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This was a careful job. His supply of aconite was running low, but the forest around their village had several patches of them, and Dick had set out to refill his stores and gather a few more herbs on his way.
Strangely, he’d either misremembered the locations or a lot of the aconite was missing. If he was misremembering, he had to tell Bruce—the plant was toxic, even to humans, and children always strayed into the forest no matter how often they were warned not to cross the village’s wards.
Dick carefully dug around the blue flowering plant to free the roots. With a couple of whole plants, he’d be able to extract enough to replenish his supply, but it was delicate work, and Dick worked with spelled gloves to ensure he didn’t accidentally poison himself. By the time he got the third plant out of the ground and into his glass jar, the sun was high in the sky and the air was strangely still.
Dick rolled his shoulders back to fight off the prickling, resisting the urge to rub at the back of his neck. The jar of aconite went into his bag, and the gloves were wrapped and tucked into a side pocket. Dick took a moment to breathe, and remembered he was still kneeling near the patch of aconite.
He straightened and stepped away from it before he started coughing, planning what herbs he’d pick next. He’d come further than he’d wanted to, though, which meant setting off sooner if he wanted to be back before it got dark.
Dick walked away from the aconite, rubbing his neck as the prickling got worse. Had something bitten him? He hadn’t seen many insects flying around—
Or birds. Or other animals. The air wasn’t still, it was silent, unnaturally so, and Dick whirled around.
A dark-haired wolf emerged from the shadows, gracefully stepping over roots. It was lanky, proportions just a bit too long to be a regular wolf, and sharp eyes settled on him. Dick didn’t need to feel the hum of magic to spot a werewolf.
He backed up, hand slipping into his bag for his knife—he couldn’t outrun a wolf, but between the knife and aconite, it would hopefully let him leave—and froze.
Something sharp dug into the small of his back. “Hands out, hunter,” a harsh voice snarled behind him.
Dick slowly withdrew his empty hand, and raised both of them. “I’m not a hunter,” he said levelly, acutely aware of the knife pressing into his back, “I’m a healer. I didn’t realize this was your territory. I’ll leave.”
“And come back with your friends?” the voice laughed, unamused. They yanked the bag off his shoulder, and Dick gritted his teeth. “How stupid do you think we are?”
“I’m not coming back with—”
“Save it, hunter.”
Dick took a deep breath. Deescalate. New packs were always jumpy about territory, and Dick just had to convince them to let him go. “I’m not a hunt—”
“So if I open your bag right now, I won’t find fresh wolfsbane?”
Dick went cold. They’d been watching him. How long had they been watching him? How long since they’d settled in the forest—the missing patches of aconite, Dick hadn’t misremembered their locations, but there hadn’t been even a whisper of a rumor of a new werewolf pack.
“Aconite has medicinal—”
“One more word out of you, and I’ll sever your spine, hunter,” the voice growled, low and dark, “If you come with us silently, you get to retain the ability to walk.” A stretching beat. “For now.”
The wolf in front of him bared his teeth in a grin. The woman behind him pressed the knife further, until Dick was forced to take a stumbling step forward.
He couldn’t reach his knife or the wolfsbane. He doubted he could easily twist away from the woman’s knife, and the wolf would attack him in a flash. He could—no, that was a last resort, and this was just a pack establishing new territory. Dick needed to do what he was told. These two were jumpy, but their alpha wouldn’t be, and Dick would get the chance to explain.
He took a deep breath as he began following the wolf.
It took them a long time to get back to their den—how massive was this pack, if they had claimed so much territory?—and he saw wolves and humans slink out of the shadows to watch their approach, wary glances at his raised arms and slow steps.
“Hunter,” the woman behind him called out, and suspicious curiosity immediately twisted to seething fury. Dick bit his tongue—the threat hadn’t sounded like a bluff—and silently watched hate ripple across the face of everyone he saw.
Pleasant reception. This was going to be fun.
He was roughly shoved into an open clearing, and Dick took a quick glance at the people lurking around the edges, wolf and human form alike, trying to see if he could spot the alpha. The story had clearly spread, because dark looks came from every quarter, and Dick swallowed thickly under the force of their hatred.
He—he just needed to explain. That was it. He wasn’t a hunter, and there had been nothing demarcating their territory. He hadn’t set out to trespass, and the aconite was for medicinal purposes. He would be fine.
Looking at the glares and raised hackles, Dick found that a little hard to believe.
A silver-haired man stepped forward, an eyepatch over his right eye, the other ice-blue. He stood nearly a head above Dick, and he moved fluidly, easy grace and power.
Dick’s mouth went dry as the man stopped right in front of him, regarding him with a cold, even stare. Definitely the alpha.
Someone slammed a boot into the back of his knees and Dick instantly crumpled, landing hard on his knees and catching himself before he broke his nose with the force of the fall. “We found a hunter, Slade,” the woman said, her voice level.
“Where?” the man asked, but the knife was no longer at Dick’s back, and he didn’t appreciate being slandered.
“I’m not a hunter,” Dick said evenly, pretending calm even if the werewolves could hear his hammering heart, “I’m a healer. I’m sorry for trespassing, I didn’t know it was your—”
“He was picking wolfsbane,” the woman growled, “It’s in his bag.” Another hiss of alarm ranging around them.
The bag he would like back, thank you very much. “Aconite has medicinal properties,” Dick said levelly, lifting his head enough to meet the cold, blue-eyed gaze looking down at him. “I apologize for trespassing. I won’t do it again.”
“No,” the alpha said, “You won’t.”
A frisson of fear curled down Dick’s spine. Calm, he reminded himself. Pack settling into new territory. Probably chased out of their old territory by hunters. He needed to not antagonize them further.
“I’m a healer,” Dick repeated, “The aconite is for medicine. I mean no harm to you or your pack.” The alpha’s gaze scanned over him, still dispassionate.
