Otter Creek Blood Stains on the Collar Means Just Don’t Ask

For @Herod, others in the Godsmouth group may cameo <3

Consciousness stirred, slowly at first, like a distant echo. His mind was submerged in a fog of half-formed sounds—the incessant hum of insects, the murmur of indistinct voices, and something else, softer... rippling water? It took a long, dragging moment before Machiavelli realized he was, in fact, awake. Then, all at once, panic seized him, and he shot upright, heart hammering in his chest as though it sought to tear its way out.

His breath came in shallow, frantic bursts, the thud of his pulse nearly drowning out the world around him. He blinked, dazed, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He was no longer in the lowlands, that much was certain—no familiar dust, no oppressive heat. Instead, he found himself tucked within the cool embrace of a bush, its dense, wiry branches creating a hidden alcove. Beneath him, there was a makeshift nest, rough but soft enough, crafted from dried leaves and bits of grass, a safe haven that had cradled him in his unconscious state. Above, the midday light filtered through the leaves, breaking into a dappled pattern of sun and shadow, gently flickering across his pale fur.

The scent of bitter herbs lingered in the air, sharp and medicinal, rising from the bandages wrapped carefully around his injuries. Someone had tended to him—someone with knowledge and precision. His mind spun with questions. The pair that attacked him and Safiya wouldn’t have gone to such trouble. And yet, he wasn’t in Akashingo either. It didn't add up.

He swallowed hard, pushing past the tight knot of confusion lodged in his throat. Shifting slightly, he winced as the throb of his injuries reminded him of their presence. The world outside the bush was a tangled web of branches and thorns, offering little in the way of answers. He slid forward cautiously, nose twitching as he poked his head out from beneath the protective foliage, eyes scanning for any sign of the little Mazoi.

Where was Safiya?

Herod reclined beneath the towering boughs of a great alder. His posture was regal, his golden eyes fixed in steady contemplation. Two servants hovered nearby, their sole duty to ward off the biting insects that dared to disturb their master's stillness. Yet, their presence was hardly noted by the lion. The air hung heavy with tension, though none dared to speak it aloud. The Abbot's golden eyes, sharp and calculating, remained fixed upon the makeshift den where Hasdrubal lay resting. The boy would stir soon--of this, Herod was certain. It was only a matter of days, and once he awoke, the journey back to Godsmouth could begin in earnest.

Yet a small, unsettling notion gnawed at the edge of Herod’s mind. The boy had fled once; What assurance did Herod have that Hasdrubal would not attempt the same again? He would need a tether, a reason so compelling that even the wild, untamed heart of the boy would find no escape.

Tricky, tricky, Herod mused, his tail flicking against the forest floor in a languid rhythm, setting eddies of fallen leaves aloft.

Suddenly, a flicker of movement shattered his reverie. From the shadows, a head emerged, its paleness catching the light of the noon sun. A wave of relief washed over Herod, palpable as the sigh that escaped his lips, and for the first time in weeks, the tension in his shoulders eased. He rose to his feet, dusting the dirt and forest debris from his golden coat, each movement composed, though his heart beat with urgency.

Herod’s attention shifted to the wolf standing beside him, his lips curling into a smile that was more command than warmth. His voice, smooth as velvet and heavy with authority, resonated through the clearing like the toll of a bell. Butcher the calf. Separate half of the meat with care--the hooves, hide, and horns are to be preserved in their entirety. These are to be delivered to Ransem with the utmost haste. And see to it that the finest morsels along the riverbanks are gathered as well. We are to prepare a feast, for it seems a celebration is in order, my son.

There was no hesitation in the command, and none in the wolf's swift acknowledgment. Yet Herod’s attention had already shifted. His gaze fell upon the second servant, his tone softening, though no less suffused with power. Seek out Elveera and inform her that Hasdrubal has awakened. She is to teach another all that is required for his care, that she might take her rest at last. Her tireless dedication has not gone unnoticed, and soon, very soon, we shall return to the hallowed site and complete what has been set in motion.

The servants, like shadows given purpose, scurried away, swift to fulfill their master’s bidding, leaving Herod alone with his thoughts once more. He stood for a moment longer, allowing the breeze to rustle his silvering fur. A week had passed since the boy had fallen into this restless sleep, and though the land had endured storms and rains, Herod could not shake the sense that their window of safety was swiftly closing. Time, once plentiful, now felt fleeting. They would not camp here long.

