It started with a single step and the need to save his brother. The forest was something they grew up with, were told stories about it at night by the scullery maids, warning tales about its depths from their father. Nobody went in the forest. Well, not if they knew what was good for them.
It sat at the edge of the realm, all thick canopy and twisted trees. Each tree one sentry in an army of nature, green and full and lively. It was welcoming from the outside. The inside was something else, nothing but myth and legend, an idea implanted in the heads of the young by the old. It could be more beautiful than heaven's light, or as terrible as the darkness as hell. Everyone had their mental image of it, but one thing rang true throughout them all.
It was the last thing you ever saw.
There was something in the forest that took you. A man, some said, a child, others argued. He'd been seen from the very edges of the forest, promising a weary traveler rest, or a mother that he'd seen her child. To see him was to feel ice in your veins, crawling through your bones and chilling your breath. To see him was to be unable to stop him.
And so he took the people, and not a thing could be done. He was a tricky one, the man of the forest. He never took those without family and friends, people who would be remembered only for their disappearance and then forgotten like many lone souls before them.
It took wives and husbands, sons and daughters. And of course their family would come for them, grief eating away at all common sense, their love driving them to their destruction. Everyone knew how it worked, was aware of the man's reliance on the hope that others would come running, throw themselves into the forest, into the boiling pot.
Alfred had heard of villagers going after loved ones, always shook his head sadly and wondered why they didn't see it. That was before Matthew had walked too close to the forest, before he'd spoken with the man and followed him in.
Going after Matthew was never a choice, an option to be debated and mulled over. It wasn't a discussion to be held, a debate with clear sides, arguments and counterarguments. The second Alfred had heard that his brother had been seen at the edge of the forest he had already run back to his cottage to start packing.
He took the bare essentials. No gold or coin, no scriptures to study or journal to write in. He took water skins and dried meat. A bedroll would keep him warm at night, and fur-lined clothes to keep him going throughout the day. His one frivolity he took, the single thing that would be more burden than aid, was his little guy.
In a world of magic, where everyone was born under a sign, blessed with an affinity, Alfred had been born to the Sun. Or more precisely, to its light. It was unusual for a sign to be specific, a single source for power when others were taken with the water or the earth, but Alfred embraced it. He soaked up the rays, let their warmth seep into his skin, his bones, his soul.
Where a person affiliated with water might need a pond near them to work, someone connected to sand would replicate a desert in miniature in their backyard. But all Alfred had to do was step out into the sunlight and he felt strong as an ox, able to conquer the world.
He'd had to be careful when he was younger, thin limbs able to lift heavy rocks, heave them with little trouble. Alfred could remember a faraway day from his childhood, a hazy memory edged with the blistering heat of a summer sky. He'd been so alone, his brother content to stay inside, his father away at the docks to deal with the merchants.
And he'd wanted someone so bad. Someone that wouldn't get mad at him for playing the mud, someone who wouldn't raise their voice and shout at him for his antics. They'd stay outside with him in the sweltering heat, wouldn't complain about sunburn or the smell of sweat.
That was when Little Guy showed up.
A certain amount of magical skill was expected from children. It was a milestone. Baby's first smile, baby's first words, baby's first steps. Then there was baby's first creation, baby's first incantation, baby's first conjuration.
First words were babbled, meaningless echoes, and first steps shaky, wobbly, rubbery legs dancing without rhythm. So the first creation was expected to be the same, nothing more than a poor imitation of what they saw, a lumpy stuffed animal or half-woven blanket.
But Alfred had made something that lived. It was round and white and felt like dough, a powdery finish on its soft flesh that never left. Alfred could recall wanting so badly that he thought his heart would cave in on itself, that the emotion would burst from him and he screwed his eyes up tight for fear that the light inside of him would escape through his gaze.
And then it had been gone. His heart had calmed and the building swell of emotion had ebbed. He'd opened his eyes and sitting in front of him was Little Guy. He blinked once, twice, his pale skin rippling slightly as a strong breeze passed through the field. He rolled without ever moving, bumping up against Alfred's feet, cooing softly, happy to be at his side.
The rest was history. While the creations of other children were put away with their baby clothes, something to be pulled out at times and remembered, Alfred's blob had stayed with him. He sat at the end of the bed when the weather was hot, curled up next to Alfred's bed when the nights turned cold. There hadn't been a single day Alfred had spent without Little Guy at his side, and he wasn't about to change things for one measly forest.