“Do healers usually look like trained warriors?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Low growls sounded around the clearing.
“Everyone should know how to defend themselves,” Dick replied, and inwardly winced—that had too much bite to it. He hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself appear smaller. Not a threat. “I apologize for tres—”
“What is that?” the alpha interrupted, nodding at his collar, “Little bird.” Dick raised a hand, and felt it brush against his robin pin, the one thing he had left of his old family.
“It’s a pin.”
“Silver.” It wasn’t a question.
Dick swallowed, “Yes.” The mutters grew more seething, and the alpha’s expression slid to something darker.
“Take it off,” the alpha said, and it wasn’t a threat, except in all the ways it was. It’s just a pin, Dick reminded himself as he unfastened it with trembling fingers and gently placed it in the dirt. He needed them to believe him, and wearing silver would not help.
“Slade,” cut in a harsh voice behind him, and Dick caught the alpha nod at someone over his head. Slade turned his gaze back down to face Dick.
“What were you doing in our territory, hunter?” Slade asked, low but not quiet, “Where are the others?”
“I’m not a hunter,” Dick said, starting to get frustrated, “I’m a healer, and I was picking herbs.” More murmurs of discontent.
“Picking wolfsbane.”
“It has medicinal properties,” Dick repeated, “I swear, I’m not a hunter, and I mean you no harm.”
A loud scoffing noise from the side. Slade still looked calm, but everyone else was starting to get restless, and Dick shifted on his knees, reminding himself that the earth was below him, rooting him. It helped, no matter how fleeting that protection would be against a whole pack of wolves.
“You see, the problem is,” Slade said slowly, “I don’t believe you.”
Growling, all around him, and Dick tensed, watching Slade, waiting for him to lunge, waiting for him to do something—
But the attack came from behind him.
Dick registered the sound of wolf paws thudding against dirt a half-second before sharp, pointed teeth closed around his right shoulder and bit down, teeth sinking in from the base of his neck to the meat of his upper arm, crunching down on his collarbone in a blinding wave of agony.
He couldn’t tell if he’d screamed, but he could hear his ragged gasps, his heart pounding in his ears, a low growl rumbling through his mangled shoulder. Dick tried to breathe, but all he could manage were shallow wheezes as pulsing pain pushed through the shock.
Teeth locked in, forcing him still and limp and pliant, arm loose, as he struggled to breathe through the pain. Shock fading, and leaving agony behind. Agony and terror.
There was a wolf right behind him, one paw braced against his back, silver fur out of the corner of his eye. There was a wolf right behind him with its jaws locked around his shoulder, and Dick couldn’t even take a breath without sending fire searing through torn muscles and shattered bone.
“What were you doing in our territory?” the voice asked, even and calm, as Dick curled his fingers into dirt and felt wetness on his cheeks. “Where are the others?” Dick couldn’t speak. If he opened his mouth, he was going to start screaming. “You really want to test me, hunter?”
The wolf’s jaw tightened the barest fraction, and dark spots flickered at the corner of his vision.
“N—not a h—hunter,” Dick managed to push past numb lips, “P—please.” He couldn’t focus on anything, not even the earth underneath him, his attention fully on the jaws locking him in place, on the pulsing waves of pain, on the sickening certainty that this was how he died.
He could make out someone crouching in front of him, could see a hand reaching out, and couldn’t even flinch. The hand settled on his collar, fingers pressing against broken bone, and Dick gasped as they dug in. “Just tell me the truth, little bird,” came the even voice, “And I promise it’ll stop hurting.”
No. Dick didn’t need werewolf senses to know that that was a lie. He knew what werewolves did to hunters, he’d seen the aftermath, he’d seen the mangled corpses left behind.
“I a—am,” Dick rasped, voice breaking as fresh tears swelled, “I’m a h—healer.”
A loud, frustrated sigh. Another voice, further away, “Can’t fault their training.” Some annoyed grumbles, some fearful mutters. A quiet, young voice, suddenly audible in a pocket of silence, “Will we have to leave again?”
The loudest thing was now Dick’s heart beating too-fast in his ears.
“No,” Slade said, before the silence could stretch, “We’re not letting them drive us away. If they’re sending out scouts, they have to have a camp nearby, and they wouldn’t set up a temporary one in the woods. There’s a village not far from here—”
“No!” Agony streaked through him, white-hot, as he instinctively surged up, and he was forced to break off when the teeth pressed in deeper, panic overriding pain for a moment. The silver blur paused as he gasped, and turned back towards him.
“So that is where your base is.” Low and vicious and satisfied and Dick realized he’d given them entirely the wrong idea.
“No,” he forced out, tilting his head up and ignoring how it stretched painfully against broken bone, staring at Slade. He—he had to make them believe—they couldn’t—please not the village. “My f—family. No h—hunters. Please. They—there’re ch—children.”
He couldn’t see Slade’s expression through the tears, but he needed Slade to believe him. “‘M a healer,” Dick whispered, “Please. Don’t h—hurt them.”
“You’re really going to stick to that story, kid?”
“I am,” Dick’s voice cracked. He didn’t—they didn’t care, they weren’t listening, Dick was going to die, his little brothers and sisters were going to die, Bruce was going to die, his whole village was going to burn and it was all going to be Dick’s fault.
He could barely hear the low whispers, sounds indecipherable under his ragged pants, but he did notice Slade stepping closer. The alpha wrapped a hand around his throat and forced his head up—Dick choked down the strangled shriek as something shifted in his shoulder, fire streaking down his arm.
“You say you’re a healer?” Slade said in a measured tone, “I’m going to give you one chance to prove it, little bird. You’re going to heal an injured wolf, and if you don’t, we’ll go to your village, and we’ll raze it to the ground. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Dick said weakly, and wondered how the hell he was going to heal someone like this.
