How to Catch a Fox (Ban X Reader)

With only a Candle

Once you freed yourself from the snagging thorns, it took awhile for the full extent of true blackness to settle on you. In the Tryst, it did not matter how many times you blinked or rubbed your eyes, everything swam in ink.

You would not have even noticed you were bleeding were it not for the keen coppery smell tinging the otherwise musty, dank air. A thin slash traced its way down your arm, trickling steadily.

"I guess I wasn't as fast as I thought." A weak smile tugged at the sides of your mouth, but the Tryst weighed heavy on you and extinguished whatever humour you could muster.

You peered back through the tunnel and imagined crawling back through, turning Kobrun to a mound of lying, pig-headed ash. Still, even if you did manage to topple him, who would you return to? The whole village thought something awful had happened to Mr. Cohen, and YOU were involved.

Well, I didn't see him there. If he really is gone... No. I'm sure he just went somewhere, probably meditating on the universe or doing some other mystical old man stuff. I'll find him and he will fix this.

"No use staying here and waiting for some message from the heavens." You muttered glumly. You tried to squint through impenetrable night, though the gloom seemed to have substance, as if your own funeral pall were draped over you.

You extended your unhurt arm and concentrated. Channeling your power seemed harder than before, but eventually a pitiful gob of flame sputtered to life in your palm.

Gazing into the folding oranges and yellows of your candle, a lurching sensation pinched your gut. Something about the taste of smoke spurred your heartbeat, and made your throat terribly dry as if there was ash in your mouth. Whirling glimpses of black and red scenes darted just behind your awareness.

You were prepared to descend into whatever truth you were on the edge of, when something clicked and creaked behind your ear. You gasped as a sharp jab was planted on your shoulder, bouncing off the strap for your quiver. Instinctually, you reeled around. Nothing. You tentatively reached a shaking hand up and patted your back, coming back with a particularly fat thorn.

A chill ran down your spine. You decided it was time to leave.

It was hours later before the hopelessness truly took hold.

Even with the company of your stuttering lamp, the Tryst was like a maze. Tendrils of clumped ivy and knotted bark were fused together in masses, like walls and walls of distorted faces leering at you from all around. Only narrow channels, congested with prickling thorns and slick ropes of ivy, were permitted to weave in between the mess of trees. If you listened hard enough, you could swear that there was a sound of vigorous hacking and snapping ahead.

You called and limped after the noise to no end; the markings of a fresh path were the only things left in its wake.

Though the paths seemed newly hewn, it was no easier to traverse than the rest of the forest. As you dodged recently fallen branches and the endless web of roots along the trail, tentacles of ivy had slithered out of the writhing darkness, winding around trunks and branches, and clutched at your hair and clothes. All the while, moss and dead leaves had hidden a slurry of decaying muck which sucked at your aching feet, and, at times, even pooled around your swollen ankles. Each step was a concentrated effort.

Worst of all, there was no one. For the first time and a long while, you were alone. Ever since that day in the cemetery, you had been with Cohen. He cared for you and trained you. He wanted you to be strong. This was your moment to shine, but you felt weaker than ever. 

Only visions of gore and heartbreak forced you to stagger onwards. "I can do this. I'm coming, Cohen".

With the utterance of your beloved mentor's name, a tension gripped the Tryst. Its menacing presence receded to a dull throb in the back of your mind. The muggy air became lighter and easier to inhale, and, for a fleeting moment, the trees appeared to bristle and shudder.