eat your heart out

storm's comin', I can see the clouds

It's late afternoon before Danta reaches Torchline's shores back on his own two feet, opting to land on the outskirts of the Ahi Coast rather than further inland, hoping to give himself a little time to come around from the day's events. He's been gone much longer than planned, and although his bloodlust is sated for better or worse, the lingering emptiness carving itself up inside him is an indication that it had not been as satisfying as he'd hoped.

No surprise, really, given that what had begun as a hunt for blink hares had become an opportunity to tear the throat out of a young man wreathed in shadows with the ability to become (and fight as) a tide jaguar. An opportunity sorely lost and not easily forgotten, especially when what had ended up between his tiger's claws had been little more than a gilled musk deer.

Danta is clearly still ruminating on it hard, the Maverick hissing in a soft breath as he realises he's been chewing on the inside of his cheek hard enough to break the skin, unwelcome iron flooding his mouth. It's easy to ignore, at least, given the blood staining his shirt and pants, having dried to his skin in places where the deep lacerations and punctures from the tide jaguar had continued to bleed without his paying attention to them.

Dantalion

No runnin's gonna save you now

// and rise with me forever across the silent sand //

He has been gone longer than he said he would be, and that’s the first sign to the Butcher that something isn’t quite right. The second sign is when the time continues to move hour after hour without any signs of life from the other Ancient. The third sign is when the Butcher sets out to try and find him, making his way to the Oerwoud only to come up empty there in the general area he thinks the Maverick would have gone. The fourth sign is the blood left behind, vanishing when he presumably shifted to his gore crow shift and took off.

So then, the Butcher returns to being the hunter, the scout to try and follow the trail, but it’s made far more difficult when there’s a multitude of shifts his lover could be, and without his own flighted shift these days, the Butcher finds himself shifting to the Feirw to race back toward Torchline’s shores, trying to follow any sign of anything amiss that might indicate the presence of the Theocrat.

Is he a little manic by this point? Yes. Will he admit it? No. Does the fiery deer finally spot the Maverick on the outskirts of the Ahi Coast, walking alone, appearing injured and race toward him? Absolutely. He shifts back by the time he’s within a healthy distance, because he knows how Danta gets when his bloodlust gets this bad. He also knows to be as inconspicuous as possible in case he hasn’t managed to succeed in sating it. “Danta,” he breathes through a pant, sand kicking up where he hurries his steps to stop before the Maverick, looking him over with all the blood that stains his clothes, drying to his skin, the puncture wounds that have him hesitating to touch him. “What happened, darling?” He tries for the normalcy, but there’s a quiet underline of panic and worry that threads through the tones.

Astaroth

// and the stars will be your eyes and the wind will be my hands //

storm's comin', I can see the clouds

The movement is enough to have Danta's head snapping around the second he catches it in his periphery, lips already pulling back from his teeth in a snarl, fingers twitching at his sides. But the creature racing across the sand soon takes a tall and familiar shape crowned with fire obsidian, and despite the parts of him that remain coiled and tense and strangely empty, he relaxes as best he's able. "Hey," he says, gazing down at himself as if for the first time in response to Asta's question.

"Oh," he says, slowing to a halt and plucking at part of his shirt stuck to his side, barely wincing at the lance of pain it causes. "I got in a fight with a tide jaguar," he says. "Well, a person who turned into a tide jaguar. They got away." His lip curls again at the reminder, but it's soon swallowed up into listless nothing.

"Sorry I'm late," he adds belatedly, glancing up at Asta. "I got in my head, so I thought I should take a long walk back." It's a testament to how far he's come that he can recognise it now, but unfortunately knowing doesn't fix it.

Dantalion

No runnin's gonna save you now

// and rise with me forever across the silent sand //

Obviously the state of the Maverick is enough to have Asta on high alert. But it’s the easy hey and the realization of looking at himself to see what kind of state he’s in that has Asta far more worried. There’s no quiet jests, there’s no easy grins, no suave comments and leisure pace. There’s just the picture of someone in pain without quite realizing it, lost and trapped somewhere else for the time being.