Their healer tent was well-stocked, and they fitted Dick with a sling for his right arm, efficiently bandaging his wounds as Dick took ragged breaths. Painkillers would just knock him out right now, and he needed—he, and everyone in his village, needed to be able to heal the young man lying on the cot.
Dick turned away from the healer, pressing a hand just below his broken collarbone as though trying to ease the pain, and took deep, painful breaths as he let a low shimmer of power curl through his fingers. Not enough to be noticeable, and healing all his wounds would definitely be noticeable, but just enough to help the broken bone, enough to reduce the pain to a throbbing ache.
It would rebreak with the slightest bit of pressure, but it would have to do for now. He wasn’t going to pass out from blood loss any time soon, and he could worry about infection later. If he survived this. For now, his concentration had to be on his patient.
“What happened to him?” Dick asked the healer as he stepped closer. The patient was maybe a couple years younger than Dick, and he shared the same silver hair as the boy sitting next to the cot, watching Dick with a narrow-eyed glare. Dick really, really hoped that hair wasn’t hereditary—healing an injured werewolf was one thing. Healing the alpha’s child?
This was a test with very high stakes. And deadly consequences.
“Poisoned,” came the alpha’s growl, and Dick couldn’t stop himself from whipping around to watch Slade enter the tent. “Lacerations under the bandages. I’m sure you don’t need any more information, if you really are a healer.”
Dick resisted the urge to tell him that that wasn’t how it worked, and stepped closer to his unconscious patient. The bandages covered his gut, from midway up his ribs all the way down to his hips, and Dick slit through the bandages one-handed.
Lacerations. It looked like the man had been sliced open. Multiple times. Werewolves were more durable than humans, though, and the slices had half-healed, but the man’s skin was gray and clammy. Definitely poison.
“Well, we’ll leave you to it, little bird,” Slade said, and Dick turned to watch him beckon the other healer out.
“Please,” Dick said quietly, “I need an extra pair of hands.” He needed a lot more than an extra pair of hands, but there was no way he’d be able to treat the young man without moving his right shoulder.
The healer looked at Slade, raising an eyebrow. Slade’s expression darkened a fraction, before it levelled out again. “Fine,” he said, waving a hand.
“And my bag,” Dick dared to ask.
This time, it took a lot longer for Slade’s expression to settle back into neutrality. “The wolfsbane has been disposed of, but you can have your bag back,” Slade bit out, “Anything else you’d like me to fetch you?”
Dick didn’t want to test the alpha’s patience. He mutely shook his head, and Slade left.
The boy moved away from the cot, his expression still taut and angry, but he didn’t make a sound, and Dick ignored him easily enough.
“Are you certain you can do this?” the other healer asked, his expression flickering for a second.
It didn’t matter if he could. He had to. “Yes,” Dick said with a confidence he didn’t feel, and forced a smile onto his face, “I’m Dick Grayson. And you are?”
“Arthur Villain,” the healer answered, and merely frowned when Dick extended his left hand. Dick let it fall back, but kept the smile on his face. “I don’t mean to puncture your optimism, but Grant was poisoned several days ago, and it’s unlikely he’ll get better.”
“I can try,” Dick said simply.
In reality, the bottom of his stomach had already dropped out.
Poisoning. No, this man had been attacked by hunters. He’d been poisoned by wolfsbane. As much as the other healer had tried to counteract the poison, Grant would be dead in a day or two.
This much, this late, there was little Dick could do. But he had to. If Grant didn’t live, neither did he.
Neither did his family.
He already had the antidote to wolfsbane poisoning in werewolves—it was one of the things he always kept on him, because of Jay—and he ignored Villain’s raised eyebrows as he injected it. Any visible improvement would take some time to be noticeable, and in the meantime, he had to counteract all the probable damage the wolfsbane had already wrecked, using his magic as discreetly as possible to avoid Villain’s sharp eyes.
Grant had to live.
Dick could not fail.
“It’s not working.”
Dick paused where he was hovering over the kidneys, encouraging them to heal, and turned to Villain, who had two fingers pressed to Grant’s pulse. He looked resigned.
“Okay,” Dick said levelly, even though he wanted to scream, “We’ll try something else.”
“There is nothing else to try.”
“We can try a stronger dose, closer to the heart—”
“It’s not going to work.”
“We won’t know it unless we—”
“It’s not going to work,” Villain let out a long, slow breath, “Grant is already dead, his heart just hasn’t stopped beating. It’s been too long. Nothing will heal him.”
“We have to try,” Dick said, an edge of desperation sliding into his voice.
“Kid,” Villain said softly, “Slade set you an impossible task. You were never going to succeed.” Dick stared at him, something hollow growing inside his chest. “I’m sorry. I believe you, okay? You are a healer. I’ll try to convince Slade.”
His shoulder throbbed dully, as if to remind him how Slade took convincing. “Will he listen?” Dick asked, blank.
The way Villain’s expression spasmed was answer enough.
Dick turned back to Grant, his fingers trembling. “I’m sorry,” Villain repeated, as though that meant anything. As though that would keep his family safe.
Villain was wrong. He said that nothing would heal Grant. That wasn’t true.
Dick never did this openly. Among his family, yes, they all knew what he was, but not publically. He nudged and coaxed, letting tendrils of magic work to push the healing a little faster, to repair all the tiny things no one could observe from the outside, so no one would ever find out he had magic.
Magic users were a commodity. And they were sold and enslaved like they were nothing but tools.
If his secret got out, anyone who wanted his power would grab him and force him to be their pet. Just another weapon. He would lose his family. His healer work. His life.
If Grant died, he wouldn’t just lose his family, they’d be dead.
Dick took a slow, shaky breath. And another. And another, until it came out steadier. “There is a way to heal him,” Dick said quietly.
“Kid, I told you—”
“There is a way to heal him,” Dick repeated, and looked up at Villain, “Can you keep a secret?”
