Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9608249.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fantastic_Beasts_and_Where_to_Find_Them_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Credence_Barebone/Original_Percival_Graves
  Character:
      Credence_Barebone, Original_Percival_Graves, Mary_Lou_Barebone, Chastity
      Barebone, Modesty_Barebone, Bartholomew_Barebone
  Additional Tags:
      17th_Century, magick, Salem_Village, Puritanism, Credence_is_16, Graves
      is_29, Religious_Content, Blasphemy, Blood_Magic, Sex_Magic, Age
      Difference, Living_Together, Obscurial_Credence_Barebone, Protective
      Original_Percival_Graves, Anal_Sex, Slow_Burn, kind_of
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-02-06 Updated: 2017-04-09 Chapters: 3/4 Words: 42558
****** An Account of Witchcraft ******
by nerdygaycas
Summary
     1692, Salem
     Credence Miller was adopted by the Barebone family when he was no
     more than six years old, because his family was consumed by a
     devastating fire. Years later, all hell breaks loose as people from
     the village turn on each other, accusing sisters, fathers and
     neighbors of practicing witchcraft and bargaining with the devil.
     There is an unnamable darkness inside Credence, and it seeps out,
     little by little, each day.
     Percival Graves is sent, by the Council, on a mission to register the
     dreadful events that befall the region.
Notes
     I was gonna do the -thou, thee, thy, dost, hast- thing but! i didn't
     want to complicate myself with archaic terms*shrugs*
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
                                        
                                        
    How blessed is the man who fears the Lord, who greatly delights in His
                                 commandments.
 
 
1692
A crescent wave of hysteria was brewing in every nook of New England. Alongside
the understandable worries bound to a land recently discovered by those who’d
fled the European continent, qualms about a wilderness too fierce to be tamed
and daring natives who ransacked villages in the light of day; in addition to
the mind-boggling fret for the lack of fruitful crops and elusive preys,
besides the atmosphere charged with political uncertainty, something else
lurked in the hearts of the people. Rumors of witchcraft had started to spread
across the colonies as if gunpowder ignited by the lick of a flame.
Dark, maleficent spirits hid in the woods, awaiting for the innocent who
ventured inside, out of necessity or despair, to consume them and offer their
bodies and souls as sacrifice to the dark one. Witches roamed towns and
villages without restraint, hungry for the blood of the newborn and the seed of
men. Lecherous, profane, and foul as decomposed carcasses, their only purpose
was the corruption of the Lord’s flock, the damnation of pious people who
sought nothing but the acceptance of their savior.
Such tales of horror were whispered and hushed and whispered again by non-magic
folks. Terrified of that which they ignored, and fueled by the scriptures of
their holy book, it wasn’t difficult to see from where sprouted the root of the
unbridled chaos.
Nevertheless, for those who were gifted with magic, the situation escalated to
a threatening level. Unlike no-majs what they feared did not prowl in the
woods, nor did it ailed the children with mysterious maledictions, no. For the
New Englander witch and wizard what accosted them with nightmares and brought a
sheen of sweat over their skin even in the coldest of nights when the wind
seemed to howl same as a woman giving birth, was persecution.
The colonies were but scattered little towns, uncooperative with one another,
blind to the necessity that wasn’t theirs. If the no-majs were divided, then
the members of the magical community had been dispersed in the wind like dust,
clinging by a thin thread of hope that grew finer each time someone, anyone,
was accused of practicing sorcery.
 
Good Father,
My journey to the city of Boston has come to its end at last and without
grievances. My steps haven’t been traced, nor have I been suspected by anyone
I’ve crossed paths with, not even other magic-folk. Due to the delicate motives
that originated this trek I dare not confide in strangers for it would greatly
put me in risk of exposure, not to mention it’d be foolish of me; and I know
it’s not in the best interest of the Council I am so much as suspected by a
child.
Rest assured detailed reports on the circumstances harrying this wretched land
will reach you as soon as I am better settled. I shall be watchful and
attentive, the eyes of the Council as you suggested. I will, as well, do my
utmost not to intervene, but I do not intend to stand cross-armed if magic
blood is to be spilled and it can be prevented with my aid.
