Enchanted
Magic was old. Older and far more intrinsic to life than most modern Witches or Wizards dared to acknowledge.
You could gaze at the skies for eons and read a myriad of futures, both what would pass and what might. The fall-down of divination, really; telling the two apart was nigh impossible, the present changing the future. The mere act of a reading could alter that course. True prophecies like the one that had been tied to him were, as a rule, understandably rare. Fixed events, no changing them come hell or high water, time travel or no.
But where a wizard or witch with Seer's blood might see a thousand specks and only really be able to focus on two or three, what they thought the most likely or believed to be most true if they scryed, a Centaur Seer - trained and gifted similarly - could look at the heavens and see each one brighter than the sun by comparison, read it and know it as intimately as if they had lived it. They were not human, and their magic had never been human. Intrinsically linked to the very core of their being, the planet and the elements, most human Seer's couldn't hold a candle to a Centaur's innate, inborn sensitiveity and ability.
Not that they looked all that often. According to the last Elder, Blessed centaur, the future had become so impossibly bleak and certain - certain as sunrise, no other eventuality - that it was better that no-one knew, else 'all hope was lost'. Or so Firenze had reported two years before the Shambler's had started appearing, before the Centaurs had all disappeared under mysterious circumstances.
The irony was not lost on Harry.
Magic was also, put bluntly, the binding and essence of a soul: it was why ritualistic soul magic was banned. It placed humans - Silly humans, the youngest of the magic weilding races, not that many would admit- in a uniquely strange position. Though born of the planet, a witch or wizards essence was far more self contained than the standard magical creature. It made the trading of such 'essence' far more possible. It was why the Horcrux' had been possible at all. For instance, if Firenze was to attempt even one, the result would probably have been death, too rooted and anchored for a split, the strain tearing him apart to nothing. In contrast, if he had attempted Firenze' own brand of species specific magic, he himself would likely have risked magical exhaustion at best and kicking the bucket as a very likely worst.
So, he knew better to attempt what he was going to do on his own. His magic was of 'earth and sky, storm and wind', but like any wand weilder, the barriers were far too innately there to break to let the Earth and Sky (as a very elderly and battlescarred Firenze had tried to drill into him, this side) join with him and aid. More likely, he would be overwhelmed by them and shattered. Maybe Fae could have done it: her heritage had been strongly apparent when she got worked up.
But in lieu of Fae...
...Perhaps something of similar ilk could do the required spell.
Even in America, circles were in use. He'd found enough of them, hunting, seen enough fleet shadows in the dark to know that they were here. Scared, so very very scared: but there.
Daryl's footsteps followed him quiet but sure, and when they were halfway to his destination, he paused.
"You going to follow me through the night, Dixon?"
"Ain't missin' out on what Peletier's got comin' to him. Ain't sittin' back and letting ya do all the dirty work, neither."
Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose, an old habit from when he used to have glasses. The hunter sounded like he was talking about the weather, like there were showers and they needed umbrellas. Looked like the normal, stoic expression the man had as well at a glance.
Dixon seemed to feel a response was needed at the sharp look.
"Merle'l keep an eye on him. Beatin' kids, ain't right. Couldn't give less of a shit before, but it's gettin' worse." Dixon pinned him. "An' someone other than us is finally doin' summat about it."
Daryl started moving again - apparently being that, but stopped when Harry sighed - and then couldn't help chuckling. Far too sharp by half.
"You even know what I'm going to do?"
"I know it's got somethin' to do with a trap."
A roll of the dice.
Fuck, but this held too many risks as it was; too many things that could go wrong. An extra set of ears and eyes would help, maybe, but if Daryl was anything less than utterly accepting this could go badly, badly wrong.
"What's your opinion of voodoo, Dixon?"
The mans brow furrowed like someone had asked him if the sky was pink.
"Voodoo?" Resisting the temptation to parrot 'You do' back was harder than he'd anticipated, despite the seriousness of the situation.
"Yup, Voodoo." The man had to be roughly familiar with the term, it'd been one of the wider practiced magics in America for a while. Like a ouija board, it'd been seen by muggles as bunk for a while, which ironically made it safer to risk in the mundane settings.