Villain blinked at him, and his eyebrows slowly raised. “Depends on the secret,” he said slowly.
“I can heal him,” Dick said, gently cleaning the expanse of half-healed wounds. “Please don’t tell anyone how I did it.”
Villain’s eyes narrowed. “Okay,” he said, without any real conviction. It didn’t matter. Dick was going to do this either way, asking Villain to keep quiet was just to make himself feel better.
Dick took a quick glance around the tent to make sure it was empty—and froze when he met the ice-blue eyes of the boy sitting in the corner. He’d forgotten all about him, the kid had been so silent.
“Don’t worry about Joey,” Villain said, “He won’t tell anyone.” Joey’s glare deepened, and he signed something to the effect of ‘I can hear you’. “He’s going to heal your brother, kid, I’d suggest you stay mum.”
Joey’s eyes flickered to him, and he signed a displeased ‘fine’ before settling back in his chair and watching, intent.
Dick took another steadying breath, before unfastening the sling. Both hands would be better for this. He settled one hand over Grant’s heart—it was beating sluggishly. He wouldn’t last the night if Dick didn’t heal him.
“I need you to open the wounds.”
“What.”
“I need you to—”
“I heard you the first time, kid, what?” Villain asked warily, “Are you trying to kill him faster?”
“Does it matter?” Dick asked, bitter and hollow. Villain’s eyebrows rose, his eyes flickering with suspicion. Dick sighed, “I know what I’m doing. But I need hands steadier than mine to open the wounds. Please.”
Villain took a long breath before picking up the knife. “I sincerely hope you do know what you’re doing,” he said quietly, “Because it doesn’t matter if he’s already dying, Slade will hurt you if you murder his son.”
So he was the alpha’s child. Not that it mattered. Dick would heal him, and the young man would be fine. Dick’s family would live, and his village.
Dick kept his other hand hovering above the cuts, waiting for Villain. “Ready,” Dick said.
Villain sliced through the half-healed wounds with efficient precision, and blood welled up, red and sluggish as he opened each one. Dick pressed his right hand harder above Grant’s heart, ignoring the twinge in his collarbone, and waited until Villain had finished opening all the wounds before placing his left hand over the cuts.
He drew up the power, pooling it in his hands, concentrating, and let it surge into Grant.
Poison was clawed back, washed up and out, dirty blood dripping from the open wounds. Once the poison was gone, it was easy to heal the clean cuts, though Dick only stretched it until they stopped bleeding before he moved on. It had been days, the poison had done significant damage, and there was so much to heal, liver and kidneys and heart, everywhere the poison had eaten away at healthy cells, and Dick pushed more and more and more.
He could feel the dizziness start—he had to catch himself against Grant, and his right shoulder did not like that, and Dick gritted his teeth through the ache as he kept pushing. Kept forcing magic through Grant in washes, healing slowly, letting the body mend itself as he encouraged it forward.
He could feel the moment Grant took a deep, full breath. Could feel Grant’s heartbeat level out, strong and steady. Could feel Grant’s temperature decrease, cooling down an increment to a more normal fever.
Could feel his breaths come shallow and fast as his vision grayed out.
One more pass. Check to make sure everything was healing. Everything would improve. It wasn’t fully healed, not yet, but anything else could be fixed without magic.
Dick stopped letting the magic out, and had to grab the edge of the cot to keep from crumpling. He needed to—sit down. The world was swimming, and his shoulder felt like it had been popped out of the socket. But first—needed to—check independently—Dick looked up at Villain, trying to draw up words, and stopped short.
Villain was looking at him in wide-eyed shock. And next to him—“You’re a mage,” Slade said, visibly surprised.
Dick’s stomach turned over. It wasn’t just Slade. There was a girl next to him, with the same silver hair, there were five others in human form and two wolves, and all of them were staring at him. All of them knew.
The young man on the cot started coughing, arm raising and curling, eyes fluttering open. Slade’s attention slid off of him, and Dick stumbled back, out of his way as Slade rushed to his son’s side.
“Grant,” Slade murmured, “You’re awake. You’re awake.”
“D—dad?” came the weak, hoarse rasp, accompanied by more coughing. Dick slid a further step back as the brother and sister joined them. A tearful family reunion.
He was never going to get to see his family again.
Dick didn’t know when his knees gave out, he just knew that between one blink and the next, everyone looked much taller. He couldn’t ground himself in the earth, he felt like he was floating, the world churning around him.
Everything was blurry again. His cheeks were wet, and he couldn’t lift either of his hands—one screamed at the very thought, and the other was stained with blood. He pressed the bloody one to the ground, head bowed, like he already had a collar around his neck.
Every time he blinked, the ground grew wetter.
Something was screaming in the back of his mind, someone was sobbing, both in his head and outside of it, and Dick couldn’t hear anything else, couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t move, couldn’t think.
There was a hand on his shoulder, and he wearily dragged his head up—what did they want now, couldn’t he have a single moment to mourn the shattered pieces of his life—and met Slade’s gaze.
The alpha’s expression seemed less angry and more concerned, and his mouth was moving, but Dick couldn’t hear what he was saying, buzzing fading in and out. Dick hoped Slade believed him now. Even if he didn’t—giving him his son back had to be worth something.
Leave the village alone, Dick wanted to say, but his mouth wouldn’t open.
Slade’s face was getting darker, no, the room was getting darker, the warmth on his shoulder was the only thing holding him up, and when that disappeared, the darkness sucked him all the way down.
He was warm. Soft weight kept him in place, fur tickling against his skin, and his mouth was dry, half-formed words turned into a hoarse rasp. He blearily fought against his sticky eyelids—he was exhausted, everything ached, he felt like his skin had been peeled off and rubbed raw—shifting away from the too-warm fur.