Still, I know the nature of my mission and I won’t jeopardize it. Secrecy is
the route indicated by the Wizengamot, and according to its law I shall
proceed, as best as I can.
 
Your son,
Percival Graves
 
 
Late March, Salem Village
The leaves coated the soil when it first had begun. The air seemed to screech
like a wounded owl in the dead of night, scratching at the doors and flying
through the windows, a wicked wind that tainted all it touched with the sins
birthed by the devil.
From mouth to mouth all that was gossiped in the village was a string of ill
acts presumed to be done by those who had a pact with Satan. In days of yore,
the witches came from the entrails of the somber woods, clad in grimy robes,
flesh marked by the touch of the black man; now, they hid in plain sight, they
greeted you every morning, they dined with you, they looked after your children
when you fell into sickness. A witch was the most inconspicuous neighbor, the
most docile daughter.
After interminable hours of sitting on a rickety pew and hearing a sermon built
on the undying condemnation of the souls of men that had been invaded by
sinister perversions, Credence Miller stood up with numb legs and troubled
mind. In his head swirled a cohort of conundrums that followed no discernible
pattern, preoccupations agglomerated themselves in a whirlwind that left him
exhausted, like the castaway of a shipwreck mislaid on the beach.
Clinging to his hand was little Modesty, with her ashy-blond hair safely tucked
inside a white cotton coif and her sallow skin glowing weakly beneath the
sunbeams. She smiled up at him as they patiently made their way out of the
church, the mob diffusing in all directions, an abundant river flowing into
many little streams.
“Credence, take the girls to the house. Mr. Barebone and I need speak with the
minister,” spat Mary Lou Barebone, a sanctimonious woman with a heart wrenched
by her love of God.
“Yes, Mrs. Barebone,” replied the boy submissively, head bowed down in
deference. 
She deigned him with one last disapproving glance from her round crystal eyes,
mouth upturned in a scowl, and then scuttled back into the building.
Along with Chastity and Modesty, Credence walked to the outskirts of the
village where large vacant lots between the houses were more common than not,
and where no elegant buildings stood. Populated by simple thatch-roofed
cottages and the occasional two-story home, the timber frames were mostly
covered by soil and clay and straw, and very few with planks of wood. They did
not speak a single word all the way, a sepulchral procession into the Barebone
homestead.
“Fetch me some logs from the granary, will you, Credence? Mother told me to
prepare supper,” recited Chastity once they were inside and had caught their
breath, without a single inflexion in the tone of her voice. With the passing
of each day her livelihood seemed to diminish. Credence wondered how much
longer it’d pass until she had vanished from her own body.
Credence nodded and exited the house, making haste for the dilapidated
structure that served as both granary and housing for the goats. Outside,
amongst a small patch of buttercups, Modesty crouched picking flowers and
humming a song to herself. It was about the alphabet, Credence noted in
delight, as he busied his arms with chopped logs of wood.
“In Adam’s fall we sinned all. Thy life to mend, this book attend,”
It was a rhyme every puritan child knew by heart. Learned from their mothers,
it was the fastest and most god-fearing way of teaching the youth their letters
at the time they instilled the daunting love for the Lord in their hearts. No
one could ever be convinced of God’s love for them, so everyone ended up ridden
by angst. There was no room for complacency, only obedience and blind faith
would guide one to God’s tender embrace.
“Rachel doth mourn for her first born, Samuel—“
Modesty stopped mid-sentence and small fingers grazed her chin as she tried
recalling what came next.
“Samuel anoints whom God appoints,” supplied Credence as he collected a last
piece of wood. They were quickly running out of provisions, and soon winter
would be upon them, merciless and cold as death. They’d have to venture into
the woods for sustenance if they were to survive another harsh season.
“Thank you, Credence!”
 
Later in the evening, Mr. and Mrs. Barebone returned to a dimly lit house. The
three children were huddled by the table, candles flickering and wind billowing
outside the wood shingles. Living apart from the town centre wasn’t completely
terrible, and many neighbors favored it so. Salem Village had been founded
relatively recently, with most of its inhabitants having fled the Town in
search of lands of their own and a vaster amount of resources. Yet, for the
most part, they had encountered barren grounds and wolves that prevented them
from further exploring the wilds; even the water seemed scarce to get by.
