Chapter 2

~.~

When Hansel woke, he was alone.

For the first few minutes he just lay there, on his back, blinking up at the ceiling and letting his eyes adjust to the sunlight which poured in through the open window. He could have sworn said window was closed and covered the night before. He could feel no pain in his limbs, only the heavy feeling, the numbness in his shoulder, arm and right leg, and the fogginess that surrounded his mind but was slowly dripping away. He continued to blink, focusing on the blandness of the wooden ceiling planks as yesterday came back to him. The witch, the walking, the town and the mayor. They cleaned up and went to bed and then there was asleep, he could remember that, but something else was there as well, a deep void in his memory and events he couldn't place.

A dream?

A nightmare?

Hansel shook some of the lingering fog from his head, slowly pushing himself up into a sitting position. Gretel, I'll ask Gretel. She'll know... An ache spread through his body, dull and bearable, and he flexed his injured shoulder for a few seconds before letting his hands fall down onto the cushions again.

...wait, cushions?

Hansel jumped up, almost tumbling onto his face as his legs got caught in the sheets, twisted and clawing and Gretel Gretel Gretel.

She isn't here, she can't be here, if I took the bed then something must have happened and she must be gone and where is she? What was it? What if it was something horrible and bad and she's taken or hurt or-

Hansel slipped and fell onto his backside, groaning in pain and frustration, his hand having flown out and knocked the objects on the bedside cabinet onto the floor, pieces of paper fluttering in the air and landing on his own chest. He shook, breathing heavily, glancing around the room, trying to calm down before he moved again incase anxiety prematurely triggered his illness. Almost three deep inhales later, Hansel's eyes flickered down and he froze completely, staring at one of the papers in front of him. It only took a few seconds, Hansel recognizing his sister's neat script instantly, and he shot up again, gripping the paper like it was a lifeline, his eyes blown wide as he read it once, twice and then again.

Gone downtown, meeting the mayor at noon. Eat something. -Gretel

Hansel's entire body relaxed.

With a relieved sigh and a glance out the open window, (Hansel, after a moment, deduced that it was past noon already) he lifted himself up onto his feet again. There was no headache, only the heavy feeling that wouldn't completely dissipate, lingering fogginess and the stiffness in his shoulder and lower back, which Hansel was sure looked more than a little disgusting. There was also the dull ache in his abdomen and he was sure that Gretel was right; he needed food, although if he was correct in assuming that she left for the markets at dawn then she would be waiting for him to join in their meeting with the mayor, which he was already late for.

So, eat food or go find Gretel?

She'll knock my head in if I don't eat, but I don't want her to be angry. She hates being left waiting, especially when it's me.

But something happened, a something that only appears as a dark, gaping void in my mind, so she would forgive me, right? This once? Does she know what it was?

Was it something to do with her?

He shook his head as if to forcibly remove his thoughts before deciding that punctually, no matter now un-punctual, was the better choice. He straightened his shirt and pants, hoping he looked even remotely decent, before sliding on his fingerless gloves and grabbing his still dirty vest from the back of a chair. He brushed it off quickly, checking himself over once more before leaving and shutting the door behind him, struggling to maneuver his arms into the vest's sleeves as he moved. He took the stairs two at a time and bounded out the door, ignoring the innkeeper's loud good day! without so much as sparing a glance in his direction.

As soon as the fresh air filled his lungs Hansel's head was finally completely clear and he smiled brightly to himself, fixing his clothes once more before moving briskly along the dusty street. His boots crunched with each step, a gentle wind brushing past his bruised face. There were few people out, most having retreated to the feast at the town's centre, and those who he walked past said nothing to him.

The feast... The townsfolk want to celebrate the return of the little girl, don't they? Hansel wondered absently, Gretel wouldn't have attended. It should be coming to a close now, I might not be as late as I thought.

With that thought he increased his pace, moving quickly between the small, wooden houses. The sun bet down heavily, the air slightly sticky.

"Hansel! You're Hansel, aren't you?"

Hansel turned quickly, startled, only to find a young boy running up to tug at his pants. The child was barely seven years old with dark hair and bright eyes, and Hansel fought the urge to run from him. He was never any good with children; that was Gretel's strength. She was the one who spoke to any of the lost boys and girls they saved, coax them back home. Hansel always stood back, watching quietly from the sidelines, guarding and observing but not interacting because he would never want to hurt anything so innocent and small, never taint them with his harshness or his illness.

The little boy stepped back, smiling brightly up at him, and Hansel forced himself not to run.

"Yes..." Hansel mumbled uncertainly.

"You killed the witches!"

The boy was almost bouncing, rocking back and forward on the balls of his feet, his face bright with excitement.

