Full Summary: AU. Gon Freecs is a young blacksmith from Whaleisle Town, a peaceful town in the far southern country of Saherta. But for years, his dream has been to leave and search for his Druid father, the enigmatic and absent Ging Freecs who abandoned him just after his birth. And then he finds an injured stranger collapsed in the mountains outside his valley, and his life takes an unexpected turn.
Killua Zoldyck isn't just any stranger - he's the deposed heir of Padokea, the northern, warlike nation that borders the Black Mountains and the Wastes inhabited only by Trolls, Imps, and the mysterious Necromancer. And he's in trouble. Not only was he overthrown by his eldest brother, but he carries a powerful magical artifact stolen from the Necromancer himself, and the Necromancer is hunting him.
But Killua knows Ging, so Gon knows that the exiled heir to the throne of the Zoldyck assassin-kings is his best chance - his only chance - at finding his father.
And so the journey begins.
A/N: This story is rated Explicit on A03 for lemons. Here, the lemons will be removed, so the rating should remain approximately T.
This story takes inspiration from the Chronicles of Shannara series, but is unrelated and does not follow that plot with any degree of accuracy (as far as I can remember). This story will be long, complex, and probably take a ridiculous amount of time to read. Corresponding fanart and random facts will be posted on my tumblr - search avtorSola, and you'll find me. :)
Enjoy!
The forge was blisteringly hot so close, and the superheated air singed the hair from his face as he bore down on the bellows, applying even pressure to the wood and oxhide creation. The coals in the bed glowed white, the tempered blade cherry-red and glowing in their midst, the perfect color. Five more minutes of this temperature, that was it. And then Kite would likely take over with the finer details of polishing and edging and engraving that he hadn't quite mastered yet – though not for lack of practice. Sparks singed his cheeks, heat baking the warm tan of his skin into toasted gold, sweat dripping through the coarse fabric of his work shirt. But five minutes passed. And then he was pulling the unfinished blade from the forge with strong iron tongs and quenching the blazing blade in water that caught fire as the metal came into contact with its surface.
He grinned widely, white teeth striking in the red-lit smithy. Success.
Kite came in once his work was done, his long, pale hair tied back in a low braid, his lanky frame hiding the raw strength required of a master smithy. He approached the blade, still sizzling hot but no longer cherry, with a critical eye. Then he glanced over at his apprentice, mouth quirking in a quick, slippery smile.
"Good work. Come finish it."
Master and apprentice both took the blade to the grindstone, and Kite watched as his student carefully polished the sturdy longsword to a keen silver glare and ground the sparking metal into submission until the edge was sharp enough to slice a man's neck. The work continued until late in the evening, orange sparks flying from the grinding stone and metal, and gradually a design in bronze was etched into the blade's flat sides, old Script laid in filigree down the groove. But finally the blade was done, never once passing into Kite's nimble, calloused hands, and lay shining on a low table in the firelight.
"Gon."
Kite's expression was one of pure pride, and though restrained as it was in his usual fashion, the sentiment was every bit as bright as his student's giggling smile.
"You keep the first thing you make as a smith, you know," Kite pointed out, and Gon started from his chair. His unruly dark hair, scented by smoke and burnt metal, stood on end, the deep hazel of his eyes glowing gold in the low light. His white smile slipped, jaw dropping toward the ground. The singed leather apron he wore gleamed with beads of his sweat.
"…Kite?" The waver in his tone couldn't be helped. Kite reached out, patted the top of his head once in the same hesitant way that he had when Aunt Mito had bought the apprenticeship for him when he was eight. But the warmth behind that single touch was unmistakable.
"I am proud to call you a true smith, Gon," Kite's tone dropped. Sudden age weathered his thin features, until Gon could see the years that had passed on his wan face. "Someday, when you find Ging, tell him I taught you the value of metal and stone."
Gon carefully lifted the blade – his blade – in his hands. The edge was keen, the core strong, the hilt made of sturdy oak and wire wrappings, and the balance was as close to perfect as anything. There was no sheath for the weapon he'd made yet, but there would be. As a full-fledged smith in his own right, he would be allowed to purchase the sheath with his own savings, the pittance Kite had allowed him to keep during his apprenticeship now piled up to a generous amount over the years of saving. And he would need it. Ging had left him with a somehow-relative of his, Aunt Mito when he was only an infant and had disappeared into the darkness, the spirits of the dead clinging to him. Gon looked up at Kite, biting his lip.
"…I'll find him, Kite."
Kite nodded. Then the tall man creaked out of his chair by the smoldering forge, flames still burning in the hearth and stood.
"Time for dinner and bed. I'll take you to the square in the morning and release your apprenticeship."
Gon bounded upright, still clutching his sword in his hands, the warmth of the metal fresh and tingling on his heat-seared callouses. Then he lunged for Kite, his broad shoulders socking the breath from the willowy man's stringy muscles, and crushed his mentor to his chest.
"Thank you so much, Kite!"
The wispy man choked out a fond chuckle, patting Gon's broad shoulders weakly in an effort to return the hug, and slowly the younger smith's grip eased, revealing a boisterous grin on his face. Being recognized as a master so young was an accomplishment few could match – Gon was only seventeen, after all. He'd only been a man for a little over a year. And yet he already was a master of his craft. Kite couldn't be more proud of his only apprentice.
"Of course, Gon. Come on now, dinner."
The pair left the forge, shoring up the glowing bed of embers with a little extra fuel that would keep the coals hot all night, and sidled through the strange plasik pillars of Kite's Prior-time house, which the smithy had been built right next to. Kite shouldered the sticking door open, the low lanternlight inside the Prior-time remnant casting a golden glow over the walls. Gon sighed in relief, hanging his apron next to Kite's on a hook in the wall and heading straight for the kitchen. Kite sighed as well, then followed.