But this isn’t just someone. This is Astaroth’s heart, and he swallows down the pain that he doesn’t even need to have the wounds that dot his fiance’s body to feel. He knows them well enough already with his own excursions. “No, no. It’s okay, darling.” He shakes his head immediately to the belated apology, stepping forward and testing those boundaries to wrap an arm around the Maverick, careful of any wounds just so that he might be able to lean against him. “Let’s get you some fountain water, ¿sí? We can sit out on the beach or walk for however long once we get you mended.” Worry settles in the confines of the Butcher’s throat, but he swallows it down, looking at him sidelong before peering down the beach toward an outpost he’d passed on the way here that he’s fairly certain would have a bottle of healing water within.

“Are you still hungry?” He asks, knowing it’s a stupid question given Danta’s inability to really be able to tell, but he’s happy to herd some hels toward him if he needed more.

Astaroth

// and the stars will be your eyes and the wind will be my hands //

storm's comin', I can see the clouds

Humming something quiet and accepting under his breath as Asta assures him it's alright, Danta hasn't realised he's chewing at the inside of his cheek again until the blood starts to stain the corner of his mouth, and he huffs a sigh and raises his hand to wipe it away. "That sounds good," he says of the fountain water, only to suddenly stiffen as the Butcher's arm lifts to wrap around him.

He watches the movement like it might become a strike at any moment, but as the warm and familiar weight settles across his shoulders, pain or no pain, he relaxes into it by degrees until they're walking together properly. "I'm always hungry, Asta," he says, his quiet and amused tone reflected in the small smile he directs towards the sand, though he knows that isn't entirely what the Butcher means.

"I got a musk deer," he explains with a small shrug that has his shirt pulling against cuts again. "It'll be enough." Once he's not quite so spaced out, anyway.

"I didn't think there would be people down there."

Dantalion

No runnin's gonna save you now

// and rise with me forever across the silent sand //

Keeping the direction of where they walk toward that outpost with the fountain water lingering in the confines of it, Asta’s careful as he wraps his arm around the Maverick, happy to be the cane in place of anything else. He feels the tension and as his arm starts to settle away from where he thinks it might hurt, he’s relieved to hear the small quiet quip of amusement reflected in the small smile aimed his way.

It should relax him, but it doesn’t. But he does manage to flash a small and affectionately sharp smile back at his fiancé as they walk. “You know what I mean, mi amor.” He murmurs, seeing the blood lingering on the back of his hand from where he’d swiped it away. The shrug feels tight where Asta’s arm sits around him, like his shirt as dried to the wounds beneath it and it subconsciously has the butcher’s smile vanishing into quiet consideration. “If you decide it isn’t enough when you feel better, we can chase hels on the beach.” He offers out, hoping that the fountain water will help in the long run.

At least its within sight now. “The Oerwoud?” He asks, as if he’d been distracted and wasn’t entirely sure the line Danta was following in his thoughts. “There have been strange things happening there lately. Perhaps people are trying to investigate it.” Or antagonize an Ancient deep in their bloodlust, which is the only thought process the Butcher has on the stranger that had appeared and become a tide jaguar, and while he’s sure Danta gave as good as he got (he would know, after all), it still doesn’t settle well in him to see just how mauled he is. And that's from what he can see with all of his fiance's clothes on.

Astaroth

// and the stars will be your eyes and the wind will be my hands //

storm's comin', I can see the clouds

"Mm, I do," Danta says, his tone quietly sunny to say that he's in shreds right now, both physically and mentally. His nose wrinkles a bit at the effort involved with hunting down hels, but considering that the Maverick honestly doesn't know how sated he feels, he might spring into it once he's able to move again properly. He hasn't realised they're walking towards the outpost until it's almost upon them, the Maverick blinking as if he's never seen such a thing before, his steps slowing automatically.

"Strange things?" he repeats about the Oerwoud, brows furrowing like he's trying to decide if anything out of the ordinary had happened whilst he'd been hunting, but it's like thinking through molasses. "I... think it was all normal when I was there," he decides eventually. "Apart from the person." And that had been the real stickler; Danta can still taste the sweetness of their blood, the way it would satisfy the dark and hungry part of him in a way that a musk deer or a blink hare would only ever scratch the surface.

