FEAR
"Listen, if we're going to do this," Hope hesitated. "We're going to make a stop to get some supplies. My supplies."
Rook's eyes drifted to Hope from the rear mirror.
"And where would that be?" Rook asked.
There was a long pause. It was clear that Hope was full of hesitation.
"My old home," Hope's breath caught in her throat.
"Well that wouldn't be a problem, would it?" Rook replied. "We could make a quick stop and you could get your stuff, then we can be back on the road again in a hot minute, right?"
Hope sighed. Hope's gaze drifted outside, but her mind slipped into a shadowy past. The scenery blurred, memories rushing back uninvited.
She was small again, maybe ten or eleven, standing in a dimly lit room that felt more like a prison than a home. The walls were painted a dull grey, and the air was thick with the scent of mildew. Uncle Henrik's voice echoed in her mind, smooth yet laced with something sinister. "You're lucky to have me, Hope. No one else would take you in."
The memory was visceral; she could almost feel the chill of the room wrapping around her like a shroud. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, hands clenched tightly around a worn-out stuffed toy. The old thing had become her only comfort, its fabric a safe haven against the cruel world outside her small sanctuary.
Then, she remembered the way Henrik would enter her room, his presence looming like a storm cloud. "We're family, you know," he'd say, his smile a thin veneer over his true intentions. "Family looks out for each other." The words, meant to soothe, became a twisted mantra that only deepened her fear.
One day, he'd pulled her into a hug that felt suffocating instead of warm. "You can trust me," he had whispered, his breath foul and close. She had wanted to believe him, to feel safe in the embrace of a guardian. But the way his hands lingered too long made her stomach churn.
In that moment, she had wished to disappear, to become invisible, to escape the reality that was her life. Each day, she fought against the weight of his words, the guilt that they created. It was a war she felt she could never win, and with every passing year, the scars she carried—both visible and hidden—grew deeper.
"Hope?" Rook's voice pulled her from the depths of her memory, a lifeline breaking through the suffocating darkness.
She blinked, the present rushing back. The warmth of the car and the reassuring presence of Ben and Rook grounded her, but the echoes of her past still clung to her like a shadow. "I'm okay," she managed, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
Rook's gaze held a question, a concern that felt too heavy for her to bear. She turned away and sighed. "I'm… I'm not particularly fond of the memories of my old home."
Ben's gaze flicked to her in the mirror, concern knitting his brows. She wouldn't meet his eyes or Rook's; instead, she gazed down, cradling herself, her arms wrapped tightly around her as if trying to shield herself from the ghosts that lingered in her mind. Through the fabric of her dress, the scars of her past seemed to whisper, reminders of a life she had fought hard to escape.
"Listen, Hope. Whatever is waiting for you back at your old home, we will be there to keep you safe, okay?" Rook offered, trying to calm her.
As they drove closer to her old home, a chill ran down Hope's spine. The house stood there, just as she remembered, but it felt different—darker, somehow. The once-vibrant paint was peeling, and the yard was overgrown, wild with neglect. It felt like a ghost of her past, a haunting reminder of everything she had endured.
Rook parked the SUV across the street. Ben and Rook stepped out, the soft thud of the doors closing behind them. But Hope lingered in the back seat. She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment pressing on her chest. With a slow exhale, she stepped out, her heart pounding.
She led the way, Rook trailing behind, his posture steady, ever the sentinel. Ben followed, hands tucked in his pockets, his eyes darting to the left and right, scanning the surroundings with caution.
As they approached the steps, Hope stopped abruptly and turned to face them. "Wait here," she said quietly.
Instinctively, they obeyed. Hope ascended the creaky steps alone, each groan of wood beneath her feet echoing the memories of a time she had long tried to forget. When she reached for the door, her hand trembled. The flood of fear, pain, and shame surged, threatening to pull her under. But she forced herself to stand tall. She wasn't that helpless girl anymore—she was a survivor.
She inhaled deeply, grounding herself in the present, and knocked. The sound felt deafening in the stillness. Moments later, the door creaked open, and a pair of wary eyes peered out. They scanned her face, and then recognition dawned in those eyes.
The door swung open wider, revealing a frail old man, grey and bent with age. Yet his presence, even now, suffocated the space around him. His towering figure, once so oppressive, was still formidable, casting a long shadow over her.
"Well, well..." Henrik's voice oozed with venomous mockery. "Look who finally came crawling back. The little sorceress."