"Gon Freecss, I know you're not coming into my kitchen with sooty hands," Spinner bit out irritably, her pale reddish hair covered with a blue cap – Kite's usual cap. Her yellow one was on a hook on the wall. Gon smiled sheepishly, tucking his hands behind his back. She turned around, glared viciously at him, then at Kite. "Same goes for you, Uncle."
Kite held his hands out for her inspection, and Spinner's blue eyes narrowed. But then she jerked a thumb at the wooden table in the next boxy little room over. "Alright, you're clean. Sit down and wait – the meat is taking a while to cook through, and I was too busy to do more than make stew today. Gon – rinse your hands or you're not eating."
"Aah, Spinner! That's mean!" Gon whined, already heading towards the door in the back of the Prior-time house. The cistern outside would have to do.
"Get to it!"
"Yes ma'am!"
Gon dashed outside to the cistern, the line of the forested mountains a dark blur in the distance, dull compared to the warmth of the town's firelight. He glanced up, eyes searching the dark curiously. The spine of mountains was notorious for wild boar, bears, and Chimera – the mutated beasts that no Prior-time books ever mentioned, but in the daytime the forest was a cheerful place. He'd gone boar-hunting there with Kite before, during the monthly competitions, and it was honestly a beautiful place. No Imps or Trolls had finagled their way into settling there yet, and the sheer buzzing sounds of life were incredibly rich.
But at night…it was a dark place. Revenants and wraiths – the raised undead and vengeful souls vaporized in the Day of Fire so many centuries ago – were said to haunt every peak and valley of that ridge.
Of course, revenants were rare, and wraiths were still rarer to see, both so uncommon that even seeing one was a chance in a lifetime. But the mere threat of their presence would be enough to keep many out of those woods at night. After all, wraith attacks were, while not usually fatal, very vicious psychological attacks that left unwary victims reeling and dazed, and a true revenant had enough undead strength to claw through plate armor. Nasty things. But they could be fended off, and they rarely traveled through inhabited areas, making roads and other settlements safe for travelers to go through. In that regard, Imps and Trolls were honestly trickier opponents – because they, like Dwarves, could easily pose as humans. Trolls would have a slightly rougher time of it with their grey skin and imposing stature – at least seven feet tall – but with a cloak and the right kind of stoop they could manage. Imps would be better off – they at least were only slightly taller than humans, on average, but their milk-colored skin, long, pointed ears, and fanged teeth were difficult to hide without a mask.
However, neither of those two races had settled anywhere outside of the high, craggy mountain ranges ruled by Dwarves, mostly infesting the deadened plains and peaks north of the Black Mountains. And the country of Saherta was far, far to the south of the Black Mountains, bordering the Southern Ocean at the end of the world. Unlike the Padokeans, whose large, shadowy nation shared a long, treacherous border with the Black Mountains, Sahertans didn't have much to worry about as long as they didn't stray through the Dwarven ranges splitting the country with veins of rock.
He couldn't wait to be in nature again. Four days until the next hunt.
"Gon! Quit dilly-dallying and get your butt in here!"
"Ack! Coming, Spinner!"
He knew that the numbness was a bad sign, and the cold that had crept into his chest, but adrenaline still pounded in his bloodstream. His head spun with buzzing energy, his attention fractured like mirror shards. The moon was out overhead, making his exposed hair glow like a beacon under the dark trees, and he could hear the hissing behind him. Every heartbeat sent a fresh thrill of cold and terror through him, dread prickling down his spine. He kept moving, forcing his shredded leg to move, forcing his buzzing head to still. Everything was willpower. Everything.
Around his neck, the red stone he'd stolen glowed, pulsing gently in time to his heartbeat. It was the only spot of warmth he could find, and his hand closed around the small thing, dizzying vertigo sending the moonlight into scattered stars on the ground. This stone was both his problem and salvation, the one thing he hoped could undo the mistake he'd made and the chaos that had enveloped his family as a result. But first, he had to survive. The hissing behind him reached, shadowy limbs whipping out. Fire cut across his calf and thigh again, the same leg as before. Thunder rumbled threateningly overhead. He ignored the pain, already numb below his hips, and kept moving.
Kept running, even though his lungs burned and his leg buckled at every step. The knives and small blades kept hidden on him were useless against a creature like this. A Shade. A malevolent wraith powerful enough to kill the living. He could hear it chasing him still, slithering over leaves and stone and twigs, crackling unpleasantly, and he staggered weakly, sliding ungracefully over a log. Two months of pursuit. Two months. Maybe more. And something finally caught up.
But as the first rays of sun peeked over the horizon, bleaching the glow of the moon from his hair, the Shade spat and fizzed, retreating into the gloom. He wheezed for breath, gazing glazedly into the sunrise, finally slowing his pace to a faint, staggering walk. His torn left leg dragged behind him, leaving a thick red trail over the ground, blood spattering the uneven ground in fat dollops. He didn't make it far before the adrenaline sputtered out, leaving aching agony and dizzying weakness in its place.
The world spun violently, and suddenly the tree trunks twisted, sliding sideways and then vertical again, the boughs of faintly-lit leaves spreading away. The air felt stiff against his back, the trees fuzzing into pale blurs of color. Leaves rustled around his head. It sounded far away. The numbness was spreading up his chest now, digging gentle tendrils into his exhausted arms and heart and lungs, taking him slowly and kindly into its embrace.
Too late, he realized sluggishly, already watching the canopy overhead darken. He was too late to find help. This was it. He would bleed out here, barely three weeks from his destination.
As the sun broke fully over the horizon, the moon carried him into the night.