"Some of them, there might be more."

The reply was stupid and ridiculously modest (there'd been four witches terrorizing the town and they'd killed two of them outright, severely injuring another but missing the forth, not with a lack of trying of course) but Hansel didn't want this boy to think of him as a hero, of someone to look up to. Heroes were good, and those that were good were expected to do good, and Hansel didn't think he could handle that.

"Look... Kid. I'm sorta running late so..."

"When I get big I wanna be strong like you," the boy exclaimed happily and Hansel's heart dropped.

Ugh, why can't Gretel be here.

"Look, Buddy," Hansel began awkwardly, trying to avoid the child's idolizing eyes. "I'm not... you shouldn't be like me."

"Why not?"

"Well... What I... what I do, it isn't..."

"I have a sister too you know," the boy said happily, not at all thrown off by Hansel's apprehension. "She's bigger than me, but she gets sick a lot. I'm gonna look after her! I'll be strong then won't I?"

There were the hopeful eyes and the innocence and Hansel desperately tried to keep his face passive. He didn't know what it would be if it weren't passive, but he knew that he wouldn't let anyone, especially the boy in front of him, see him with a face anything less than just that. He took a deep breath, gluing his eyes to the floor.

"Yeah... we all need to look after the people we love."

The boy's face split into a wide, toothy grin and he nodded exuberantly.

"Now, Kid, I've really got to go..."

"Bye Mr Hansel!"

Hansel watched as the little body turned and ran away from him, stopping at the corner and turning back to wave before disappearing completely.

A small smile twisted Hansel's mouth and he spent a second standing still before he turned and continued to make his way to the town hall, his head spinning and whirring in ways it never had before.

And for some strange reason, his chest didn't feel as heavy as it usually did.

~.~

The last thing Gretel expected was for the door to creak open.

The Mayor had been updating her with new information, some suspicious activity that had occurred since their run in with the four woodland witches. It appeared that their job wasn't quite finished, although a single, injured witch and possibly another weakened one wasn't usually all that much of a challenge.

Mayor Rennin himself was a man of sixty, his hair graying and face haggard. Whenever he spoke his powerful voice reverberated around inside the small office, and so when he was cut off by Hansel's entrance there was a soft echo filling the momentary silence.

Gretel herself didn't so much as turn around when she heard the door opening, waiting until there was some other sign she could use to deduce the identity of the intruder. As soon as Hansel's boot hit the ground and he walked further into the room, she knew it was him. Irritation filled her mind and she didn't turn in case he looked as bad as she thought he would. He moved back and leant against the wall, remaining completely silent.

You barely slept, probably didn't eat and I'll be surprised if you don't look like shit. I told you to stay put you stubborn mule, damn you!

Mayor Rennin shot her a curious glance, no doubt wondering why her brother had joined them later than she had, but continued where he'd left off, ever the professional.

"-northwest. The travelers lost a few men and were suffering from mild shock but otherwise unharmed."

"How many remained?" Gretel asked, bluntly. She liked the mayor; he was always straight to the point. It was the same with the town's sheriff, a younger man with dark hair and a thin layer of stubble. Both were incredibly cooperative and the town itself was generous, supplying her and Hansel with food and water as well as a place to stay free of charge in return for their services for as long as they needed. She was almost disappointed that they hadn't come across this place sooner.

"Four. They're currently staying with the sheriff and his wife, our physician lives only a block away. We would have them at the inn but some of the townsfolk aren't happy with them staying here. They don't like strangers you see, 'specially ones who've crossed paths with witches. You can go talk to them any time you like."

Gretel nodded, deciding that it was time to wrap things up so she could talk to Hansel, alone, both to work out their next course of action and berate him for his behavior.

"We will, hopefully this afternoon," she confirmed, rising slowly. The mayor mimicked her action. "From there we should have somewhere to start."

The older man nodded thoughtfully before inclining his head and biding them farewell.

~.~

"What the hell were you thinking Hansel?!"

Gretel's voice stung, anger and irritation dripping thickly from her tone as she yelled loudly at him, drawing the attention of the few villages bustling down the otherwise deserted side street. She was fuming and had been since she'd seen him as they'd left the mayor's office. He looked sloppy and exhausted, hair out at odd angles and heavy rings under his red eyes. His clothing was another thing entirely, muddy vest and creased, ripped top over pants he'd obviously slept in. She wanted to yell, scream, lock him in the inn to hide the disgrace until he properly learnt to dress himself.

Her mind swirled and all rational thought clouded over, temporarily out of reach.

"Gretel, I..."

She should have recognized the sadness, that pain that she was causing, because he was her brother and she loved him.