The words hit her like a physical blow, and in that instant, no matter how many years had passed, Hope felt no older than nine. She instinctively took a step back, the strength she had built over the years crumbling under his presence. She felt small—small and fragile, like that terrified little girl he used to control. The memories flooded her mind like a dam bursting: his twisted smile, the cruelty in his gaze, the helplessness that had consumed her. Her breath hitched, her body locking up as the old fear took hold.
Henrik's smile deepened, sensing her fear. "You need something, don't you?" His voice slithered through the air like a serpent. His hand shot out, gripping her arm. The cold dread shot through her veins, freezing her in place. "Always needing something. Just like when you were younger..."
He pulled her closer, the years seeming to dissolve in an instant, as if the past and present had become one. The old terror reignited in her chest, paralysing her limbs, her heart hammering painfully against her ribs. She knew this feeling too well. The helplessness, the panic.
Behind her, Ben stepped forward, anger simmering beneath the surface, ready to explode. Rook, ever composed, placed a steadying hand on his arm. Ben shot a glance at him, his brow furrowed in frustration.
"No," Rook said softly. "She needs to face this on her own."
Ben hesitated but relented, his eyes fixed on Hope, the tension thick between them.
Henrik, aware of their presence, let out a sinister laugh. "Oh, you even brought your little boyfriends along to watch? Guess you still need saving, don't you?" His voice was slick with dark amusement.
For a moment, something shifted inside Hope. A spark, small but fierce, flickered to life. No, she thought. Not anymore.
"No," her voice was quiet, barely a whisper, but firm.
Henrik raised an eyebrow, his smug smile unwavering. "What was that?"
Hope lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes with a steely resolve. "I said no. You will leave me alone."
Her voice was stronger now, unwavering, her gaze cutting through him like a blade.
Henrik's smug expression faltered for a split second, but he quickly regained his composure. "So, the little witch has finally found her voice?" His hand reached out to caress her cheek, his smile mocking.
Without warning, Hope's voice broke free, stronger than before. "I said, DON'T TOUCH ME!"
In one swift, fluid motion, she grabbed his arm and twisted it sharply. The sickening crack echoed through the air, followed by Henrik's scream of pain.
His cry rang out, raw and guttural, as he staggered back, clutching his arm. The power he once held over her shattered in that moment, the years of torment she had suffered finally breaking free.
Henrik cried out in agony, clutching his twisted arm as he hunched over, trembling. Hope, her emotions still raw and her hands shaking slightly, stepped into the house without looking back. The weight of the moment pressed down on her, but she pushed forward, determined. Behind her, Ben and Rook followed in silence, their eyes cold and indifferent to the frail man's suffering, focused only on supporting Hope as she took each step deeper into her past.
Hope glanced over her shoulder, meeting Rook's steady gaze. He gave her a reassuring nod, grounding her. Taking a deep breath, she turned back and began to ascend the stairs, her footsteps soft but resolute on the worn wooden steps.
Rook then gestured toward Ben. "I'll keep an eye on him," he said quietly, his eyes flicking to the old man hunched over in the kitchen chair, still clutching his arm, his face twisted in pain.
Ben met Rook's gaze, nodded silently, and then followed Hope upstairs, his expression tense but focused. The air felt heavier as they moved further into the house, leaving the frail man behind.
As Hope stepped into her old room, a wave of nostalgia washed over her, hitting her like a tidal force she hadn't expected. The air in the room felt stagnant, yet familiar, as if time had paused the moment she left. She took a slow, deliberate breath and scanned the space around her.
The wallpaper, once bright and full of colour, now faded into a dull shade of pink with hints of fairies scattered across it. Each peel and crack in the wall felt like a small tear in her heart, a symbol of time's wear but also a reminder of a place she once considered her refuge. Even in the starkness, it was a sanctuary—a fortitude of safety where she could hide away from the harshness of the world, from Henrik.
Her eyes drifted to the little bed in the corner, the one she used to scramble under in fear during the nights Henrik came home drunk, his footsteps heavy and full of menace. She smiled, but it was a bittersweet smile, one that tugged at her deeply. She remembered those nights, trembling beneath that small bed frame, clutching tightly to something that made her feel less alone.
That something caught her eye—her old stuffed toy, once her constant companion. It sat abandoned on the dusty floor, broken and worn with age, patches all over its body. Its once soft fabric was now rough and dirty, with smudges of grime and tears exposing the cotton that had long since started leaking out. But to Hope, it was perfect, because in the darkest of nights, that toy had been her comfort. She walked over to it and crouched down, picking it up gently. Holding it in her hands again felt surreal, like touching a piece of her past that had somehow remained in place despite everything that had changed.