Alfred snuck out of the house early in the mornings, while his father still slept and the villagers were only just beginning to stir. There was a thick fog rolling along the ground, swallowing his feet, Little Guy almost lost amongst it. They hid in the shadows of houses whenever voices were heard, ducked behind carts at the sound of footsteps.
Once they were past the village gates, Alfred took off at a light-footed lope, his muscles loosening as the sun rose. He found his pace slowing as he approached the edge of the forest, where the rolling green hills turned to a thicket of trees. Alfred skirted the brambles that branched out and the long limbs that beckoned him in, one foot toeing an invisible line.
He ran over the stories he'd heard about the boy─ the man─ the thing in the forest. There were a hundred explanations for his appearance, but one stood out more than the rest. It was about a boy in a small village to the far north, a place where it snowed and the sun hid away. Alfred could barely imagine that such a place could be real.
But supposedly it did exist, and the customs and culture Alfred had heard about it had overwhelmed his mind. He'd never thought much about the world outside of the Western realm, that things could be different. That apparently those possessed by demons were cast out for fear of their infection being transmitted from person to person, that even priests were too frightened to try and exorcize them for fear that their own bodies would be taken.
And so when a boy in the village had been possessed, his hair silvered, his eyes deepening to an inhuman shade of purple, they'd exiled him. To kill the boy would be to welcome the demon into themselves, so instead they took him away, far from his home to throw the demon off the town, to protect themselves from vengeance. The boy's sisters had been charged with taking him, one younger and one older. They'd been the first people to enter the forest, the first to never be heard from again.
That was the day the forest turned cold, when it took on the white sheen on frost on the branches and the birds left. It hadn't been that long ago, not in the grand scheme of things. The dragons from the Eastern realm had taken over the mountains centuries ago, curled around their snow-capped tops and showering fire from the sky. The Kelpies had roamed the southern coastline for several decades, their hides like sealskin and their manes dripping, backs bare and welcoming to the weary traveler.
But the forest had only turned shortly before Alfred was born. Two decades was such a short span for so many stories and theories to crop up. But Alfred liked to think there was something left of the boy who was lead so far he could never go home, was shunned for something he couldn't control.
There was a person deeper than the demon, an original soul inhabiting the body, and it had been stuck in a forest for twenty years. Maybe the man would be reasoned with, the demon repressed, quelled, lured to sleep. And then Alfred would rescue Mattie and the man, saving future victims from the demon.
When Alfred reached the edge of the forest, he paused to soak up the sun. He let it warm his blood and bones, seep into his thoughts as he tried to etch the feeling into his mind. From what he could see, the trees were almost impossibly thick, and he was sure the canopy would blot out the sun's rays.
The crying was a faraway sound at first. Like an echo, a not quiet there noise. But Little Guy rotated, slow and smooth, to face the direction it was coming from. A sigh bubbled up in Alfred's chest as he followed Little Guy's gaze, already knowing it would be straight at the forest.
As if knowing it had Alfred's attention, the crying intensified. It had the high pitch of a child's wails, topped off with the sudden catching of breath as it hiccuped. It tugged at Alfred's heartstrings like a bard upon a lyre. He knew he was being played, being called by the spirit, but there was another part of him convinced it was nothing but a lost child who'd strayed.
What if, on the slightest off chance that was the case, Alfred didn't go in? He'd be damning the child to be forever lost, to fall into the demon's hands without a fight. He couldn't live with that kind of guilt. He was the good guy, the hero, the one who saved everyone in the end. Not the one who was too wary to take a chance.
When Alfred stepped forward, Little Guy followed. At first Alfred tried to skim the very edges of the woods, his feet walking along the shadows of the trees. He closed his eyes and tried to pinpoint the noise, convincing himself he would only take a few steps in, grab the kid, and run right back out.
There would be no dawdling, only a quick nip in to find the child and that was it. He'd send the kid home and spend a little more time in the sun, sketch out his plan of attack, figure out ways to mark his path. He imagined that those who had gone in before merely had a bad sense of direction, hadn't stopped to think of where they were heading and how to get back. That somehow, he'd be different.
And then the voice was right in front of him, loud and terrible and piercing. Alfred lunged into the woods before he could stop and think, the noise urging him on. He crashed through bush and bramble before his mind could stop his body, tripping over roots and stones.