"Sounds like Ed needs a puppet made, if it actually does anythin'"
That...was not the response he had been expecting. He blinked. Ok, maybe time to test the water a bit further.
"And what about you, John, you going to sit in the tree 'til you get cramp?"
"Corpses to maim, blood to drink, people to kill!" The dark blur settled itself faster than the words abated, the demented, nightmarish amalgamation of a creature sitting almost perfectly still on impact. This time Dixon's reaction was far less calm, bow raising seemingly on instinct as his eyes and nostris widened.
Harry was just caught between resisting the urge to headbutt the nearest tree and groan. That had not been the intended course, but of course the creature just couldn't-
"-Fuck?!"
Ringing silence.
"He - that ain't human!" Well, apparently something could shake the cool, collected exterior.
John twisted into a column of shadow, sickening cracking reverberating amidst the sounds of flesh tearing as it faded to reveal the creature wearing a man's skin, almost ridiculously normal in comparison to his native form.
"Boo." The Dark Sprite laughed. "Thanks for calling me, Brother!" The words broke into a cackle, clearly enjoying the shock value and frozen stance of the hunter.
To be fair, seeing the reaction, Harry could hardly blame him.
"Myths and legends?" Harry continued, attempting to gloss over the fact that John had almost doubled over. Daryl needed some dignity after this encounter, after all. The man eyed him warily, apparently coming to same conclusion.
"Think ya all pretty much just confirmed they're real." Was the dry, wary reply, the 'bow inching down but not being disarmed.
"Hmm" Harry agreed. "Ok, how about witches."
"...Fuck." The hunter seemed to be weighing something, and then took a very small, almost nonexistent step forward, self preservation warring with... was that curiosity? "'Righ, one question."
Harry was ready, expecting almost anything to come out Daryl's mouth-
"What about chupocabras?"
-Except that.
"...Yes?" Well, Harry had heard of them at least. Whether it matched the mental image the man was projecting was another thing entirely, of course-
"Fuckin' knew it."
-Line Break - -
"So what we doin'?"
He resisted the urge to eye the hunter with suspicion. The man had taken this far, far too easily. Shock? Suspension of disbelief, maybe? A firm belief he was tripping?
"We're stopping at a F-" No, best not to invoke the name quite yet. "-Mushroom ring."
"A mushroom..." Hmm, maybe not suspension of disbelief after all. "What're you plannin', getting him to trip to death?"
That... wasn't a bad plan actually. There were enough Shambler's around that if an accidental death was in the works, it may actually have succeeded.
Harry bent and inspected the ground, the footprints in the mud too... alient to be shambler or human. A shiver passing round him. Sharp eyed, he glanced at Daryl, noting the same reaction. Definitely interesting.
More interesting, the branches and vines of the non-existent path were... almost arranged, a thick tangle of a ward. An ancient ward.
"No." He replied, and if he sounded a little regretful, he couldn't help that. It certainly sounded more entertaining. "We're looking for the Tuatha."
The look of confusion said it all, even as Harry rose and started following the nigh footprints on the invisible game trail.
"Fae." He elaborated, distracted. The magic here wasn't just ambient, and while the ward was probably masking it from the outside, there was no masking the swelling-
A second of blank expression and then-
"Tinkerbell. We're lookin' for Tinkerbell."
The man stopped dead, expression unreadable. Harry meanwhile internally winced - if the man said that at the actual ring-
"Should we take offence to that?" The comment split the air with a bass rumble, half growl, but more surprising was the source. Or lack thereof. It wasn't John, it wasn't the hunter, and it certainly hadn't been Harry. Rather a mass of shadows coalesced at their feet, and formed... something... humanoid, barring the path. "But it's not the foolish words of a mortal I come to hear. Tell me, mage. We've been long forgotten and even longer since any but the walking vileness has attempted to trespass in search of us."
The leaves rustled, but not like a horde might. More like the trees themselves were moving, and Harry couldn't stop the grin as he felt magic - true unfettered magic swell around him for the first time in a very, very long one.
"I came to call in a debt of the Unseelie, ancient one." He bowed. "There's a youngling in danger and a man who needs... A little, persuasion."
"More persuasion than your own geas, mageling? " The shadow drifted closer, and a gentle throb began at his temples. It took an effort of will to lower his mental barriers enough to allow the Fae to view the memories. And only enough. the Shadow hand drifted as if to touch his chin, but stopped once it touched his own aura.