She cradled the stuffed toy for a moment, stroking its worn-out surface, and smiled again, this time with a touch more warmth. This room, as cracked and broken as it was, had still been her shelter. A place where, for a few brief moments, she could feel safe.
Hope crossed the room quietly, her steps almost tentative, until she reached the old wardrobe in the far corner. She opened the creaky doors and knelt down, her fingers brushing the surface of the drawer at the bottom. Slowly, she pulled out a small, white box, its surface thick with dust from years of neglect.
With a deep breath, she blew the dust off the lid, watching the particles swirl away like memories long forgotten. Opening the box, she revealed a collection of items from a time that now felt like someone else's life.
Her eyes were drawn to a faded, crumpled photograph nestled at the top. She carefully lifted it out. It was a picture of her and her father when she was just four years old, back when life was simpler. In the photo, she was beaming with joy, her father's strong hands lifting her high into the air. It was one of the only memories she had of him—a fleeting glimpse of happiness that now felt almost like a distant dream.
Without realising it, a tear slipped from her eye, falling onto the portrait and smudging the surface. Hope quickly wiped it away, her fingers leaving behind streaks of moisture mixed with the worn ink. She blinked back more tears, swiping at her cheeks, but the stains of her grief remained, now mingled with the faded remnants of a long-lost past.
Hope folded the crumpled portrait and tucked it safely into her pocket, the faded image of her father still vivid in her mind. Each crease in the paper felt like a reminder of the innocence she once had—a time before the darkness had clouded her life.
Her gaze returned to the box, a relic of her past, and her finger brushed against the cover of her old spellbook. It was a treasure, its surface worn and weary from countless uses. As she opened the book, the musty scent of aged paper filled the air, and a wave of nostalgia washed over her. The familiar spells and incantations danced across the yellowed pages, their edges frayed and stained with the remnants of her childhood. Some pages were torn, remnants of a time when she had fought fiercely to break free, each rip echoing her struggle.
With careful hands, she closed the book, feeling the weight of her history within it. The spellbook was not just a collection of spells; it was a testament to her resilience, a symbol of the girl she had been and the woman she had become.
Next, she pulled out her small purse, its cloth fabric ragged and stained with dirt. The material felt damp and heavy in her grasp, a physical reminder of the emotional burdens she carried. She slowly opened it, peering inside to reveal her arcane bombs—tools of destruction she had crafted during her most tumultuous years.
As she fingered the bombs, a mixture of regret and nostalgia washed over her. They were instruments of chaos, but they had also been her lifeline—her way of asserting control in a world that had so often sought to strip her of it. A heavy sigh escaped her lips, echoing her internal conflict. She had relied on these objects to navigate a world that felt hostile and unforgiving, but they had also led her down a path of destruction.
Hope's eyes lingered on the spellbook and purse, memories intertwining with each object, weaving a tapestry of her past filled with both beauty and pain. These items were not merely remnants of her former life; they were pieces of her identity, fragments of a girl who had fought bravely against her demons.
"Hope." A voice startled her from behind. She instinctively turned around, her body tensing, and took a step back, heart racing.
But it was just Ben.
"You okay?" Ben asked softly, his usually cold demeanour softened. There was something in his tone, an understanding. "What you did down there, that was… really brave." He offered a small, genuine smile. "Confronting your demons like that—it was commendable."
Hope let out a shaky breath, her body still on edge. She had managed to face Henrik, but the weight of the encounter lingered heavily. She felt like that scared girl again, trapped in the past, no matter how far she'd run from it.
"Brave?" she echoed, her voice hollow. A bitter laugh escaped her. "I didn't feel brave."
Ben stepped closer, but kept his distance, his presence steady and patient. His eyes held hers, unwavering. "You were," he insisted. "It didn't feel like it at the moment, but standing up to him—someone who held that much power over you, who made you feel so small—that takes more strength than you realise."
Hope shook her head, turning away from him. "It doesn't change anything," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I still did… all of it. Everything I've done." Her hands tightened around the trinkets in the box, the weight of guilt and shame crashing over her. "None of that changes."
Ben watched her carefully, then spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "You've been through hell." His words hung in the air, raw and heavy, and Hope winced at the mention of it. "What happened to you—it wasn't fair. None of it was. You didn't deserve it."