Immediately the sun was taken from him, the world suddenly so much darker. The rich strength that seemed to consume him from dawn til dusk was stripped away, and he felt the weight of his body all at once. He took a deep gulp of air as he ran and a coldness ached in his lungs, his breath coming out in frosty white puffs.
He caught the slightest glimpse of the child in the forest, the sight of a scarf through the trees, and he ran towards it. There was an abrupt clearing of the trees, a patch where there was grass and the slightest inkling of sun. And there was the crying child, his hands pawing away the tears that streamed from his eyes. His scarf was looped around his neck, his coat loose and tattered.
The child had silver hair and vivid purple eyes, and Alfred didn't know if he should run from it or move closer. So instead he stood, still as a deer, and waited. He waited for something to change, for the boy to stop crying, for his sniveling to fade and his voice to wake. The boy kept crying, and Alfred kept waiting, and Little Guy burbled quietly to himself.
Eventually Alfred worked up the nerve to move closer, inch by tiny inch, slowing closing in on the boy. He raised his hands, palms out, tried to silently tell the boy he wasn't going to bring him any harm. If the boy noticed any of this, he hid it well by continuing to sob until Alfred was within arm's reach.
"Hey, kiddo," Alfred said softly. "Do you live around here?"
The boy nodded.
"Do you know where we are?"
The boy nodded again, and this time he spared a glance for Alfred. His face was rounded, his cheeks plump and youthful, lips a light pink, puckered into a childish pout. But his eyes were so very, very old. It made Alfred think of the warriors upon their return, the thousand-yard stare in their eyes that made them look like their minds were still on the battlefield, still amongst the bodies.
Those eyes looked right through Alfred, and it made shivers streak up and down his spine. They took the words from his lips and the thoughts from his head. He realized, in a sudden panic, he knew nothing about the demon. It was in the forest, it was in this forest, and it took people. Was it violent or sweet, able to subdue with nothing but words and a smile? It could even be both, kind to start but taking a nasty turn when its advances were turned down.
Alfred worried his lower lip as he studied the boy. He looked pretty harmless, frightened, even. He wondered how much of the boy was left, if there was any part of him not controlled by the demon. Was he nothing but a body, or was there humanity left in him?
Alfred decided his best bet was to play dumb, pretend he didn't know what the boy was.
"Hey, buddy. No more cryin'," Alfred said as he reached out a hand, ruffling the boy's silver hair. "I'll make everything better, okay? You can trust me, I'm a hero."
The boy's sobs waned to sniveling. "I'm sorry," was all he said, and there was something in his voice that didn't quite register with Alfred's ears.
"What?" Alfred asked.
"I said I'm sorry," the boy repeated, and Alfred caught it this time.
The boy had two voices. There was the voice of a child, the high tone that Alfred expected, but then hidden beneath that was the baritone of an adult. It was weak though, watery and not all together there.
"Well what the heck is there to be sorry for, kiddo? And hey, let's be buds, alright? My name is Alfred, and it's a pleasure to me you." Alfred stuck out his hand.
The boy's tearful expression softened as he placed his hand in Alfred's. His touch had the burn of something too cold, and Alfred barely managed to stop himself from pulling away. Instead he shook the boy's hand gingerly, as though the fragile bones of his small hand would splinter like ice if gripped too tightly.
"My name is Ivan," the boy said.
"Ivan, eh? Great name. The best name, even. I wish it were mine."
"Really?" Ivan asked hopefully.
"Really. Mine's all plain and boring. Alfred. Alfred. I mean, what's up with that?" Alfred babbled, doing his best to lower the demon's guard. "Yep, I'm just boring ol' Alfred, lost as all get out."
Ivan's face crumpled at the mention of Alfred being lost, and he dissolved into breathless apologies punctuated by hiccups. Alfred found himself at a loss for how to react, hovering between comforting the demon and demanding it show him the way out.
"Hey, come on Ivan, there's no need for tears. Look, how about this. I bet you know where we are. And seeing as how I don't, you could be my guide."
This seemed to be an idea that never occurred to Ivan, because his face lit up, emotions changing with the wild intensity that only a child could manage. He clapped his hands together once with glee and smiled wide for the smallest of seconds, his teeth too white, tinged almost with his blue. They had a strange sheen Alfred couldn't quite pin down before it was gone, his lips sealed shut.
