A/N: Written by Chaser 1 of Montrose Magpies for the QLFC semi-finals.

Prompt: Salem: Cupid Carries a Gun — Marilyn Manson

Optional prompts: (word) circumstance, (word) distance, (word) medieval

Word count: 2812

Content warning: A character is placed under a love potion.

Also for the Build a Zoo Challenge with the prompt 'Little Hangleton'.

The sun was hot against the back of Tom's neck as he took the turn that led past the rundown Gaunt shack, his horse's hooves clopping lazily on the road. Pulling a handkerchief out of his vest pocket, he wiped away the thin layer of sweat that was beginning to form.

It was a shame that the shack was situated on the quickest path into and out of the village. The garden was wild and unkempt, the roof sagged, and a putrid smell lingered on the air. It looked like it hadn't been tended to since medieval times.

Tom scrunched up his nose and dug his feet into Sandy's sides, leaning forward as the mare's pace picked up in response. If people insisted upon living like that, the least they could do was make sure upstanding folk like him didn't have to see it. The more distance he put between him and this horrid place, with its even more despicable inhabitants, the better.

His grandfather had always said that circumstance was a fickle beast, making paupers of even the greatest of men, but that was hogwash. The Gaunt men were in prison now, locked away for a reason so foul that the papers hadn't dared to print the details. People like Tom and his darling Cecilia would never behave like that, no matter what circumstances might befall them.

Deep down, people were what they were.

'Sir!' a voice called out. 'Sir, wait!'

The words were shaky and halting — as if the speaker didn't have much occasion to use her voice.

Following the sound, he saw the hovel's remaining inhabitant hurrying towards him. Her dress — if that baggy excuse for fabric could be called a dress — was grey and tattered, as if she had been in mourning since the day she was born. The colour made her pale face even pastier. And while her dark brown eyes were pretty, the way they stared in different directions was too disorienting for him to look at them for long.

'Take this — please,' she said, holding out a glass of what looked like orange juice. 'It's a hot day, and you look so tired.'

For a moment, he considered riding right past her, leaving the young woman and the hovel she called home in the dust. But the heat had come on suddenly, and even just looking at the drink made his parched throat ache.

Besides, what was she going to do? Her father and brother were gone, and if she tried anything, he could overpower her in an instant.

'Alright,' he said, pulling on the reins and bringing Sandy to a stop in front of her. 'Just this once.'

She reached up to hand him the glass, and Tom took it with a quick nod. He wasn't quite so desperate as to say thank you to someone like her, but his mother had raised him better than leaving the favour entirely unacknowledged. 'Orange, is it?'

The young woman paused before nodding. 'Yes — yes, orange.'

Hesitating, Tom sniffed it. The smell of citrus was mixed with something else — mahogany, he thought, as well as the flowery scent that Cecilia used as perfume. 'It smells… odd.'

'It's a family recipe,' she said. 'It's safe. Here — look.'

She took the glass from him and took a sip before passing it back.

He frowned at the uncultured display, but he still had a few kilometres to travel before he reached his destination, and there were few houses along the way. Throwing caution to the wind, he made sure the part she had drunk from was turned away from him before taking a sip, and then a gulp, of the cool liquid.

It was the most disgusting thing he had ever tasted. The oranges must have been spoiled — or maybe she had tried to add spice to it. He forced himself to swallow the mouthful before turning back to her, an angry remark on the tip of his tongue.

His breath caught in his throat as their gazes met, and he felt his jaw go slack.

Tom had come by this way hundreds of times, and more often than not, she had watched him from the garden. How, in all that time, had he never truly seen her?

Her face was still pasty, but he longed to rest his hand against her cheek. Her clothes were still an eyesore, but he wanted to see what she looked like without them.

And her eyes — her eyes were the most beautiful things Tom had ever seen.

'Does it taste alright?' she asked, a look of concern creeping across her face.

'Yes,' he blurted out. 'Yes, it's delicious.'

Without taking a breath, he gulped down the rest of it, not wanting to offend her. She must have looked so earnest as she squeezed the oranges to extract the juice and experimented with different spices, doing her best to mimic a recipe that, now that she lived alone, must be special to her. And for her to offer to share it with him — well, that was very generous indeed.

Sliding off his horse, he stepped forward, reaching out to take her hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed it, lingering for a moment. 'Thank you,' he said with feeling. 'May I walk you back to your house, Miss Gaunt?'