Surviving inland was a tough endeavor, and not many were able to, rapidly
seeking the comfort of Town and other cities after a few weeks.
The Barebone family however, had endured. Though modest in their clothes and
meals, they were prosperous, and that same stealthy prosperity was what had
given them enough allowance to take in Credence when he was no more than five
or six years old, and his family had been lost to a fire.
The only adopted member of Barebone household, Credence was treated not unlike
a servant, having to perform more chores than any other. Still he was thankful.
Were it not for their kindness he would’ve starved to death long time ago,
frozen by the faintest kiss of winter and eaten by the beasts. As unwanted as
he felt inside the single-gabled house, and as meager as were his rations of
food, he was warm enough and had a roof over his head every night.
In the homestead talk was scarce, and if it existed it was usually to glorify
and praise the Lord, to revere odes in his name and repeat his commandments. If
they weren’t talking about God, then they were reviling witchcraft and all
those who practiced it.
Bartholomew was a distinguished associate of the Scourers, persecutors of the
occult for many years, with a deep-rooted hatred and scorn for everything that
defied the natural order established in the creation. Mr. Barebone, having
inherited the prestige as witch hunter from his father and being of Puritan
caste, was therefore a man whom one wished not to engage in a quarrel with, for
he was always right, the Lord had bestowed upon him an important task and he
carried it with great honor and sanguine joy. He was also close friends with
the minister of the Village, and frequently found by his side even if their
social ranks differed by a speck. Such was their friendship that the minister
didn’t hesitate to consult him when preparing his sermons, and constantly asked
his opinion on matters of witchcraft. Due to his ancestry, the Barebone
patriarch had amassed a considerable respectability amongst his fellow
parishioners.
That evening, suppertime was but a clink of cutlery against platters and the
occasional sip of a glass. Faces looked gaunt and eerie at the flame of the
candles, like specters from a more ominous world. Outside the goats bleated.
The cold filtered through the wood panels of the walls, and Credence shivered
as it gusted across his back and slithered over his nape. He was nearly done
with his share, small as it was, but he slowed his pace, extended every
chewing, not to better savor the taste, since there was not much of it, but to
not be the first to be finished. It could be seen as gluttony of sorts, and he
didn’t want to be fountain of discord.
“Credence,” pronounced Mary Lou in that brittle voice of hers. A voice that
would rather break than bend, and was sharp around every edge.
The boy said a short prayer in his mind, muttering under his breath an Amen
silent to all ears, before answering the woman, who looked at him with
suspicion and spite, “I saw you today at mass. Say, is there anything of
greater value than our God’s word?”
A gulp of watered down stew and stale bread turned to mush in Credence’s mouth,
dense and difficult to get past his throat, which had suddenly clamped down and
tied, like a hangman’s knot.
“Mrs.?”
“Answer the question, boy,” at Bartholomew’s utterance, dragged through
clenched teeth, Modesty and Chastity seemed to recoil in their seats, bracing
themselves for one of the many outbursts Credence was causative of.
Credence darted his eyes from one adult to the other, heart hammering inside
his chest as a load of stones dropped in the pit of his stomach, “No, Mr. and
Mrs. Barebone. God’s word is the only nourishment a faithful servant needs.
Nothing is of greater importance.”
“Then why, in God’s holy name, were you staring out of the window so much? Was
the old deluder beckoning you to his side, were you tempted to give him your
soul?” Mary Lou’s rage was soaring higher, that Credence had disrespected the
scriptures so carelessly only served to disdain him more.
The boy’s collar felt tighter around his neck, and below the table his hands
were clammy all of a sudden, “No, no, Mrs. Barebone. God is my only savior, I
would never give myself over to the clutches of the devil. Never. I exist only
to praise the Lord’s holy name. You must believe me.”
If Credence had indeed stared out of the window during mass he hadn’t retained
the faintest memory of it, much less of having being tempted by the devil.
After hearing the minister repeat himself for endless hours a week after week,
the sermons and, in consequence, the service, all seemed the same to his worn-
out mind. Various days mingled in a solitary memory of drone voices and
promises of both heaven and hell. Every day at church was, at its core, the
very same.