This time it was Ivan's turn to take Alfred's hand, his touch as cold as ever, and began to lead the way. Alfred wasn't sure how long they walked. There was no sun to cast shadows, to tell time by. They walked in a straight line over already-broken branches and trampled bushes.
Ivan was silent throughout their trek, and Alfred found himself lost in his thoughts. He thought about Mattie, mostly. How he was here, somewhere in the forest, and Alfred was leaving without him. How he was nothing but a coward, walking hand-in-hand with a demon. Maybe demons weren't so bad, maybe they were misunderstood, portrayed as these cruel beings when really, they weren't so bad.
"Hey, Ivan?" Alfred asked.
Ivan stopped walking and looked up at him.
"Have you seen someone lately that looks a lot like me? Like, a lot, a lot? Kinda with curlier hair, cooler eyes, that sort of thing?"
Ivan looked away, gave a single, light hum in response.
"I'm guessing that's a yes. So, hear me out. I kind of really need him back. He's my brother. And I need him back."
"I know where he is," Ivan said, and the second, older voice came creeping back. "He found his way out, almost."
"Almost?"
"I'll take you to him," Ivan said. "He's right by the edge."
"Oh. Uh, okay."
Looking back, Alfred should've known things were going too well. Things were so easy, the demon willing as anything to help him. Alfred didn't stop to think that things weren't as straightforward as he thought they'd be until he saw it.
It was snow, Alfred knew. He'd never seen it before, not in real life. It was something he knew from paintings, from tales of the far North. And in those mediums, it was a wonderful thing. White and full and looking like it was made of clouds, like it was all fluff and gauze. But the snow beneath his feet was nothing but a bitter cold, a wetness that seeped into his shoes and muted the feeling in his toes.
"We're going the wrong way," Alfred said, trying to slip his hand from Ivan's. It felt like there was nothing left but a dull ache where his hand had once been.
Ivan let go of Alfred's hand.
"We're close," he said. "Don't you want to see your brother?"
"I thought you said he was by the edge of the forest. There wasn't any snow there before." Alfred nursed his hand against his chest, flexing the stiff fingers.
Ivan picked up his pace, his short legs deceptively quick as he started to run. Alfred automatically ran after him, his muscles aching and his throat parched as he did so. It was as though all his energy was slowly being sucked from him, leaving his insides filled with nothing but the growing chill of the forest.
Where Alfred flagged, Ivan only ran faster. He never stumbled or faltered as Alfred did, only leapt and stepped and never found problem with the path. When Alfred fell, Ivan did not stop. Even as Alfred cried out for him to wait as he scrambled back to his feet, Ivan kept moving.
By the time Alfred regained his balance and was off again, Ivan was nothing more than the crunch of snow under footsteps and a fleeting glimpse of his scarf as it trailed behind him. And soon Ivan was nothing, not a sound or a sight but instead a fresh memory.
Alfred ran until his sides were stitched with pain and it hurt to breathe. He dragged one foot in front of the other, his entire body consumed by an aching cold that refused to ebb. Fear urged Alfred on. The fear that he would be like the rest, unable to escape, unable to so much as tell his left from his right. Everything was the same, nothing but trees and rocks and snow.
There was no sound in the forest, and it was more terrible than anything Alfred could have imagined. There was no life, not even the sound of a babbling brook. Since Ivan had left─ and how long was that, minutes, hours? It felt like an eternity─ the only thing Alfred heard was the snap of a twig as he paused to rest.
His muscles tensed instantly as he turned to find the source of the noise, blood running hot as his eyes focused on what had made the noise. His alarm was short lived as he saw that it was Little Guy, slowly but surely oozing along after him.
Little Guy was Alfred's sole source of warmth and company in the forest. His body radiated a strange, constant heat, and he never went more than a few feet from Alfred's side. When Alfred slept, Little Guy was his pillow, and the one who woke him with a steady nibbling on his ear.
Sleep was how Alfred kept track of the time. There was no darkness in the forest, but neither was there light. The canopy seemed to always filter in a perpetual twilight, and Alfred found it impossible to differentiate day from night. And while his exhaustion sent him quickly to sleep, his rest was anything but sound.
