cognitive enough to make demands, so there must be someone in there who was taught to talk and write- there must be part of her that's human, buried underneath all that pain.

"Barry," the girl repeats.

"What's your name?"

At that a sadness sinks down the girl's precious face, her eyes downcast, and she releases his hand.

He shouldn't push too hard; she's been through enough.

"I have to go home."

He pulls the Eggos and the other bottle of water out of his backpack and places them next to the bed- he'll come back with something better tomorrow, but right now his dad will be wondering what's keeping him, and he's a terrible liar in the best of circumstances. It's not that he thinks his dad would do this poor creature any harm, or that his dad hates all magic, but he won't take the risk of anyone looking at her now, and thinking her a demon.

Despite all the positive changes the Light has brought into their world, there are places where people who were different were still treated unfairly.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he says, "with more food."

"Ice," the girl says softly.

He smiles. "And more ice."

Slowly, hesitantly, the girl reaches out and touches the tips of her fingers to his lips- they're cold, icy almost, and he can't figure why she'd feel the need to touch him right now.

"Okay," she whispers.

The girl turns on the bed and lies down against the sheets, curling into a small ball. His heart bleeds thinking about everything she must've been through, about the way she must've been ripped away from her life and shut up in an attic, by some vile stranger who meant to take advantage of her. How is it that there's so much darkness in this world they live in?

.. safe now ...

—something whispers in an undesignated corner of the room.

He doesn't look, because he knows there won't be anything he can see there; his eyes can't see into any other dimension, and faerie kind rarely shows itself to humans.

Making his way out of the house, he turns to look at it again. He'll be back tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that- as long as the girl, or the spirits in the wood need him to.

"Keep her safe for me, okay?" he tells no one in particular as the wind takes him by the hand.

He watches evergreen slither up the steps of the porch, crawling along the boards until it reaches the door, covering the surface of it so no one will find it but him.

Magic will watch over both of them tonight.

.

.

tbc

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*the line "when the days were long, and the nights were deep" was taken from Killjoys, the rest is mine!