It was not with small trepidation that the boy anticipated a word from the
Barebone parents, sending prayers for the Lord to hear him out, to have mercy
upon his soul. He had done nothing sinful at mass, besides from being a
wretched creature by demand of nature since the date of his birth. But he had
not been enticed by the devil that morning, of that he was innocent.
“Very well,” announced Bartholomew, mouth twisted in a grimace after guzzling
the rest of the stew and wiping his mouth with the yellowish sleeve of his
ragged shirt, “I’ll know if you are lying, boy. No witch can fool me; first
I’ll have them hanged in the gallows, like the spawn of Satan they are. There
is no salvation for witches, son, they’ve all signed the book in their own
blood.”
It was as close an approval he’d receive from Bartholomew. The boy thanked God
for his mercy and delivered his reply as was expected of him, softly and
compliant, “Yes, sir.”
Credence didn’t get to finish the last of his stew, and his stomach groaned
angrily in protest as he made for the small, narrow chamber that was his room.
A cot, an old oil lamp and a frayed blanket were the only paraphernalia he was
permitted. Despite the fact that the room resembled a cabinet rather than a
proper bedroom, Credence was beyond grateful to have a space of his own, a
little cranny amidst the house were he needn’t hide.
That miniscule amount of privacy had become the boy’s greater source of
enjoyment and relief, it was his sole haven, faulty as it was. The thin door
and even thinner walls sufficed to hide what transpired to him on certain
nights when the Barebone parents abused him or humiliated him until he felt no
different than a sobbing rag, threadbare and disposable, and ready to melt
under the pain throbbing in his head. On those nights, a soul-consuming terror
devoured him from within, like a creature from hell that munched at his edges
leaving him raw and bloody, as darkness flowed from him: black tendrils of
ethereal ink surrounding him like the flames of eternal damnation, polluting
his heart in a twist of fury and hopelessness, and, on many occasions, causing
him to wake up over dampened foliage in the middle of the woods with no memory
of how he’d gotten there in the first place.
The frequency of the head-splitting migraines that afflicted him escalated with
every accusation of witchcraft declared in the village, which was beyond
disturbing in itself, since not a week went by without someone being pulled
from their house by the authorities, and thrown behind cells to wait for their
case to be listened.
Mary Lou’s words at supper had implanted a needle in his stomach, and minute by
minute said needle’s girth had increased. Lying on his cot, he was left with a
gaping hollow in his middle.
Credence felt a vile and disgusting sensation climb up to his mouth, and the
boy couldn’t help retching in the darkness, as quiet as he could manage.
Staring once or twice out of the window during the lengthy hours of mass was
little crime, but Mary Lou’s eye, not dissimilar God’s, was always vigilant,
expectant of any downfall of her brethren so her virtue would shine in
comparison to her fellow sinners.
His body felt as if fire burned ardently in the marrow of his bones. He was
disintegrating, wasting away in between sudden convulsions that nearly made him
leap from his cot. Twisting and turning, shaking like a leaf on the breeze,
Credence felt the wicked darkness gaining leverage on him, seeping from the tip
of his fingers and constricting his organs. The more he thought about what was
happening to his body, the more his mind tumbled and swirled, nearing its own
haphazard collapse. The feeling was just like those other nights, but this time
it grew faster. He knew it wouldn’t be much longer until he lost all
consciousness, thus, with quiet step and fear of every shadow in the house,
Credence made it out from the Barebone homestead, and ran beneath the starry,
fading winter night sky on bare feet. The cold wind lashed at his skin, and at
times it didn’t even feel as if he was running anymore, but as if he was
floating, because his feet wouldn’t always land on the ground and then they
wouldn’t feel like feet at all. He’d almost made it to the edge of pines when
he disremembered all thought, lost in a cloud of black.
 
Fallen twigs cracked under his weight as Credence came back into himself. He
was somewhere in the depths of the forest, a clearing where the moon shone upon
white and distant. The soil felt cold and slightly soggy, and not a sound could
be heard, which wasn’t usual at all, since many animals populated these
regions. As he tried to stand, Credence felt a sharp throb of pain in all of
his limbs, like the phantom of iron chains wrung around his frame. He could
barely move without hissing in discomfort, but he needed to return to the house
while darkness still reigned, while everyone else was still sound asleep.