The demon was in his dreams, as they tended to be. And he saw it. Not as the boy, not as Ivan, but in its true form. It was tall, limbs long and strong. Its hair was frost and its eyes deep-set amethysts. Its teeth were long and pointed, with the same blue-white shine of Ivan's smile. They were icicles, and when he spoke they fractured and split, made rows upon rows.
He tried to talk to Ivan, his voice a flurry of snow and cold, tried to ask Alfred where he was from and about his family. The first time he slept, Alfred ignored the demon. He'd expected him to show up, heard that demons found it easier to seep into your thoughts then, when your guard was down and your mind was open.
But the demon was so constant, always whispering low and soft and sweet, never threatening. His questions were constant, both small and large, superficial and deep. He asked Alfred what kind animals he liked, if there was anyone special in his life, whether he preferred red to blue or vice versa.
And such things were so small, so unimportant, that when he asked Alfred his favorite kind of weather, he finally responded. It was sunlight. What drove him on and what he lived for, what shone on his skin and tanned him, how it was the most beautiful thing and how strong it made him.
The demon smiled his terrible smile, and Alfred knew he'd said too much. He tried to change the subject, set off babbling about how nice the rain was as well, but the easy joy that was in his voice when he spoke about the sun was gone.
Alfred did his best to turn the tables, asked the demon about who he was and where he was from, if he had family (and the demon had laughed then, the sound a terrible rush like an avalanche), and what his name was. The demon agreed to tell Alfred his name, but when he spoke nothing came from his mouth but a flurry of snow.
"Can I get some kind of translation for that?" Alfred had asked.
The demon paused to think about it, his image momentarily static, nothing but a white blankness before his form settled again. "Winter," was the name he settled on, but he was quick to add that such a moniker was a an ill-fit for what he was truly called.
Alfred woke from his sleep in a cold sweat, wondering how long he could last in the forest, and what would happen if he fell to the demon. It seemed nearly harmless. More mischievous than malevolent, and in the coming days nights sleeps he had to remind himself constantly of the people who had been lost to the demon, and the reason why he was here.
After sleeping four times, after rationing his food carefully and sipping sparingly from waterskins, Alfred decided he couldn't take it anymore. The realization was a sudden thing, an unexpected knotting in his stomach as it growled and the rawness of his throat as he gulped.
Sunlight was all Alfred thought about. Amidst the freeze and the cold and how his body was numb and hurting at once, he thought of the sun. How it beat down on his back and warmed him from the inside out, how with it there was no task too big to tackle. But in this forest there was no sign of it, and Alfred could not live without it.
If only there was sunlight, things would be better. He could resist the demon, see through its lies and speak to it with a clear head. If only there was sunlight, he could find Mattie and be gone. If only there was sunlight, he would not see what a simple pleasure it would be to lie down to rest his head and never wake, to escape from the voice and image of the demon, from the worry and the fear.
His thoughts became hazier as he went on. There were times where he would find himself scratching at bark, trying to mark his way, and the next second he'd be kneeling, no sign of the tree he'd been clawing at in sight. Once he found himself trying to climb, fingers snagging on branches and hauling him up.
If only he could climb high enough he could see the sun again, then things would be better. The thought of it drove him on, even as his nails cracked and blood sprouted from the nail beds. Sometimes a branch would bow or snap under his touch, bite into his palm and scratch along his skin, but still he climbed.
There was no end to the tree, no point at which it stopped growing. The branches grew thicker, denser, impossible to pass. They bit at his face and tried to hold him back. Each time he looked down there was a sense of expectation, a desire for vertigo to strike him as he saw how far he was from the ground.
No matter how long he climbed, the ground stayed close. Alfred found his motivation flagging, his hands losing their grip, slick with blood and sweat and gripping frost-covered wood. His body came to slump against the bark, legs dangling awkwardly amongst the branches. His eyes slid closed as he caught his breath, his manic drive beginning to dwindle.
Alfred wasn't sure how long he was in the tree before he heard the voices. At first he figured this was it, this was the last stop for his sanity. His mind was checking out, done with the cold and the loneliness, done with struggling to fend off the demon and figure out how much longer he could last in the forest. Done with wondering what would happen to him.
At first the voices were like gnats, the barest semblance of speech. But then it drew closer, along with the crisp sound of steps. Alfred listened as best he could, counting only one pair. Yet the voices carried on a back and forth banter, an easy flow that took two.