He was already forming the annoyed grumble to tell Jay to get off of him, he didn’t want wolf fur on his bed, and whoever’s chin was jabbing into his stomach, and the weight pressed on top of his legs—when he finally managed to crack open his eyes.
It took him a couple of stretching seconds to register what he was seeing. Not dark fur, silver. Silver fur. His heart skipped a beat, his chest squeezing painfully, a full second before he remembered.
The werewolf pack. The aconite, the threats, the teeth in his shoulder. The deal. The magic. They knew.
They knew he was a mage.
Dick swallowed, and the lack of a constricting collar just made him tense further.
Not like they needed one. Not with him like this, injured and drained, magic slowly inching back, exhausted to his bones. Not with him trapped under—at least two wolves, and there was a third person curled on top of him, and everything was too sleep-fuzzy for panic to take over, but it definitely tried.
The wolf resting along his left side lifted his head up, and yawned—gleaming sharp teeth, and it would take seconds to bite down on his uninjured shoulder, to mangle that one just as severely, to cripple him, because he didn’t need his arms for magic, but he did need them to fight or escape—before closing his mouth and curling up again. Dick’s heart rate didn’t recover half that easily.
There was a rustle of fabric, and Dick looked up to see a figure slipping through the tent entrance. Silver hair, eyepatch, cold blue eye. His stomach sank further into frightened resignation.
“Alright,” Slade said, sounding almost exasperated, “The healer’s awake, and you can stop bothering him.” There was a plaintive whine from one of the wolves. “No,” Slade said firmly, “Rose, you have training, Joey has lessons, Grant, you’re still supposed to be in the healer tent. Move.”
There was more petulant growling. The arm around his waist tightened. Slade’s eye narrowed, and in a blink, there was a large silver wolf standing where he was, one eye scarred and cloudy.
Slade growled, and Dick felt the sound shiver through him, all alpha command.
Petulant growling changed to petulant whining, but the alpha was unmoved. Finally, the weight on his legs eased off, and the smallest wolf padded forward, all grumbles. She still brushed against her father as she left, though, Slade swiping a paw over her fur. He did the same for Grant, who was a little shakier on his feet—Dick couldn’t see any injuries in his wolf form, and he managed to pad forward silently and butt his head against his father’s before leaving.
Joey was last, and he signed ‘good morning’ and ‘goodbye’ at Dick before walking out of the tent. Leaving him with the alpha.
Dick slowly tested his uninjured hand as the alpha slinked forward, and managed to brace his elbow to lever off of the twisted pile of blankets on the ground. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and there was a more permanent brace around his right shoulder, along with fresh bandages and a sling.
At least they want you in one piece, one part of his mind pointed out, reluctantly practical. It was better than the other parts either imagining his bleak future or wondering what his family would think when he never came home.
The wolf shifted back to human when he got closer, and Dick stared up at the alpha looming above him. Thankfully for Dick’s collarbone, Slade crouched down, till he was more or less at eye level.
“How are you feeling?” Slade asked, his voice level.
Scared. Hopeless. Miserable. Hurt. “Tired,” Dick croaked out.
“You used a lot of magic,” Slade said, still neutral, “Villain said you almost drained yourself. You’ve been out for more than half a day.” The light that shone outside the tent was the golden-yellow of early afternoon. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t just tell us you were a mage.”
Dick blinked at him. “You don’t understand why I didn’t tell you I was a mage?” he repeated blankly. There was a phantom pressure around his neck, choking him in increments.
“You could’ve proved you weren’t a hunter a lot sooner,” Slade said, and waved a hand at his shoulder, “And without all the fuss.”
One part of his mind caught on that—Slade didn’t think he was a hunter, the village was safe, his family was safe—but the other part was stuck on the fact that Slade thought he should’ve told them he was a mage. Just revealed his secret and knelt for the chains. Offered himself up on a silver platter.
But he’d ended up in the same place after all, so Slade technically had a point. If Dick had shown off a little magic, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten bitten. Maybe his family’s safety wouldn’t have relied on Dick having enough magic to heal a fatal wound.
“I’m sorry,” Slade said, and Dick stared at him. “For attacking you.” The alpha was glowering, but his tone was even. “You were telling the truth, and we were paranoid.”
Of course they were sorry for attacking a mage. Dick didn’t know how long it would take his wounds to heal naturally, and while magical exhaustion and physical exhaustion weren’t quite the same, they were interconnected.
Dick wondered how much werewolves knew about human limits.
Dick wondered how much they cared.
“You healed my son,” Slade said, his tone soft, and—and Dick couldn’t help but think of Bruce, of the small smile on his face, amusement twinkling in blue-gray eyes, his quiet steadiness, his family, all his little siblings, all the faces he’d never get to see again.
And they would never know what happened to him, they’d never find his body, all they would know was that one day he vanished—they wouldn’t get any closure for the rest of their lives.
The thought made something tear through him. No. No, he could resign himself to being enslaved, but his family—he couldn’t do that to his family. What if one of the others went into the woods, trying to find him, and stumbled upon paranoid werewolves? What if—he could see Cass, eyes wide and skin pale, a wolf’s jaws locked around her arm, or Tim, so small and fragile underneath vicious wolves, or Steph with red staining brilliant blonde hair, or Jay torn to shreds as an enemy, or Damian, little Dami, and Dick didn’t want to imagine what proud, territorial wolves would do when met with Damian’s caustic nature.
He could see Bruce, all his children dead, wasting away.
“Please,” spilled out before he could stop it, and then—then he had to continue, there was no point in stopping now, and he clutched the blanket in his lap. “Please, can I see my family?”
They—Slade was a father, and Dick had saved his son and dropped a mage into his lap, please, please let that be enough goodwill for one, small favor. If he could see his family again, explain—they would hate it, but they would know what happened to him, they would know not to be stupid enough to come after him, they would be safe.