She beamed. 'My name's Merope.'

'Merope.' In a smooth motion, he turned, tucking her hand under his arm. 'I'm Tom.'

-x-

Tom hummed under his breath as he walked up the path to Merope's house. Just three months ago, he would have mocked anyone who deigned to hum in public, viewing it as trite nonsense. But ever since that fateful day when Merope had offered him orange juice and he'd walked her back to her front door, he'd found himself doing a great many things that he wouldn't have done before.

Now, instead of riding out into the countryside with Cecilia, he passed his days with Merope in her shack. His parents thought it was a phase; that he wanted a taste of rebellion before settling down properly. But they didn't understand — they couldn't understand.

In a single day, Tom had felt more for Merope than he ever had for any of the girls he'd taken out for picnics. Like a comet, she had come crashing into his life, and he never wanted to let her go; leaving her bed each night to return to the monotony of the outside world was agony. He would dance to the beat of her drums for the rest of his life if she let him.

Unbidden, his lips stretched up into a fond smile.

His grandfather had been right after all; it all came down to a person's circumstances. What would Merope have been like had she had the opportunity to mingle with the other villagers as a child? Her harsh upbringing had stifled her, and that was unfair beyond comprehension.

That was why, despite the fact that his parents had made it clear that Merope would never be welcome under their roof, he had slipped his late grandmother's wedding ring into his pocket when he'd left home that morning. His father had given it to him some time ago so that he could use it to propose to Cecilia.

A shudder ran through him at the memory. At the time, he'd thought it was a swell idea, but now, it just reminded him of his folly. Still, it was for the best; there was no way his father would have given it up now.

He might not be able to offer Merope the life she deserved, but he could give her this, at least.

Before he could reach the door, it opened, and Merope stepped outside. She was smiling, the action lighting up her entire face.

Over the past few days, Tom had planned it all out. He was going to take her for a walk across the way, leading her to a little lookout they'd found the other week. Then, amidst the stunning view and lively birdsong, he was going to drop to one knee, tell her how much she meant to him, and ask her to be his wife.

But in that moment, all his careful preparation fled from his mind. Who cared about ambience and nature when he had her?

'Marry me,' he blurted out. Whether it was a question, a request, or a demand, he had no idea.

Merope blinked, a conflicted expression crossing her face. 'I…'

It was odd. After all they'd done, how could she be having second thoughts now? Had he offended her somehow?

'Please.' Stumbling forward, he grabbed her hand. 'I can't imagine life without you. No, that's a lie; I can, but it's grey and dull and lacks all meaning. I know it sounds medieval, but I need to be able to go out in public with you and say that you're mine — mine to have, mine to protect, and mine to cherish.'

Her cheeks flushed at his words, but still, she asked, 'What about your family? If you choose me, they'll never —'

'But don't you see?' Tom squeezed her hand. 'I've already chosen you. And if that means that I've lost them, that's on them, not me.'

'Then yes,' she said, launching herself forward and wrapping her arms around his neck. 'Yes, yes, always and forever.'

Perhaps love truly was blind. Before that fateful day, he had never looked at Merope twice. In all likelihood, if it hadn't been for Cupid intervening in the form of that poorly-spiced orange juice, he still wouldn't have. He would probably have been married to Cecilia by now, never knowing what he was missing out on.

Tom was the luckiest man in the world.

-x-

The kitchen was small, but it felt like a labyrinth as Tom tried to find the ingredients that he needed to make dinner. Merope did all the cooking, so he'd never had to think about where things were stored before. But with Merope pregnant and craving food that she didn't always have the energy to make, he'd thought it would be nice to surprise her with tea in bed.

Maybe the elaborate soup he'd been planning to make was too complicated. He should start with something smaller.

Moving back to the cookbook, he rifled through the pages, determined to find something that he could make.

A piece of yellowed paper came loose. The breeze coming in from the open window caught it, sending it fluttering to the ground.

Tom picked it up, surprised by the texture. On closer inspection, it wasn't made of paper, although he wasn't sure what it was made of. The only thing he knew for sure was that it looked positively medieval.

Its edges were worn, and there were patches that were stained white as if some kind of powder had been spilled on it. Along the top of the page, there was a line of black love hearts, all drawn with a swirl at the bottom like Merope always drew them.