Little Guy stirred on the ground, and Alfred watched with a muted interest as the white blob looked off into the distance, toward the source of the noise. As Alfred realized the sounds were real, Little Guy oozed between two rocks, his body flattened and gelatinous, a nervous gleam in his perpetually happy eyes.
Alfred watched silently from his vantage point as the demon and the boy emerged from thick undergrowth. He saw them both at once, the image confusing. They stood in the same spot, but were two people. The boy was solid, he was there, but the demon was not. Alfred could see through him, his image muddled, wavy, as though he were superimposed over the boy.
He held his breath as they moved closer, their voices growing louder and louder.
"I know he's around here somewhere," he said. "I can sense his warmth."
"He's not here," Ivan said. "It's cold here. It's cold everywhere."
The demon tutted. "There's no use in lying to me. You know his warmth, you felt it too. And you know you want that."
"I don't want to hurt anyone."
"Now, Ivan. We've been over this before. If anyone is hurting, it is us. Alfred has more than enough warmth, you know. Have you seen the sun? It's in his eyes. It's been so long since we saw the sun. Wouldn't you like to keep it with you?"
"Ivan, you're being fickle. Soon the brother will fade and again you'll be cold. You'll think you're strong enough, that you can carry on with your breath frosting in your lungs and your blood running slow, but soon enough you'll be shivering away and begging like you always do."
Ivan said nothing, instead kicking a rock with his foot as his little hands balled up into fists.
"I see how it is," the demon continued. "You think Alfred's a nice boy. You think he's not afraid, you like that he tried to help you, that he hasn't tried to hurt the forest in order to find his way out like his brother did. Let me make one thing clear to you Ivan, he won't seem nice for long.
"He treats you kindly because you have the form of a child. The world is more tolerant towards them and you know it. He's yet to use magic because he simply cannot. He carries no token of his affinity, not like his brother with that book of his─"
Alfred stiffened at the mention of his brother and the book he carried with him. Mattie's affinity had been with maple trees, of all things. They were sparse where they lived, something tucked away in orchards, grown by accident, left in hidden spots where no one found them.
Their father had paid a fair amount of coin to accommodate Mattie, gifting him with a book bound from the tree's bark, pressed, dry leaves hidden between the pages. Alfred couldn't recall ever seeing Mattie without it. When he was nervous he'd run his fingers along the spine, let his thumbs flip through the pages as his eyes admired the dried veins of the leaves. It was as much a part of Mattie as his hands and eyes and hair and heart.
Alfred's heart hiccuped in his chest as he thought of Mattie, just as weak and without magic as he was. He couldn't stop the torrent of images that filled his mind, of Mattie weak and frozen, struggling in the snow. How the demon had probably come to him in his dreams as well. Had he inadvertently let slip his affinity like Alfred had, or was his smarter, more guarded?
Either way he'd fallen, and it made Alfred's heart ache to think of what might've happened to him. His fingers curled into fists, frustration welling in his stomach. Too late he realized there were still twigs in his hands, thin and dry and how prone there were to snapping.
Their crack seemed to rival the sound of thunder in the silent forest. Alfred refused to look down, his eyes wide and focused on nothing. His heart beat in his ears, the gallop of a frightened horse's hooves. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the demon talking, but he refused to register the noise. If he ignored them, they would ignore him.
Where the snap of twigs was like thunder, the splintering of wood as the tree Alfred was holed up in was impossible, something akin to the tearing of space and time. The entire tree swayed past its breaking point, slow at first but then with a sudden crash that stunned Alfred.
He found himself on the ground, with snow in his hair and the demon in his eyes, standing over him with a smile and an outstretched hand. Ivan was gone.
"Have you ever heard that it's rude to eavesdrop?" the demon said, teeth flashing as he smiled wide.
"Have you ever heard it's rude to take someone's token? Also, luring folks into forests isn't exactly the coolest thing you could do, either."
The demon's smile darkened as its hand dropped back to its side. Alfred stayed on the ground, his head still slightly swimming from the fall and the cold and exhaustion. Little Guy emerged from his hiding spot, planting himself firmly between Alfred and the demon, issuing forth a warbling growl.
"You know what we want," the demon said coolly.
"And you know what I want," Alfred countered.