“Just an hour,” Dick bargained, because he couldn’t run from werewolves in one hour, surely that was reasonable, please let that be reasonable. “Just to—to explain it to them, and to say g—goodbye.”
Slade looked taken aback. That was not a good sign.
“Please,” Dick dropped his tone lower, his eyes prickling again, “I just—I won’t try anything, I swear, I just want to say goodbye.”
“Kid,” Slade said slowly, “What are you talking about?”
“Let me go—” home, Dick bit back, “—back to the village. Just for an hour, I swear—”
“Little bird,” Slade cut him off, eye narrowed and expression inscrutable, “You’re not a prisoner. We believe you. You’re not a hunter.”
At least when they thought he was a hunter, there was the certainty that it would end. Agonizing, torturous, and slow, but his suffering would’ve been over.
“I just want to say goodbye,” Dick said quietly, praying for a flicker of sympathy, fingers twisting in the blanket. “My dad—my siblings—they don’t know what happened to me and I—”
“We’re not keeping you,” Slade said, loudly talking over him, and Dick could see annoyance deepen to anger.
Dread twisted deeper in his gut, his throat choking up—the pack seemed…kind to each other, no overt power plays that Dick had detected, and they’d bandaged his wounds, and it would be better than whichever bidder could manage to shell out the most money to get a pet mage.
And they’d take him away from here, and Dick would lose his last opportunity to see his family.
“Please,” his voice cracked in the middle, “Just—please—one hour, I swear I won’t run, I give you my word, please—”
“You’re not listening, we’re not keeping you—”
“It doesn’t have to be an hour,” Dick broke, his vision turning blurry again, breaths shallow and hitching, “Just let me say goodbye.”
A growl, low and angry, and Dick’s breath caught in his throat—no, he hadn’t meant to incense the alpha, no, he’d never get to see his family now, he’d be lucky if they didn’t lock him in a cage—
A hand squeezed on his uninjured shoulder, forcing him down, and Dick landed on his back with a breathless wheeze. One hand curled around his left wrist to pin it to the ground, heavy weight centered over his hips, and the other hand pressed down next to his head, a close, present threat.
Dick stared up at Slade’s narrowed expression, and felt himself go numb.
“Breathe,” the alpha demanded, and Dick sucked in a painful breath. “Again.” Dick drew in another, and after the third, it became easier. “Now,” Slade said, low and quiet, “You are going to listen.”
Dick blinked to clear his blurry vision. Slade’s grip was unyielding, and Dick resisted the urge to struggle. He wouldn’t be able to stop the alpha, and it would only piss Slade off more. His free hand pressed against the blankets underneath him, curling into the fabric as he waited.
“You are not a prisoner,” Slade said evenly, still pinning him down, “We’re not forcing you to stay here. You can go back to your village when Villain thinks you’ve recovered.”
Dick stared at him. He could go back? He—Slade was agreeing?
“You don’t need to say goodbye to your family, little bird,” Slade said, tone dropping to something gentler, “You get to go home.”
Dick couldn’t—didn’t understand. He—why would—“You’re not going to sell me?” Dick asked, quiet and uncertain.
Slade’s expression spasmed. “No, kid,” he said, equally quiet, “I’m not going to sell you. You can go home.”
Dick’s breathing steadied out, the twist in his stomach uncurling. He got to go home. He got to go home. Back to his family.
“I can go home?” he asked, trapped under the alpha wolf.
“Yes.”
Dick stared up, helplessly confused. “But—I don’t understand.” And he didn’t, why would they waste a resource when he could heal fatally injured wolves, when they could have miracles every day and not fear the hunters anymore, when they could—
Slade stared down at him for a stretching moment before sitting up, easily shifting off of Dick and pulling him up to a sitting position. He dropped Dick’s wrist when Dick was upright, and sat in front of him, cross-legged.
Slade’s expression was inscrutable as he slowly raised an eyebrow. “Dick,” Slade said, which was the first time he’d used Dick’s name, “You saved my son.”
Dick blinked at him.
“Grant was all-but-dead and you gave him back to me,” Slade said, his tone dropping lower, hoarser, and Dick saw a fleeting fraction of anguish twist across Slade’s expression. “You took a test designed to fail and you nearly drained yourself passing it.” Slade took a deep breath and studied him for a long moment before speaking, “You proved yourself, and you gave me my child back. I don’t care that you’re a mage. I’m in your debt, little bird.”
Dick didn’t—his fingers were trembling and he curled them into fists, digging his nails into his palms because there was something cracking inside of him and he didn’t want it, hope was only more painful when it was torn away, and it would be torn away, no one looked at a mage and decided to let them leave, especially not a werewolf pack looking for protection.
Slade couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t. Dick was still trapped inside wolf territory, injured and exhausted, this was—this was just a game. Feed him pretty words, and laugh when he believed them. It had to be a game.
“I’m in your debt,” Slade repeated, “Whatever you want, if it’s in my power to give, it’s yours.”
Whatever you want.
“I want to leave,” Dick said immediately. Slade tilted his head back and sighed, and Dick’s grip tightened on the blankets. That was not a yes.
“Kid, you already get to leave,” Slade said, and he sounded…tired. “You’re not a prisoner. You can go home right now if you’d like—well, actually no, Villain wanted to check to make sure you wouldn’t collapse, and you definitely need a meal, but if everything checks out, you can leave today.”
Dick wanted to leave right now. But—but Slade was right, he wasn’t sure if he could stand up, and his stomach was gnawing painfully.
“Ask for something else. Whatever you want.”
Ask for something. Ask for something from a werewolf pack that had—that had attacked him, and he’d—they’d accused him of being a hunter and Dick still remembered that burning hate and Slade’s fingers around his throat—
And now there were no fingers, there was the alpha sitting in front of him and acknowledging a debt.