Hope's fingers trembled as she brushed over a pendant, the one her father had given her when she was still just a girl, full of wonder and potential. Before everything went dark.
"I turned that pain into something worse," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I hurt people, Ben. I let the anger—no, the fear—consume me. I was… monstrous."
"You weren't a monster," Ben said firmly, stepping closer, his voice edged with conviction. "You were scared. Hurt. Sure, you lashed out. You let that anger and fear drive you to do things that weren't right. But that doesn't make you evil."
Hope's shoulders slumped. She wanted to believe him, but the weight of her past was too heavy to shake off. "I let it turn me into something I never wanted to be." She brandished her magical gauntlet around her wrist. It was a perfect fit. "Look, it even still fits me perfectly." She sighed.
Ben crouched down beside her, meeting her eye to eye, refusing to let her retreat into the darkness she'd carried for so long. "You were misguided, Hope. You were angry—justifiably angry—but the way you let it out, the way you let it consume you… it wasn't who you really are."
Hope didn't respond, but Ben could see the cracks forming in the walls she'd built around herself. He pressed on, his voice steady but filled with empathy.
"Look, I get it. When you've been through what you've been through, sometimes the only way you feel like you can survive is by fighting back. By hurting others before they can hurt you. But that doesn't make you a bad person. It just makes you human." Ben's voice softened, "You were trying to protect yourself. You were trying to take back control in a world that took it from you."
She closed her eyes, shuddering at the truth in his words. For so long, she had convinced herself that she was beyond saving. That all the pain she'd caused, all the terrible things she'd done, had made her irredeemable. But now… now Ben was forcing her to confront something even scarier than her past—hope.
"You're not a villain, Hope," Ben continued. "You've done wrong, yeah, but so have I. So has anyone who's been through the kind of hell we've been through. You're not the sum of your worst mistakes. You're someone who's been broken and beaten down, and yeah, you made bad choices. But that doesn't define you."
Her eyes fluttered open, tears she hadn't allowed herself to cry stinging at the corners of her vision. "I don't know how to fix it," she whispered, her voice cracking.
Ben stood, his hand reaching out to gently rest on her shoulder. "You start by forgiving yourself," he said softly. "You can't change the past, Hope. But you can decide what kind of person you want to be moving forward."
She didn't move, didn't say anything, but Ben could see it in her—the slow, painful process of healing starting to take root.
"You've got to start believing that you're worth saving." Ben added.
For a long moment, Hope didn't respond. She simply stood there, clutching the pendant in her hand, the weight of everything pressing down on her. But slowly, ever so slowly, she nodded.
Ben gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before stepping back. "Take your time. We'll be here."
As Ben turned to leave, Hope stared down at the pendant again. The memories were still there, still painful, but now… there was something else, too. A flicker of hope, buried deep but burning all the same. Maybe she wasn't beyond saving. Maybe, just maybe, she could finally start to believe it.
Meanwhile, downstairs, Rook stood silently by the kitchen counter, watching Henrik out of the corner of his eye. The old man was still clutching his arm, wincing from the pain that Hope had inflicted. Rook kept his posture relaxed, leaning slightly against the counter, his combat knife spinning between his fingers. It was a steady, rhythmic motion, a habit he had developed in times of waiting. The cold gleam of the blade caught the dim light as he flipped it skillfully, keeping his focus on Henrik while he waited for Ben and Hope to return.
"I'll get it checked if I were you," Rook called out to Henrik, his attention not leaving his routine and his voice lacking sympathy.
Henrik shifted in his chair, his beady eyes narrowing as he watched Rook with thinly veiled malice. After a few moments of silence, he spoke, his voice a low rasp.
"You know she'll betray you too, right?" Henrik's tone was thick with venom. "That girl… Hope. You think she's changed? That she's something better now? She's not. She's still the same broken creature, driven by anger and hatred. It's all she knows."
Rook didn't respond, his expression impassive. He continued flipping the knife in his hand, never breaking his calm, never giving Henrik the satisfaction of a reaction. But Henrik wasn't finished.
"She's done it before," Henrik sneered, leaning forward slightly, despite the pain that twisted his features. "She'll turn on you just like she's turned on everyone who ever tried to help her. Because that's who she is. A monster. It's in her blood." He let out a cruel laugh. "You think you can trust her? She'll use you. She'll use that boy. And when she's had enough, she'll leave you both in the dirt."