And so, with measured steps, the lion began his descent toward the boy, his mind preparing for the conversation that awaited.

Machiavelli's breath caught in his throat as his vision adjusted to the brighter light. There, just beyond the veil of tangled branches, stood a figure. The familiar silhouette sent a cold rush of dread straight through him, freezing the blood in his veins. It hadn’t been a dream. His worst fear was no figment of his addled mind—Herod was real, standing just out of reach.

The realization hit him like a blow to the chest, and a string of breathless expletives tumbled from his lips, thick with alarm. Instinct kicked in, demanding flight, and he lurched backward, heedless of the searing pain that ripped through him. Agony seared up his limbs, but he pushed onward, uncaring. The burning in his body was nothing compared to the icy terror gripping his heart.

He twisted, limbs flailing in a frantic attempt to dart out from the other side of the bush, to escape—anywhere—but his body betrayed him. His legs—weak, trembling from exhaustion and pain—collapsed beneath him like broken twigs, spilling him onto the unforgiving ground. He landed hard among the twisted roots and leaves.

Machiavelli tried to push himself up again, claws scraping uselessly against the earth as he gritted his teeth against the pain. But it was no use. His heart thundered in his ears, each beat a frantic countdown, and his breath came in ragged gasps, but no amount of will could force his trembling muscles to move.

He was trapped, helpless, at the mercy of the one man he had spent his life trying to escape.

Cameo!

The news from Herod's servant stirred a storm of emotions within Eira—hope, anger, revulsion, and a tangle of feelings she could hardly name. Yet, one thing was certain: she had resisted the fierce urge to kill the beast while it lay helpless.

Against every fiber of her being, she had healed the creature as asked, though the thought of laying her paws on it again made her skin crawl. Indeed, she would have no problem passing her skills onto someone else and never touching that vile thing again.

A sudden commotion from the camp jolted her from her brooding. The beast, trying to escape! Without hesitation, she stormed to Herod, her fury evident in every bristle of her puffed-up coat.

Did I not tell you it should be bound, Herod? she snapped, her normal drawl replaced with fierce authority. If you expect me to keep healing it, you best have it tied down from now on, do you hear?

If Herod was startled by her ferocity, she would not give him a chance to voice it, only leaving him with an ultimatum before storming off again: I’ll do what is asked of me, but only if I know it’s not going anywhere until this is over. You may say it needs healing, but I say it only needs to be alive. If you want my help, you’ll do it my way from here on out.

The Snowbird woman descended upon Herod like a squall. Her shrill and indignant voice rose in a flurry of squawks, demanding his attention. Yet he did not deign to respond, only drawing his head back as her words lashed at him like the beating of wings. The faintest curl of his lips and set jaw betrayed his restraint. The elder's golden eyes fixed coldly upon her, watching from beneath the heavy shadow of his brow. There was no need for words. Her fury would burn itself out, as such things always did.

When at last she stormed away, her indignation trailing behind her like a dissipating gust, Herod’s gaze followed her briefly before he turned, shaking his head with a tsk.

There was no rush. The boy--his boy--had not gotten far. Could not get far in his current condition. Through the tangle of leaves and branches, he saw him--Hasdrubal, struggling against his fate. Herod’s expression softened; amusement tempered with sorrow. He would wait. He had always been patient, and this moment was no different. The boy’s efforts would cease soon enough, and when he turned to face his reality, Herod would be there.

The Abbot would wait until the boy’s futile resistance ebbed, and his eyes--those striking, unnatural opals--met his own gaze. The lion stepped forward, his movements slow, as though not to startle the boy further. With a gentle flourish, he removed the alligator-hide cloak from his shoulders, laying it carefully upon the ground.

Hello, Hasdrubal, Herod's voice, though gentle, carried the weight of worlds. It was a greeting filled with a quiet, somber attachment. He lowered himself to sit upon the hide, smoothing it beneath his silvering paw.

I had hoped, he began, his words rich with regret, that when we met again, it would be under better circumstances. There was no denying the distance that had grown between them--an ocean's worth of mistrust and fear. A faint sigh escaped him as his gaze remained locked upon the boy’s face.

I can see that during our time apart, you have grown to fear me. Worse still, you have come to believe your own falsehoods, to twist our past into something it never was. Herod’s voice faltered momentarily before regaining its strength, still calm despite the ache within. 