But Dick didn’t want anything. Well, aside from making sure this never happened again, that none of his siblings would ever be accidentally mauled by jumpy werewolves—if he hadn’t been a mage, Grant would’ve died, and then—Dick didn’t even want to contemplate what would’ve happened then.
“The village,” Dick said abruptly, the easiest way to protect everyone he cared about. “Place the village under your protection.”
Slade raised an eyebrow, but the only thing he said was, “Done.”
Dick deflated in sheer relief. His family would be safe. The world actually went a little blurry, and the warm hand closing around his arm jerked him to a halt. He hadn’t even realized he’d been tilting down.
“Definitely food first,” Slade’s voice rumbled, pulling him up. It made him dizzier, but he finally managed to straighten all the way up, practically clinging to Slade as the alpha supported him.
Food, yes. And then leaving—he didn’t care what the check-up said, he could fake energy enough to walk out of the pack’s territory. He’d crawl the rest of the way back if he needed to.
Dick adjusted the bag on his uninjured shoulder and nervously eyed the wolves loitering around him.
No running, he reminded himself. Putting aside the fact that he was a two-hour walk from his village, he refused to give anyone the satisfaction if this was actually a hunt. He would walk, calm and steady, and if he was stopped by wolves before he got home, he would follow them back, and only break down crying where they couldn’t hear him.
No. Slade said he could leave. He swore that the village would be under his protection. If Dick stepped away from his trepidation, it made perfect sense for a werewolf alpha to apologize and offer a favor after attacking a random stranger.
But they knew he was a mage. All of them knew. His whole life, he’d kept it a secret, terrified of anyone finding out—in the bigger cities, he might have some kind of protection against hunters and slavers, but out here—out here it only took one determined werewolf pack to burn a village to the ground.
But they said he could leave. They promised. He had his bag back, and his knife, and it was a paltry protection against the entire pack, but they said he could leave.
“Ready to go?” Slade asked, and Dick nodded, not trusting his voice. Villain had already checked him over, and pronounced that he was safe to walk back, though he should take it easy until his wounds healed.
Dick just wanted to go home, curl up with his family, and know that he was safe.
“You know the way back?” Slade asked, and Dick’s heart stuttered a beat.
“Yes,” he said, too-quick, but he didn’t want a wolf following him under the guise of being a guide. He knew the way back. If they let him go.
Slade’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, and Dick fought the shiver. He was going home. He was going home, and that was all that mattered. He had to believe that they’d keep their word.
Slade’s eye sharpened on his neck. “Wait,” he said, and Dick froze, “I almost forgot.” He turned away, heading to a tent, and Dick couldn’t breathe.
He was supposed to leave.
He was supposed to go home.
He thought—they’d said—words were empty, and of course they’d want a collar around his throat, to suppress his magic, to own him, and Dick couldn’t fight, not all of them, not even Slade, not when he was already injured.
Dick had been planning to wait to heal his wounds—it wouldn’t kill him to stay in a sling for a couple of days and he hadn’t fully recovered from his exhaustion, he didn’t even know if he had enough magic to heal the broken bone and puncture wounds—but he had maybe seconds left to use his magic and he pressed his left hand, already trembling, right below the broken collarbone.
Heal, he commanded, pushing his magic in, what little of it he had left. His shoulder lit up in a wave of prickles, itching spreading out to burning—first was bone, clicking into place, and Dick’s gasp drew eyes towards him. He pushed faster—he needed to heal enough to be able to use the arm, he couldn’t be defenseless in the midst of a wolf den, and he suppressed the part of him that grimly muttered that they could rebreak the bone with a moment’s thought.
Magic sputtered, like a candle flame guttering out, and Dick broke the connection, the world slamming back in. He felt cracked open, he felt unsteady, he felt—
Everything spun, and Dick realized he was falling.
It was worse than last time—last time had been overwork, this time he’d forced magic back through raw pathways, draining everything he’d managed to recover, and instead of a slow slide down to darkness, it felt like Dick had crashed. The sky jerked dizzily above him, and his knees hit the ground and crumpled like wet cloth, and—
And his head landed on something a lot softer than the hard-packed ground he’d been expecting.
Something caught him before he could slide down, cradling him, keeping him upright even though he was limp, and the low growl vibrated against him, “What the fuck did you just do?”
Silver blocked out a portion of the sky, silver and a dark eyepatch and a narrowed eye and an irritated scowl. Dick felt the earth beneath him, the tendrils of magic creeping back in, and waited for it to stop. Waited for everything to stop.
Waited for the leather buckled tight around his throat, chaining him in place, the noose he’d been running from for all these years.
“I believe he used his magic.” Clipped and factual, and Villain’s blurry face appeared above him as well. Dick blinked, and the world went dark, and it took him a stretching moment to open his eyes again. “To heal his wounds.”
The sling was untied, careful fingers skating across mended bone, and Villain looked irritated. Slade looked furious. Dick would’ve been afraid, if there was enough of him to be afraid.
He was perilously close to empty. He had enough energy to cling to consciousness, to observe the blurring outlines of the werewolves above him, to hear Villain sigh and Slade growl, but not enough to do anything with it. Not even enough to care.
“Why the hell did you do that?” Slade snapped, “You knew your magic was still empty! Villain cleared you to walk back, why did you decide you had to heal yourself now?”
He shouldn’t answer the question, but Dick couldn’t pin down why, and the alpha looked almost apoplectic. “Magic,” Dick tried, but there were too many words, and he compensated by picking one, “Collar.”
“Collar?” Slade was frowning now. “What collar?”
“Your collar.” The effort to speak was exhausting him. If they just put it on, Dick could stop waiting, and he’d be able to pass out. He could stop forcing himself to stay awake, the dread knotted tight around his heart, the slow, sinking betrayal in the pit of his stomach.
“What are you talking about?” Slade asked. He sounded confused.
“Said you forgot,” Dick reminded him. It was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open.