The demon crouched down, and leaned in until he took up the entirety of Alfred's vision. His breath was cold as the winds of a blizzard as it touched against Alfred's cheeks. "Do you really think you can outwit a demon?"
"No," Alfred said honestly. "But I can basically out-stubborn anything ever. My dad even said so."
"Do you know how much your father loves you?" the demon asked.
Alfred chewed the inside of his cheek, mulling it over. His dad wasn't big on sappy words or physical gestures. He'd stop saying 'I love you' since Alfred had gotten taller than him, hadn't hugged or held him since his baby fat melted away and his muscles became lean. But Alfred knew his love wasn't gone, not even muted. It was still there in the way he looked at Alfred after being at sea for months, and in the way he cooked lavish feasts for his small family.
"Can you imagine what it must be like to be your father?" the demon started up again. "A wife lost to childbirth, and then his children to the forest. Sure, he could lose one and still have the other. But both sons? There'd be nothing left for him at home, only empty beds and memories. And considering that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, it wouldn't be so farfetched to think he'd come after you."
"No," Alfred said plainly. "He doesn't have a clue. He's sailin' along the ocean now, probably picking up little gifts or knick knacks like he always does. By the time he gets back I'll have found Mattie and things will be like they always were."
The demon quieted, its ploy felled.
Alfred let his eyelids flutter shut, his body begging for rest. He was so tired. His emotions were dulled, far away things that didn't belong to him anymore, like they belonged to another person he didn't know, didn't care about. He wanted to shut off, for thoughts to leave him, to not wonder how the demon knew about his mother, for his consciousness to fade and for thought to abate.
"Are you cold?" the demon asked.
Alfred gave a half-nod.
"Do you want to go to sleep?" The demon's voice ebbed, a wave being called back by the sea.
Alfred half-nodded again, a murmur on his lips.
"Do you want me to take you somewhere warm? Somewhere you can sleep?" the voice said, and it was not of the demon, and nor was it of the child.
Alfred knew it was Ivan. Not the Ivan who had first entered the forest, the one with chubby cheeks and tearful eyes and tiny hands. This was the Ivan who'd grown up in the forest, alone for so many years with nothing but the company of the demon. Alfred wanted to know that Ivan, so he managed a nod one final time before exhaustion overwhelmed him.
Author's Notes:
The end! No, really. There was supposed to be more, and there still is more. It's just in my head and won't likely ever see the light of day. I feel like the magic is pretty darned pointless in this fic and it's just not developed very well. Matthew was nothing but a plot device and I couldn't figure out if I wanted him to live or die.
Alfred wakes up in the home of Ivan and the demon, buried under blankets and sleeping by a fire. It turns out Ivan likes the demon because it's always been with him. It stayed when it could have left. It was what kept him alive, clothed and fed, until he was only enough to manage it on his own.
Also, Ivan wears the clothes of the people who've died in the forest. There's no Forever Cursed 21 in the vicinity so he doesn't have any other choice. Alfred keeps mum about why demons are bad, no matter how long they stick around, and basically tries to befriend Ivan. It's not exactly easy though, as I'm sure years of isolation and killing other people can take a toll on the psyche.
When the demon next comes to Alfred in his dreams, Alfred offers him a deal. Being the ~hErO~, Alfred tells the demon is can jump to his body in exchange for letting him and Ivan out of the forest. Why couldn't the demon jump anyway? Who knows. I should but I don't.
The demon accepts and jumps to Alfred's body and leads them out of the forest. When they make it out into the sunshine, Ivan realizes that this is it. No more demon. He has a hard time coming to terms that something that's been with him constantly since he was so little isn't going to be with him anymore. He asks if he can stay with Alfred since he has no life or home to return to.
Things are fine and dandy. Life is normal, or at least as normal as it gets. The demon doesn't fuss about much or make a spectacle of itself, and the two of them almost forget it's even around. They're so ignorant of it, in fact, that they fail to notice how the frost of the forest has started to branch out and move towards the town.
Because you see, the demon didn't give a hoot about Ivan, it was just waiting for someone stronger to inhabit. Stuff in lots of Mochimerica/Little Guy being cute throughout and tie up the loose ends with Matthew and you have the rest of the fic.
Also, for those wondering about an update for The Companion, I should have one up in the next three weeks.
P.S. Many thanks to Abhauen for this amazing fanart! tumblr(DOT)com/xih3a59aqb