There was hurt in his expression, carved into the lines of his aging face. The last time we stood before one another, it was...unfortunate, I will admit. But you must remember, Hasdrubal--you were the one to first spill blood. You were not imprisoned out of cruelty but for your own protection and for the safety of all those who would have suffered had you not been contained. His words were measured, and his golden gaze never left Hasdrubal’s, as though trying to reach some deeper understanding.

There was no anger in Herod’s voice, only a profound weariness after years of devotion and a year of struggle and heartache. All I have ever wanted, he said softly, was what was best for Godsmouth…what was best for you. The sincerity in his tone was undeniable, a plea wrapped in layers of authority and care. He reached out then, his paw resting gently upon Hasdrubal’s shoulder, the touch both familiar and strange after so long. I am willing to forgive, he whispered, the words carrying the weight of a promise. Come to your senses, Hasdrubal. Return home. We can be as we once were. Together—Prophet and Abbot, as it was always meant to be.

Herod’s golden eyes searched the boy’s face, his expression a mixture of hope and sorrow, as though daring to believe that some fragment of their old bond still remained.

Machiavelli pressed himself deeper into the earth, claws digging frantically at the soil as if by sheer will alone he could carve out an escape. But no matter how desperately he scraped, the invisible leash tethering him to Herod only tightened. It was always there— had always been there— an unbreakable bind to the man who had once claimed his soul. And now, it was pulling taut.

The soft thud of the alligator-hide cloak hitting the ground sent a ripple through Machiavelli’s core, a shudder he could not suppress. His wide, haunted eyes tracked Herod’s every movement— the slow, deliberate way the elder seated himself, moving with the infuriating patience of a predator who feigns disinterest in its prey. He could almost taste the old man’s hunger, veiled as it was behind that sorrowful mask.

His ears flattened tightly against his skull as Herod’s cloying words, choking in their gentility, attempted to worm their way into his mind. Hasdrubal was the child Herod had crushed beneath the weight of his control— the child who had bled and wept in Godsmouth, clinging to the hollow promises of a love that never existed. But Machiavelli? Machi had buried that boy long ago.

And yet… Herod’s voice had a way of worming beneath his skin, settling like a parasite in the cracks of his mind. It was too familiar, too close, stirring a nausea deep in the half-breed's stomach. Fear him? Oh yes, Machiavelli feared him. There was nothing in this world he feared more. Not death. Not pain. But this: being dragged back under Herod’s thumb, returning to a life where every thought— every breath— was controlled by the Abbot’s whims.

The elder, voice rich with regret, spoke of misunderstanding, of a love tainted by necessity. Machiavelli's lip curled into a silent snarl. Was that how Herod saw it? Did he truly believe that the beatings, the humiliation, the endless rituals, were acts of love?

“You were the one to first spill blood.”

A laugh bubbled up from his throat, harsh and jagged like nails scraping against a chalkboard, spilling out before he could choke it back. It was a hollow, empty sound, twisted by disbelief and scorn. Spill blood? Herod had rewritten the story so beautifully, casting him as the reckless child, the sinner desperately in need of saving. The laughter died, turning into a wet cough, bile rising in his throat as the memory of Juno’s lifeless body flashed behind his eyes, and Herod standing there, untouched, unbothered, as though it had all been some necessary evil.

The touch of Herod’s paw on his shoulder jolted him back to the present. Machiavelli flinched, a sharp, involuntary motion as if burned. The warmth of the Abbot's touch crawled over his skin, leaving behind a trail of nausea in its wake. It was more than a simple touch, it was a brand. A reminder of every moment Herod had held him, guided him and broken him.

Forgive? The word echoed in his mind. Herod spoke of forgiveness as though he were the one wronged, as though Machi—Hasdrubal—was the one in need of redemption. As though he should be grateful. It was absurd. It was maddening.

Slowly, painfully, Machiavelli dragged his eyes upward, forcing himself to meet Herod’s gaze. His heart pounded, each beat filled with fear and defiance, but his lips twitched into a sardonic smile— cruel and mocking. The opal eyes gleamed, not with the hope or forgiveness Herod was searching for, but with something darker, something harder. Defiance— obstinate, and unyielding.

Go to hell.

And he lunged for the man's neck.