Hoping it was a sign, Tom smoothed out the page and started to read.

He didn't get far before he was frowning, not sure what to make of the recipe.

What was Amortentia? Why were half of the ingredients things that Tom had never heard of before? Where did Merope get them from?

And why — just why — did the instructions say to make a flame underneath a cauldron?

A strange feeling settled in his gut. It was probably nothing, of course… but if he didn't know any better, he would have thought it was the instructions for making a potion — like the kind that a witch would make.

Ask her, Tom told himself. It wouldn't be fair to make assumptions.

Over the past few months, their marriage had floundered. The sheen had faded, replaced by an increasing awareness of her flaws. Back when they were first married, they'd never fought; there had never been a need to. Now, he often found them at odds with one another.

Still, that didn't mean he should jump to conclusions, especially when he had no idea what kind of conclusions he could to jump to.

Taking the recipe, Tom made his way to their bedroom, where Merope was laying in bed, her dark hair splayed across the pillow as she knitted a blanket for the baby.

'Do you know what this is?' he asked, holding up the strange paper.

The moment Merope's gaze landed on it, the colour faded from her face. Setting her knitting aside, she struggled to rise, one hand supporting her belly. 'What were you doing in the kitchen?'

His eyes narrowed, all thoughts of reasonable explanations flying out the window at her reaction. 'Why do you care?' It felt like his heart dropped. 'You didn't want me to find this, did you?'

'It's nothing,' she said, shaking her head as she managed to get to her feet. 'It's just something I found when I was a little girl. Harmless nonsense.'

'Then why are you acting so defensive? Merope, is this… is this supposed to be a love potion?' The words came out on a whim; he was expecting her to laugh, to tell him to stop being daft — anything but what she actually did.

Merope closed her eyes. 'Yes.'

Tom opened his mouth to respond, but he couldn't find any words. They stood there, staring at one another, for what felt like forever.

'Love potions aren't real,' he said weakly.

'They are. They are, and I can prove it.'

-x-

It had taken a while for Tom to believe what Merope was saying. Even after he'd realised that she wasn't joking, he'd assumed that she was imagining things — that she was ill in the head like her father and brother had been. Growing up in such circumstances, it would have been hard not to come out scathed.

But, eventually, she had convinced him. She'd explained how she'd been using love potions on him for over a year and that she had recently started reducing the doses in the hope of stopping altogether.

It had all started clicking into place. After that first day, he'd found that no matter what he was doing, no matter what he was thinking, she was there, lurking in the back of his mind. Nothing had mattered more than pleasing her.

Until recently. All the issues in their relationship had started around the time that she'd supposedly started reducing the doses.

Now, staring at her, he didn't even recognise her.

'I love you,' she said, 'and you love me. That's real. And this baby — he's real too. He needs you. We need you.'

That was when the terror set in. She was right; it had felt real. But how could he believe her about any of it? This circumstances that he'd found himself in — it was all her doing. He had never chosen to give up everything for her; she'd forced him to.

Without a second thought, he ran, sprinting out of the shack and up to the small shelter he'd built for Sandy. Behind him, he heard Merope calling out for him to slow down, to let her explain, but he ignored her. She'd had months to explain.

He had never saddled Sandy as quickly as he did then, desperate to be gone before Merope could reach him in case she tried to ensnare him again. The moment he was done, he swung up onto the horse's back, hitting his heels against her sides to urge her forward.

Everybody would assume that he had grown bored of her, or that he hadn't been able to cope with living in poverty. The worst thing was that he would never be able to prove them wrong. She'd caged him, but it wasn't physical. She'd given him enough freedom — enough choice — to make him feel like he was with her of his own volition.

But that freedom was an illusion.

Love wasn't blind after all. Cupid wasn't an angel; Cupid was a witch. She had a wand and an agenda, and she didn't care who she hurt.

Tom could only hope that Merope never came after him again. It was a blow to his pride to be scared of a woman, but if what she'd said about magic was true, how could he stop her if she truly wanted to hurt him?

As Sandy's hooves pounded against the ground like thunder, Tom was grateful for every inch of ground they put between him and that woman. Still, he knew that no matter how much distance he covered, it would never be enough.

For as long as he lived, she would be part of him.

A/N: I know Amortentia doesn't have a taste, but I figure that Merope wouldn't have access to fresh oranges and would have added things to it in an attempt to make it taste better.