He was well-acquainted with the woods. Being the lackey of the homestead in all
but title, thrust on his shoulders the most unwanted tasks, including that of
harvesting fruits from the wilderness and hunting game when times were
cruelest. And Credence, had taken a certain affection for the shady grounds
every puritan believed to be haunted by the forces of evil. The only evil he’d
ever stumbled upon when in the woods were his own unchaste thoughts, impure and
reproachful, they were solid proof he was sinful, he was human.
With glimmering stars still adorning the sky, Credence crept quietly into the
house and up the stairs, wary of any groan of the floor. He imagined his
pummeling heart could’ve woken the whole family, but he managed to make it to
his room without further difficulty.
Although he felt more relaxed in contrast to his last lucid memory, he was
shaken out of his wits. What had he done? How come he couldn’t remember
anything before waking up on the bed of dirt and leaves? Had the devil taken
hold of his body without his consent?
It wasn’t until dawn, when the sun rose prim and radiant over salmon-painted
skies, that Credence put an end to his pitiful whimpering muffled by a moth-
eaten pillow, soaking the shabby fabric with saline tears from his weary eyes.
There were many witches in Salem Village. All of them accused by neighbors and
family, waiting for a trial, and then execution. They were creatures who
merrily covenanted with Satan to enjoy the worldly pleasures they’d been
deprived of, selling their souls to the kingdom of ash and fire and eternal
pain. Little offense was needed for one’s name to be thrown out in the
meetinghouse under suspicion of witchcraft. Living in the lodgings of a Scourer
meant he was in greater peril of being accused and judged, and even though
Bartholomew could be a little careless with his own kin and didn’t spend much
time home, Mary Lou was there to make up for it, with acute eyes, a
bloodhound’s nose and even sharper mind, she read Credence like an open book,
knew him like she knew every verse of the scriptures.
Credence rubbed the tiredness from his eyes and untangled his sore muscles as
best as he could. The slightly brighter sun outside past the windowpane, an
impending reminder that he was to get up and milk the goats, then chop some
logs and, probably, run an errand or two before having some breakfast.
 
 
To my Father,
I hope you and mother are safe and well, as am I.
Being in Boston for a couple of days, I learned that the situation in the place
called Salem was worse than we had been told. Promptly I made the journey to
said town, and have been there for the past few days. Not much later after my
arrival, it came to my knowledge that one of ours had been hanged under
suspicion of witchcraft, his name was Tiberius Smith, a man of sixty-eight
years old. He’d been imprisoned for months, and the sentence was passed without
sufficient proof -although no proof should allow this mad butchery-, even by
no-maj standards.
Injustice has been breeding here like a vile and vicious creature of darkness.
Everywhere I go there are rumors being shared by neighbors and friends. These
people believe witchcraft resides even in the eye of an innocent infant who
babbles yet, instead of talking.
News travel fast in Bay Colony, hence it’s come to my attention that a greater
threat is looming these lands. According to hearsay, a bit farther inland, in
Salem Village, there’s been talk of what they deem as witchcraft, and real
magic too, of course. But as of late, the rumors have turned darker, now they
boast not only of nightly pinches and strange marks and dead cattle and rotten
corn; a more powerful force seems to be afoot. I can’t be sure what the origin
of this magic is, but I am certain it is powerful enough to be of concern.
As stated by official records, a handful or less of witches and wizards have
made of Salem Village their home for the past years. I shall try to establish
contact with them, at least to reassure them the Council, and the American
wizarding community, hasn’t completely forgotten about them, even if there’s
little we can actually do to assist them.
It may not be my place to say, but I will say it nonetheless, Father mine. This
task is futile. My time would be better employed doing something that actually
helps our government grow and bloom, not writing down the names of soon-to-be-
dead witches and wizards. If there’s no stopping this massacre, what
jurisdiction has the Council, if any at all? 
By the time this letter reaches you, I’ll probably be in the Village, settled
and observant of this dark magic I’ve been hearing more and more of. When I
learn something useful, I shall send another letter with the information
collected.