It was almost effortless to evade the boy's feeble assault. With a mere shift of his weight, Herod leaned back, leaving Hasdrubal's snapping jaws to close on nothing but empty air. The boy’s strength had long since faded; the wildness in his eyes was all that remained of his defiance. The lion's golden eyes reflected neither anger nor surprise, but something akin to pity as he watched the boy’s wild attempt.

The elder’s servants descended in the next breath, pinning the boy to the earth as though he was nothing more than a doll. There was no need for struggle--the outcome was inevitable.

I had hoped, Herod began, his voice smooth and untroubled, the tone of one adjusting his mantle rather than dealing with the aftermath of a failed murder attempt, to resolve this matter with a semblance of civility. He glanced down at Hasdrubal, his disappointment apparent. Snowbird, in her infinite caution, desires that you remain bound. I, however, do not share her inclination. Yet, if you persist in your stubbornness, you will leave me no choice but to employ more... regrettable measures.

The Abbot's golden eyes, cold as winter dawn, flicked to his attendants.

Only one of you is required to restrain him, Herod’s voice was clipped, decisive. You--search Elveera's stores. She has bundles of the sleep-inducing herbs--bring them.

The snarl clung to Machiavelli’s lips, a feral curl of defiance painting his maw even as he was slammed to the ground. His body struck the earth with a hellish force, sending pain spearing through him. The taste of mud mixed with the copper tang of blood flooded into his mouth. Every nerve screamed, his muscles burned from the exertion, but still, he refused to let the groan slip past his gritted teeth. Instead, his growl deepened, low and venomous, rolling up from the depths of his chest.

Soil and decaying plant matter stained his face, clumping in the tangled mess of his coat, and the cold, damp earth beneath him seeped through to his skin. His breaths came in ragged gasps, but he would not—could not—let himself falter. Not now. Not before him.

The stained-glass eyes gleamed in the dappled light, locking onto Herod’s golden gaze. The elder stood over him like an indomitable monolith, his shadow long and oppressive, casting an inescapable darkness over Machiavelli's trembling form. Yet despite the weight of that presence—despite the suffocating sense of dread that gripped his chest—Machiavelli did not shrink back. He met Herod’s gaze with unflinching intensity, his lips peeling further away from his teeth in a sneer, a flash of white against the filth and grime that coated his face.

I'm not alone this time, he growled, the words forced through clenched teeth, each syllable a hiss of unadulterated rebellion. His voice, though ragged with exhaustion, dripped with disdain, daring Herod to believe he was still the helpless child of years past. Others will come looking.

His heart hammered in his chest, blood rushing through his ears, but his eyes never left Herod's face. He could see it now—how the elder's expression remained maddeningly calm as if Machiavelli's resistance were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, a momentary lapse in an otherwise controlled game.

Pain flared anew as rough paws seized his jaw, wrenching it open with brutal efficiency. Bitter-tasting bundles of herbs and plants were shoved between his teeth, the dry, acrid taste of them clinging to his tongue. They choked him, the texture scraping against his throat. He could feel the urge to retch rising, but he swallowed it back, his body convulsing as he fought the instinct to gag.

Still, he did not cry out. He refused to give Herod the satisfaction of seeing him break. His eyes, still glimmering with that same defiance, remained locked on the Abbot's even as the world around him wavered and grew black at the edges.

There was no escape. Not yet. But Machiavelli knew this moment would pass, that somewhere beyond this suffocating haze of pain and helplessness, there was a reckoning. He just had to endure long enough to see it.

And when the time came, the one thing he knew with absolute certainty was that Herod would pay for every drop of blood spilled between them.

Others will come looking? Herod’s voice was laced with amusement, his lips curling into a smile that betrayed the disbelief he barely restrained. His golden eyes glinted beneath his brow, sharp as a hawk’s gaze fixed upon prey. The notion was laughable, and for a brief moment, he appeared on the verge of doing so.

Two weeks have passed, dear, he continued, words rich with finality. You might imagine the world pauses its spinning in your absence, but I am afraid you must learn that is not the case. If there were any who truly sought you, they would have come by now. Those you hope for, those you imagine racing to your rescue, have long since abandoned the thought. You are alone.

He regarded the boy for a lingering moment, watching as the revelation settled over him. Then, with the air of one concluding an already settled matter, Herod’s voice lowered to a hum, like a lullaby sung over a battlefield.

Sleep well, Hasdrubal, he murmured, pressing a kiss into the muddied temple. Do not fret, I am a kind man. You will receive another chance to apologize when you awaken.