Oh Gisis-Hrim, not one but two. Oh this will be fun. The shadow threw back it's head and laughed, the words appearing in his mind even as the shadow spoke different ones aloud-
"Ah, You seek... Why, and such a debt accrued!" The hand drifted back. "Consider the price paid, Ancient. The Court's do not forget, nor Avalon forgive the trespass of the Dark."
The words overlayed themselves, the Fae's mental presence seeking to launch others at him: delighted, dark ones that formed more concepts than as syllables-
Death-dark-giveroflife-rebirth-cycles-of-seasons-
-"It will be such a delight to see what you do." Purred in his mind and his ear. "Bring the kith-killer ere the moon waxes, we shall give him a most... warm, welcome. Even if, alas, he will not remember it."
The shadow went as quickly as it had gone, and Harry was quick to turn to leave, careful to keep the magic of the Fae at distance. Tricky creatures. Daryl went as if to speak and Harry silently warned against it, the hunter's mouth falling closed.
It was a very, very quiet walk back, until they were almost a mile within camp-
"...That...that was not a fairy." Daryl sounded dumbfounded. "It... looked like, an elf? Maybe?"
"A fairy? No. That was a Fae, one of the original who came across to America when the Irish came here. Tricky beings, malicious and mischievous, kind and horrific all in one. You see a member of the Fae only as they mean you to see them." Harry couldn't look at the hunter as he said it, gaze drawn to the moon. "And that..."
That had been an old one, old enough to remember how the debt had been accrued.
"Well, brother. You called through hallowed ground." He wasn't even surprised when John appeared by him. "Not just any of the folk would answer a summons like that."
Daryl looked at John like he was going to bite, but otherwise didn't flinch when the being seemingly teleported in front.
Harry almost smiled, shaking his head.
"Careful, you're starting to sound sane."
First a sharp inhale, and then something that could almost be described as a half chuckle emerged from behind him. But smother the sound as he might, Daryl couldn't hide the wry half smirk.
The rest of the walk was a great deal more relaxed.
Yes, the man was taking this... Far too well.
-Line Break -
He had no company besides Ed on the way back in, and Ed even survived - minus a few memories - to see the way out.
But, on seeing Carol, the scent of under-wear soiling terror tripled and though the man flinched back as if to bolt, he found himself stuck to the ground. The residents of Camp Caper looked on in confusion as Ed Peletier, wife beater extroadinaire, fell on his arse looking like all the hounds of hell were contained in his wife.
Truly, no-one could do mind-warping curses the way the Old folk could. And even better, the Mother of Mother's herself had seen to it the punishment fit the crime.
Ed Peletier's fate would be one worse than death, and worse, it was one he would drive himself to unknowingly. Any attempt to deviate or save himself out of selfish desire would end in only hastening it, and at the end of the path, there would be a version of Carol. The one in his mind, and the fate that tied her to seeing him humbled. Not dead, not that - that would be too fast. Still fresh, the man was going to be over-reacting a little: survival instincts could not be so easily over-written as memory.
But after he settled, well.. the effect would be far more subtle.
Cruelty or betrayel he visited, even thought of, on others... Well, that was rather the keystone. Ed Peletier could not stop being Ed Peletier, so his geas would persist even beyond his death. Magic, after all, was 80% intention even before a spell was mouthed. And this had been a very old, meticulously warded spell not even performed in this realm.
Was it cruel? Perhaps. Was it right? Who knew, certainly winning the favour had not been easy in the first place. And was the only reason the extra cost of the Tuatha De had not been exacted: usually such a geas would be laid on supplicant and victim alike, just from capriciousness. Between a truly deplorable crime for the Mother, and a supplicant to whom a debt was owed, he was, at least free from that; their word they bond, even if their word was open to... different interpretations.
Or perhaps they knew he was cursed enough already, he thought with a bitter smile.
Food in his hand and warm embers at his feet, he found his mind returning to old memories. Right and wrong, things to be argued after the fact; where people could afford to stand on the moral highground and proclaim they knew the truth of it, when they were not the victim... Or the problem solver.
But, at least for Harry, it was Justice.