I can’t help but ask, has the Council reconsidered taking action against these
foul no-maj practices? Will there be any sort of retaliation against this
persecution, or must we bear in anguished silence while our brothers and
sisters are murdered, along with many innocent no-majs? Did we flee a witch
hunt just to fall into another?
Your son,
Percival Graves
 
 
Credence felt like a rat trapped in a box, growing wearier after each night of
restless and sleep, of feeling himself drifting into clouds of slimy dark
smoke. He very seldom slept, and when he did, he woke up drenched in his cold
sweat, hair plastered to his face, and heart beating like the wings of a
frightened hummingbird. The walls seemed to close up on him until there was no
room to breathe anymore, and opening the window could only bring him so much
peace.
The night air caressed his skin as he shivered in response to the low
temperatures early spring dragged behind. In the infinite darkness, he could
see the spruces swaying eerily in the distance, they seemed to call to him,
whisper his name.
He knew it was all part of his excitable imagination, or so he hoped.
The only other reason would be the devil hissing his name from the bowels of
the forest, trying to enchant him and trap him in his claws. If he let himself
believe that, then surely he’d be condemning his own soul to an infinite fate
of agony, and though he deserved it, it frightened him.
Goodness wasn’t a thing that came naturally to him, but Credence did his very
best day after day, to be deserving of God’s love. He attended mass without
delay, he paid heed to the minister’s every word, he read the bible and knew
half of it by heart, and he didn’t complain or thought ill of the Barebones. He
was kind to Modesty and subservient to Chastity. Nevertheless, gloating about
one’s own goodness was no different from committing the sin of pride, so he
chided himself and prayed God for forgiveness, an act that was repeated too
many times a day.
He stayed perched on the window sill contemplating the awakening of the woods,
drowsy and bleary-eyed. The abrupt slip of his elbow nearly made him hit his
chin on the wood.
Downstairs everything was still covered in a wake of silence. The family,
presumably, still safely tucked in their beds. As idleness was a sin, Credence
considered it’d be better for him to feed the hens and put the goats out to
graze, until the others were up. And shortly after, he heard puttering and
clattering coming from the kitchen, a thin film of perspiration covered his
forehead. He was exhausted. The palms of his hands still hurt from the last
beating he’d received, though the cuts had healed; for all the hard work he did
his arms were sinewy, not being able to grow much muscle on an empty stomach,
and his back looked rather feeble from hunching forward too often during mass,
encroached in himself and ready to shatter at the first forceful gust of wind.
Like any other day, after having some bland porridge, Credence collected chilly
water in a pitcher, and in his room washed himself clean. Orderly, he put on
his pair of dusty breeches, a shirt that had seen better days long years ago,
and shoes that, only by heavenly miracle, would subsist past the muddy months
to come.
In company of the Barebones, Credence made the walk to the church building,
where a considerable amount of parishioners was already assembled, occupying
several benches by rank and hierarchy. No one was to disregard the order. The
minister’s speech was, unsurprisingly, adamant in its attempt to inculcate fear
and agitation in the hearts of the laymen. Its sole purpose was to chisel God
into their minds, etch him underneath their sinful scalps, and make them repent
for their iniquity.
“The people of this village are faithful, fearful servants of God.” Said the
minister, with extended hands, surveying the crowd congregated before him, “We
honor his name, we worship him, we live by his commands and yet… brothers and
sisters – and yet, the devil has made us its prey. Satan! Has come to torment
us because we do not love him. Most of us.” He paused, eyes never staying fixed
in one place, searching for the weakling, the sinner, “I am aware you have
knowledge of the travesty that’s befallen us recently. The devil is tempting
Salem Village, and harvesting the souls of the feeble by means of witchcraft,
but mark my words when I say he shall not triumph! Whoever is accused and found
guilty of this most vile and despicable sin, shall be put to death as God
commands it. Those who practice witchcraft, idol worshipers, and all
liars–their fate is in the fiery lake of burning sulfur;Revelation 21:8.” A
murmur of approval spread across the nave, people stared at one another,
measuring each other’s evils by simple inspection, “Brothers, sisters… Do not
fall for the devil’s witty tricks, for if you do, nothing but hell and eternal
damnation shall come to you. I myself, and every other respectable Salem
villager, will see to it.”