Dantalion

No runnin's gonna save you now

// and rise with me forever across the silent sand //

Leaving the subject of chasing hels behind in favor for the outpost that creeps up on them, Asta’s attention abruptly shifts back to the Maverick as his steps slow, matching pace with him. “Yes.” He says softly, a muscle feathering in his jaw to hear that it seemed normal to the Maverick aside from the intruder. And for that, Asta can fill in the blanks. “When Flora told me she had become a demigod, we were all there in the Peepholes following a light. Melita fell asleep during it.” He pauses, brows pinching slightly as he realizes in the excitement of becoming a demigod he’d forgotten to mention a part of it.

“Dygra has noticed it as well. And while she was asking me to become her demigod I suddenly started falling asleep.” He winces, because it wasn’t his finest moment obviously. “That, paired with the Peepholes and the strange light and exhaustion.. Perhaps it is originating there?” He pauses as they reach the outpost and he reluctantly lets Danta go to slip around to the inside edge of it, a box beneath that he rummages through and fights off a couple of crabs in the process to procure the bottle of fountain water.

Returning to his side, he hands the bottle to him with eyes that are still only focused on ensuring the Maverick is okay, looking him over once more. “Drink up, darling. We will get you right as rain.”

Astaroth

// and the stars will be your eyes and the wind will be my hands //

storm's comin', I can see the clouds

To say that Asta's explanation is an information overload puts far too fine a point on it. Danta listens - of course he does - and what his lover has to say is stored some place safe for him to look at when he's in a better headspace. But in terms of right now, the Maverick gazes up at his fiance with a quietly furrowed brow and an expression that suggests that most of what he's saying has been reduced down to strange light and I almost fell asleep in front of Dygra.

"Oh," he says helpfully, watching as Asta parts from him at last to go and rummage around in the outpost. It leaves Danta to watch the lonely stretch of beach and the way the waves creep along the shoreline, his hair and shirt and mouth bloody, his clothes fluttering awkwardly in the breeze where they stick to his injuries.

In his mind he's only been there for a second or two, so when the Butcher is suddenly pressing fountain water into his hands it comes as a bit of a surprise, Danta having to juggle it clumsily before having the good sense to uncap it. "Thanks," he mumbles, lifting the bottle to his lips.

The effect is immediate in the way the Maverick's stance adjusts, his shoulders relaxing and losing their tension, his breath drawing deep into his chest, and as he lowers the bottle he's already grabbing at his shirt with his free hand, wanting to drag it over his head to rid himself of the blood-sticky sensation. "Gods, I'm a mess."

Dantalion

No runnin's gonna save you now

// and rise with me forever across the silent sand //

He doesn’t push the conversation much more than the cliff notes of what he’s said. He doesn’t tell him that their goddess had to slap him to wake him up, that she’d told him roundaboutly that it was why she’d picked him – because something was happening and Knell wasn’t old enough yet. And he doesn’t mind leaving them out for now, not as he grabs the fountain water and returns to his number one priority: Danta.

“Of course.” Asta murmurs instead of a you’re welcome. Because there isn’t a situation these days that Asta can think of where he would gladly let Danta sit and stew in pain if he could help it. He sees the changes once the Maverick finally starts to sip the fountain water. His posture fixes itself, the tension bleeds away and leaves behind a bone deep exhaustion that the Butcher can recognize leagues away.

He sweeps in after the bottle lowers, reaching up to cup his fiancé’s cheek, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Mm, perhaps.” He doesn’t lie, but he does try to inject some small fraction of humor into it. “You have been overdue for a lapse in composure lately.” Because it’s mostly been the Butcher, and with the feeling that this entire afternoon had sparked, Asta is once again reminded of just how fucked up it is to put Danta through it time and time again.

“How can I help?” He asks after, withdrawing slightly to be able to look at his face, his hand dropping to the corner of his lips where the dried blood sits from where he’d presumably bit his cheek too hard, running his thumb over it gently like he has any kind of water magic to rid it.

Astaroth

// and the stars will be your eyes and the wind will be my hands //