Rook's eyes flicked to Henrik, finally giving him the briefest glance, but he remained silent, his movements slow and methodical as he continued to play with the knife.
Henrik smirked, taking that as encouragement to press on. "I raised her, you know. I know exactly what she's capable of. I made her who she is. And no matter how much she pretends, no matter how much you want to believe she's changed, she's still my little Hope. She'll always be—"
Rook's knife stopped spinning. In a single, fluid motion, he flipped it in his hand and slammed it down into the counter, the blade embedding itself with a sharp, decisive thud. The sound cut Henrik's words short, his eyes widening slightly as Rook finally turned to face him fully.
"I know what you are," Rook said calmly, his voice steady but laced with quiet intensity. "And I know what you've done to her."
Henrik's smirk faltered.
"You see, I don't care what you say," Rook continued, his gaze never wavering. "You're a man who feeds on fear, who twists the truth to suit your own cruelty. Hope isn't perfect. She's made mistakes, but I've seen who she really is." His voice softened, but it carried an undeniable edge. "And she's not you."
Henrik's lips curled into a sneer, but Rook didn't give him the chance to speak.
"She's not the same scared little girl you could control," Rook said. "And whatever hold you think you still have on her—it's broken." He pulled the knife from the counter, flipping it back into his hand with effortless precision. "You're the past. And she's moving forward."
Henrik glared at him, but Rook simply turned away, leaning back against the counter, resuming his silent vigil as he waited for Ben and Hope.
The old man, defeated, fell silent.
The kitchen fell back into an uneasy silence, the tension still hanging in the air as Henrik, despite his physical frailty, tried to maintain control of the situation with his venomous gaze. His ego was bruised, but he wasn't finished.
Ben and Hope descended the stairs. Hope, now dressed in her magic combat robe, carried her old magical supplies neatly tucked away in a small, enchanted purse. Her posture had changed; she stood taller, more composed. As her eyes met Henrik's, there was no longer fear behind them. The man who had once towered over her in her nightmares now seemed small—pathetic even. Henrik was nothing more than a frail, withered figure desperately trying to clutch onto the power he had once wielded over her.
"Running off with these fools, Hope?" Henrik spat, his voice still sharp and cutting despite his weakened state. "You think you're something now? Dressed up in your silly robes, pretending you've got power? You'll always be the scared, weak girl who ran away from her responsibilities. You're nothing without me."
Hope didn't flinch. His words, which once pierced her deeply, now rolled off her like water on stone. She looked at him, not with fear or anger, but with something far worse for Henrik—pity. She no longer saw the monstrous figure who had haunted her for so long. She saw a broken, bitter old man clinging to the remnants of control he no longer had.
She simply walked past him, as if he were nothing more than an obstacle in her path. "You're done," she said softly, not even bothering to address him by name.
Rook glanced at her, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he sheathed his knife. "You done?" he asked casually.
Hope nodded. "Yeah, let's go," she said, her voice calm and assured.
"You know I'll find you again, you little witch," Henrik spat through clenched teeth, his face twisted with malice. "You can never escape me. I will drag you back here, where you belong!"
But Hope's steps never felt lighter as she walked away. The weight of his threats and his cruelty melted away with each stride, leaving her lighter than she had felt in years. She didn't need to fight anymore—not for his approval, nor for her past.
As they headed for the door, Henrik's voice erupted behind them, desperate and filled with hate. "You will all die with that little whore of a witch!" he bellowed, his voice cracking as he tried to claw back the last vestiges of power.
Ben stopped dead in his tracks, his body stiffening as Henrik's vile words echoed in the room. His fists clenched, white-knuckled. Without hesitation, he turned, his eyes blazing with anger, and stormed back towards Henrik.
Before anyone could react, Ben's fist connected with Henrik's face, sending the old man crashing to the floor in a heap, unconscious. The room fell into a stunned silence, broken only by the dull thud of Henrik's body hitting the ground.
Hope and Rook stood nearby, watching quietly. Hope didn't say a word, but there was a slight shift in her expression—one of relief, perhaps even catharsis.
Rook, with his usual calm, simply glanced over at Ben. "You know I was starting to think about doing that, too." Rook chuckled. "Feel better?"
Ben took a deep breath, shaking off the anger that had surged within him. "Yeah," he muttered, turning back towards them. "Let's go."
Together, they left the house, the door closing behind them as Henrik's presence faded into the past, just like the power he once held over Hope.