After the sermon ended, and as was customary, the minister came over to
converse with Bartholomew while Mary Lou listened intently, with a cringing
smile awkwardly tautening her features; Modesty, Chastity, and Credence stood
in silence, three gloomy figures clad in dark shabby clothes, like the statues
on those catholic cathedrals, that were a marvelous sight for the eye. What the
Catholics lacked in virtue, they made up in architecture. But as all earthly
things, stone pillars and sculpted ceilings, time would see to their decay.
Salvation could not be found in a building no matter how beautiful it was.
“What’s that?” from his left Modesty’s mouse-like voice came to him, her round
eyes scrutinizing the side of his face, brows furrowed in concentration.
Instinctively Credence’s hand came to his face, but he could feel nothing
irregular about it, nothing wrong.
The minister had taken his leave, Bartholomew matching him in long strides
until they disappeared through a back door and into the minister’s office. Two
vultures devising strategies to annihilate witchcraft.
“Credence. What is this?” Mary Lou had instantly caught Modesty’s concern, and
the woman was now taking hold of Credence’s face, turning it sideways to get a
better look of it. Immediately, her eyes went wild, blazed by rage, her voice
was deadly but hushed, as if she didn’t want anyone to eavesdrop, “How come
there are scratches on your face, Credence? How did this happen?”
There where she touched him, right above the jut of his jawline, Credence felt
no pain, if anything only the ghost of a sting. Up until Modesty’s mention he
ignored there was anything odd about his face, clearly he could not remember
when he’d gotten it, or why, though he suspected it had to do with the foul
darkness that seeped from his skin every other night. Confessing to his
inklings however, would only earn him an express ticket to the gallows, and
though he was guilty and corrupt, he wished not to perish yet.
“I- I don’t know, Mrs. Barebone. Maybe I did it to myself. In my sleep.”
In the blink of an eye his utmost fear was rapidly turning into his reality.
All those reprobate looks and sneer remarks had finally a reason to strike him
into an early grave. If Mary Lou knew - and she always did - then this was
positively the end of his life as he knew it. If not today, she’d start poking
and investigating, pushing him to the razor-edged brink, and resulting in many
fingers pointed at him, a clamor of ‘witch’ spouting from the mouths of
disgusted villagers.
Mary Lou gazed at him with lightning in her eyes. The boy rarely received any
kindness, if at all, from her part.
“Hush, boy! Too many witches hide behind pretty faces, and yours, I’m afraid,
isn’t even all that agreeable. I hope, for your own sake, you are not lying to
me, Credence. The Lord repels the likes of you, and so do I.”
She hurried them then, a shepherd to a herd, and with brisk step they crossed
the town. Credence did not dare look up from the ground. He might as well be
heading for his execution, harrowed and clenching his fists, nails digging into
the palms of his hands, just short of drawing blood. His breathing was labored,
yet the more he tried controlling it, steadying himself, the more his emotions
seemed to run loose.
Arguing there was laundry to be washed, Chastity excuse herself and ran off to
the stream, abandoning Credence with one last look filled with something akin
to pity.
“He did nothing wrong, Ma,” mumbled Modesty as she fiddled with the sleeves of
her gown.
The eight-year-old had tears watering the corners of her eyes and her nose was
scrunched up, trying not to burst out crying.
“Silence, Modesty! This is none of your concern.”
“But, Ma!”
“Silence, I say! One more word from you against your own mother and the devil
will sure take you come night.” The girl’s lips sealed tight at the mention of
the dark one, but still her eyes pleaded with unshed tears and liquid remorse
for Credence, “If he’s wicked, then he should be punished as God commands, if
not… then he has nothing to be afraid of.”
Credence stood in silence, mentally praying for God to spare him one last time.
He’d ask nothing more of his savior, he’d dedicate the rest of his days to
serve him in reclusion. He’d even take the vows of ministry if God asked so of
him, the only thing he asked for was for Mary Lou to find no incriminating
proof of witchcraft on his body.
“Undress.”