Slade took a deep breath before expelling it in a groan. He adjusted Dick until he was more upright, the view of the sky changing to blurry outlines of people and wolves. Dick’s forehead knocked against Slade’s jaw, the arm curled around his waist the only thing keeping him from falling.
Slade held a wrapped cloth in his free hand, and he shook it and let it fall open. “I forgot,” Slade’s voice rumbled against him, “To give this back to you.” His silver robin pin, glinting in the sunlight.
Oh.
“My mother gave that to me,” Dick whispered. Everything was blurry again, and his cheeks were wet. “She’s dead.” His words were slurring now.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Slade replied, soft, and Dick turned his head enough to press his face against the warmth, something aching inside of him. It felt like nothing was holding him together, like he was drowning under the onslaught, and he knew it was a side effect of the magical drain, but he still twisted until the arm around him squeezed tighter.
“He’s in no shape to make it back,” Villain’s voice echoed above him, “Not for a couple of days at least.”
“It took him only one night last time—”
“He drained it further and faster this time. Trust me, he’s not walking anywhere for a couple of days.”
Half-sigh, half-groan. “Little bird?” came the quiet rumble, “You won’t be able to walk back today.”
“Want to go home,” Dick murmured, aware that what he wanted didn’t really matter. He couldn’t twitch a finger, he had no magic, collar or not, and he was fast slipping down, fog enveloping him in pieces.
He just wanted to go home.
A stretching moment of silence. “Okay,” came the quiet response, “I’ll take you home.”
The door creaked open while Dick was in the middle of sorting through his jars, trying to find the borage. “I’ll be there in a moment,” he called back, hand halfway stuck in the shelf as he tried to coax out the jar at the very back.
He didn’t hear a reply, but he got the jar out, and groaned softly. Not the borage. Which meant either he was out—distressingly likely—or it was somewhere he hadn’t searched already.
He needed to find some soon though, which meant heading back out. Into the forest. Some part of him quailed at the very thought, his shoulder aching in remembered pain, fear too raw and present.
But Dick had woken up in his own bed a week ago, surrounded by his family, having apparently been carried back home, and the wolves appeared to be sticking to the deal of protection he’d made. No one else had been attacked, and a couple of wolves had even escorted back three lost children.
He had a new patient, though, and Dick headed back to the front, smile in place, ready to greet—
It was amazing how quickly the eyepatch could freeze him in his tracks.
The sight was incongruous. The hulking alpha belonged in the woods, looming over Dick with a cold stare, not standing in his entranceway, studying the framed drawing of a flowering meadow that Damian had given him.
“Slade,” Dick said faintly, clutching the counter. His silver knife was in his bag, in the back. It was the middle of the day, there were people outside, if Dick screamed—
He knew how fast a wolf could move.
“Little bird,” the alpha said, turning towards him. His gaze was intense, sweeping over Dick and lingering on the silver pin Dick always wore in his shirt. “You look better.”
Dick wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
“What are you doing here?” he asked instead, heart beating too fast. Even here, inside his village, with friends and family a shout away—even here, he was vulnerable, and Dick fought the urge to stumble back when Slade stepped towards the counter.
The alpha had a jar in his hands, and Dick didn’t know whether to look at his face or whatever he was putting on the counter, blue at least didn’t mean blood, Slade’s stare kept him rooted to the spot, wait, he recognized those flowers—
Dick stared at the jar of wolfsbane on his counter, thoroughly confused.
“What,” Dick said, mouth dry. He—he didn’t understand—he couldn’t understand, what—was this some kind of joke—“What is this?”
“I destroyed the last set you gathered,” Slade said levelly, “So this is compensation.”
There were five whole wolfsbane plants in the jar, flowers, stem and root.
“Aconite,” Dick said, still bewildered, “You brought me aconite.”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“I told you, you—”
“But it’s toxic,” Dick said, unable to reconcile the blue petals with the blank-faced alpha. “You brought me—poison.”
“You said it was medicinal.”
“Yes, but—” wolfsbane was deadly to werewolves, one of the few things they didn’t heal from, why would Slade—“Did you dig these up yourself?” Dick asked, voice rising.
“Yes,” Slade replied easily, like he wasn’t talking about handling the toxic plant that was favored by hunters and had nearly killed his son.
Dick couldn’t stop himself from scanning Slade, searching for the telltale signs of poisoning, any unsteadiness, difficulty breathing—trembling fingers.
“Wolfsbane,” Dick said through gritted teeth as he grabbed Slade’s hands, “Is especially toxic to werewolves.” Not a severe poisoning, thank the gods, it took only a few tendrils of magic to catch it all.
“I’m aware.”
“Then why did you decide to dig some up?” The magic curled around the poison, and Dick gripped harder to yank it out. Slade’s fingers spasmed in his grasp, before relaxing.
“Because I destroyed your supply,” Slade said quietly, “And I wanted to apologize.” Dick looked up sharply, meeting that inscrutable gaze, and watched it drop till Slade was looking at their hands. “I shouldn’t have assumed you were a hunter. And I’m sorry.”
Dick abruptly let go, trying to make it not look like he was yanking his hands back, and warily reached for the jar of wolfsbane. Slade didn’t make any move to attack him, and merely watched as Dick pulled the jar closer to himself and checked the seal for any surprises.
He didn’t open it—that much wolfsbane, in an enclosed space, would be enough to send Slade into a coughing fit. All Dick had to do to incapacitate the alpha would be to open the jar, pull out one plant, and shove it in Slade’s face.
And yet Slade was standing here, alone, watching Dick and making no move to put any space between them.
Something loosened inside of him, a knot of tension he hadn’t realized was there, a dread that had choked him from the very first moment he saw a wolf appear in the trees.
“Next time,” Dick said, keeping his voice level, “Leave the aconite harvesting to the trained healers.”
Slade tilted his head, as though to concede the point.
“I can learn from my mistakes, little bird.”