She should have, but she didn't.

"You look like a pig! You walk in, in front of the mayor, like you have a hangover and nothing better to do, ridiculously late, and I can tell that you haven't eaten, how could you have when you look like that? You're a stubborn ass Hansel and I'm sick of it! I'm sick of your attitude! There is a right way and a wrong way of doing things, I thought you understood that!"

Hansel visibly flinched, eyes downcast, jaw clenched, eyes giving away no emotion. He liked to keep his feelings to himself in order to retain a strong exterior, but had faith in Gretel's ability to read and understand him. The fact that she couldn't or wasn't doing so now scared him deeply.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Gretel, please..."

"No." Gretel looked at him briefly, not bothering to hide her disappointment and disgust, before turning away, her hand massaging her temple as if there was a throbbing pain hidden there. "No, Hansel."

He bit his lip, shaking his own head, tugging at his short hair.

"...I thought something happened. To you."

This caught Gretel's attention although she forced herself not to let Hansel see that.

"I couldn't...remember. We went to bed and slept and then something happened, I know it did, but it's all black and there's nothing, Gretel. I woke up and I was in the bed and I panicked, I thought something might have happened..." Hansel faltered, choking at the thought of Gretel hurt or off to kill a witch alone in the middle of the night. He shook his head slowly, staring at the ground, finding it increasingly difficult to keep his emotion in check.

He didn't see Gretel's eyes soften.

"It doesn't matter," he whispered, suddenly willing to do almost anything to be alone. He felt his eyes threatening to spill over and needed to be as far away from everyone, especially Gretel, in case that happened. "I want to...to take another look around the boarder. If you need anything..."

He let the sentence trail off and before Gretel could stop him Hansel was half way down the street. A trail of dust was left in his wake, his hunched figure retreating quickly. Boots crunched against the ground, wood creaked.

And if Gretel saw the drops of wetness staining the dirt like a trail of breadcrumbs, glinting subtly, offering to lead her to him, lead me all the way back home, then the fact was locked away inside, too deep in her mind for even her own consciousness to dwell on.

~.~

"What are you?"

Hands bound, tied up, leaving him hanging limply from his wrists. Chin dropping down against his chest, barely moving, eyes fluttering open and then closed, over and over.

"What are you?"

Everything blurred, nausea swirling in his stomach, head throbbing, pounding against his scull. Shoulders ached, pulled out of their sockets, body too tired to move.

"What are you?"

He didn't know. He knew the were, he knew the who, but he didn't know what. In pain; that was something. Weak; that was something else. Neither of those nor any of the other 'whats' that raced through his mind seemed right. He couldn't keep track of it all, keep track of the witch's voice floating, sickly sweet, through his head, dripping down like treacle. He opened his eyes and that cracked face, the rotted skin and decay filled his vision before his grey orbs were hidden from the witches view yet again.

She circled him.

"Your mother was a witch."

He trembled, still unable to fully comprehend that particular fact. It wasn't true, it couldn't be. They'd grown up with their mother, he'd killed witches for almost his entire life. There was no connection there, there couldn't be any connection there.

He remembered things.

Little things, tiny things, things he'd always thought were dreams or his over-active imagination.

He remembered waking up one night, his mind barely alert, to see their mother whispering something inaudible to his sister as she slept in the bed across from his own.

He remembered the books she used to keep hidden, the times he'd go to find her only to see her flipping through weathered pages covered by ancient runes and he'd watch until she'd see him and slam the book closed.

He remembered the times when he was sick, how mother would come and then everything would get better so quickly. He remembered hearing stories of how he almost died as an infant and yet there he was.

He remembered how her eyes would glow and how he'd watch her grace in awe.

A good witch is a dead witch.

A good witch is a dead witch.

A good witch...

...mother?

He never tells his sister, never mentions the memories, nightmares, that plague him, because they swore never to speak of their pasts but he is haunted by it all, every tiny thing, and he tries so hard to believe that he's wrong, that he's wrong, he's wrong, he's wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong-

"All witches are female, ALL OF THEM."

The witch gripped his face in her long, bony fingers, rotten nails digging into his flesh.

"Witches are only ever female, even hybrids. Any and ALL hybrids, they're ALL female, because the witch blood is ALWAYS passed on and only females have the capacity to deal with it, only EVER."

His head was jerked up, eyes blinking open, and decaying blue irises filled his blurred vision.

"The males, the hybrid children that are born boys, they all die. Always, because the magic is so strong in a second generation witch and only the girls have the minds, the hearts, to survive it, to survive witchcraft at all. Not even a white witch could save a child from that that kind of power, not if they're unsuitable, not if they're MALE."

The meaning of the words barely made it into his muddled brain, barely registered in his mind and all too soon the nails were gone and his head thumped down against his chest and and the tendrils of thought dissipated completely.

Witches talked too much.

Footsteps circled him again.

"But you have the witch blood, I can smell it in you, pouring out of you. I missed it at first, it's so easy to miss, but I see it now, I smell..." The rotted face was against his neck and the witch sniffed in a great lungful of air, making him tremble uncontrollably.

"You have the witch blood. What are you?"

Breath on his neck.

"What are you?"

Pain in his wrists.

"What are you?"

His face was taken up in the witch's hands again and her disgusting features filled his spinning vision.

"WHAT ARE YOU?!"

Hansel woke with a start, his breathing fast and heavy, eyes darting around as he jolted up into a sitting position only to feel his head spin and stomach lurch and he fell to one side and puked up everything he'd eaten in the past two days, which hadn't actually been all that much. It all ran into the dirt and the smell made the nausea rise tenfold. He groaned, pushing himself onto his hands and knees, and slowly crawled away from the mess he'd made. He found the side of a building and moved up onto his knees, cursing his head for pounding so horribly. His eyes ached, his mouth was dry.

Hangover.

Hansel remembered running from his sister, moving away before Gretel had time to protest and he'd kept moving, wanting to get as far as he could from everything as quickly possible. He could have gone into the forests, hunted helpless animals in an effort to get his mind off of everything or he could have visited a bar, drunk himself silly and effectively taken his mind off of everything.

It's safe to say that he'd settled on the latter.

He remembered walking into the tavern, finding some other men drinking away their sorrows and joining them. He remembered the first glass and the second, but then there was nothing and he would never have drunk too much.

Drinking makes you drunk.

Getting drunk gives you a hangover.

Getting a hangover gets you killed.

Either by witches or by his sister, there was no point differentiating in this particular case.

But the signs, the throbbing in his head, the dryness of his mouth, the nausea and vomiting and the way his eyes burnt because of the early morning sun, that meant only one thing. Drinking. Drunk. Hangover.

He wasn't dead though, or at least, he didn't feel dead.

With shaking, heavier-than-led hands, he pat himself down and concluded that he was, in fact, very much alive. His pouch was strapped to his leg, needles intact, his vest still hung off his shoulders, gloves soiled with things he didn't want to know the name of. His sluggish excuse for a mind desperately tried to gather enough information to continue, to do something, but he could only piece together the most meager and basic words.

Drunk.

Hungover.

Morning.

Gretel.

Gretel; that was a word he could use. Gretel would be at the inn, sorting through files and worrying about him, wouldn't she? Yes, she would, she had to be. So, what did he need to do? Gretel, Gretel, Gretel... find Gretel. Gretel could think and act and fix everything. Gretel dealt with the plans, Gretel thought logically, Gretel was confident around people, Gretel's mind was never clouded by anything. Gretel was his big sister...

...Gretel was so much better than him.

No, depressing thoughts hurt too much, and he had to get back to the inn, so there was no time to dwell on it. The tavern wasn't too far away from their lodgings, Hansel had made sure of that when they'd arrived, and judging by the amount of piss and puke in the alley he was in the middle of, he hadn't migrated far in his drunken state. He'd move out onto the Main Street, head up the road a little and crawl back into the inn and then into small space under the bed where it was perfectly dark and silent.

See, orchestrating plans wasn't so difficult!

Carrying them out, Hansel discovered, wasn't quite so simple, and he attributed that particular characteristic to his position as orchestrator of said plans.

Moving out onto the Main Street was fine if crawling was acceptable, and seeing as crawling was indeed a form of movement Hansel was perfectly fine with it. When he finally moved out into the wider, busier road, his head was surely killing him. It was throbbing incessantly, with renewed vigor, and it was all Hansel could do to drag himself forwards, bile forcing its way into the back of his throat as he struggled not to pass out in the dirt like some homeless ass (which may or may not have been that he was, but that wasn't the point.)

Gretel's methods were never so difficult.

But somehow, because of some twisted fate or godsend, a blessing from above, Hansel hauled himself through the inn's wooden door and up the two flights of stairs until he could vaguely make out the blurred shape of the entrance to their room.

He'd made it.

...almost.

Hansel really should have thought about this part of his plan far sooner, and because he hadn't he was left lying against the door he needed to pass through. His mind spun and dribbled, rolling down the walls of his skull in a thick, icky, useless paste and Hansel could no longer form coherent thought.

With an exhausted groan, barely audible and echoing with confusion and pain, Hansel let his eyes close.

"Gretel..."