Her voice was cold as ice, and it hit Credence with a predictable blow that
hurt just as if it were unexpected. For a fleeting moment he thought of putting
up a passive fight, to beg the woman not to look at his naked flesh, to make up
excuses for her not to examine his body, to lie. But then the thought scurried
away into the darkness, vibrating like a rattle in the hollow space that was
the back of his head.
With trembling fingers Credence began to undress, shucking off the pieces of
clothing, mindful of his every move, and especially of his tongue. He did not
want to utter his prayers under his breath; muttering was a clear sign of
witchcraft, and the least he needed was caving his own tomb deeper.
“Modesty, go outside. I need to look for witch marks and it make take some
time. Help your sister with the washing. Go on, be a good girl.”
It wasn’t until Mary Lou had repeated herself that Modesty finally stepped
outside, closing the door behind her with extreme care. Were she not an
obedient daughter, Credence would’ve thought she loitered behind door.
The first time Mary Lou had ordered him to strip to search for visible signs of
his wickedness was the very first day he’d come to live with the Barebones. No
evil would freely saunter into her home, she’d said. But she had found nothing.
Despite the countless aspects Credence hated about himself, he’d been blessed
by the Lord with creamy white skin, unblemished and unmarked, from the top of
his head to the tip of his toes. Vanity was a sin, but there was a twisted
thorn pinned in Credence’s heart, a thorn that emanated a sense of pride at
being pure, at least of complexion.
Since then only two other times had he been subjected to the shameful test, and
on each occasion it had been worse. Credence was ashamed of the changes his
body was suffering, lanky and too thin, he was sore on the eye. Abandoning
childhood had added awkward angles to his frame, and self-consciousness made a
mockery of him as he tried covering his groin with hands that Mary Lou didn’t
dally to swat away.
The woman began her inspection in a clinical fashion, scouting inch by inch of
skin, from the top of his head, examining with more care the scratch on his
jaw, then trailing down to his chest, his arms, back, groin and legs. Every
touch of hers was unsympathetic and shrewd, not warm as human tact should be.
There was an impersonal air to her gestures, her mouth set tight as if in
repulsion by the task she had at hand.
Nonetheless, weeks had passed without her inflicting corporal punishment to set
Credence right, to fix him in the name of God. And so, welts and gashes had
healed, leaving behind faded marks that she knew all too well the origin of.
Besides, a witch’s mark, though ample in its definition as there was no
established standard, differed from regular marks such as that of her beatings.
Every New England puritan was in the capacity of recognizing one at first
glance, the devil was an enemy they’d been fighting since long.
Fingers digging into his skin, Credence wondered if she could read his sins on
the gaunt expanse of his back. Memories of a stolen piece of cheese came to his
mind, as well as wandering in the woods when he was supposed to be hunting
rabbits for dinner. Even worse, recollections of the nights in which he’d woken
up to wet sheets, faded dreams plagued by the sins of the flesh lingering in
the warmth between his legs. Credence dissipated such musings from his head,
not wanting any more distress to show on his face.
After a few more restless minutes, Mary Lou sighed in defeat and ordered him to
put his clothes back on.
“Seems the only mark is that scratch on your neck, boy.”
At her verdict, a mouthful of crisp air filled his lungs, inflating them inside
his chest until they hurt. He couldn’t quite breathe, not properly, but all the
same Credence tried slowing down with each inhalation, and relaxing his muscles
as the breath came out through his nostrils. When he chanced a glance at Mary
Lou, she wore contempt on her face, but she had no evidence to denounce him of
witchcraft. Oft times, Credence wondered if the woman was always on the hunt
for ways to incriminate him, and thus get rid of him once and for all. If that
was the case, and it wasn’t difficult to assume it was, then, sooner or later,
he’d be charged of being one of the many devil advocates of Salem Village. A
single word from Mary Lou, wife of the honorable Scourer, Bartholomew Barebone,
might as well be a passed sentence. No human justice or wrath of God would save
him, not from Mary Lou’s disdain.
“Quickly now, get dressed. The very sight of you is vile.”
Somehow invigorated and appalled by her words, Credence gathered his clothes
from the heap on the floor, and put them on swiftly, relieved of not having his
body displayed like a slave.
Dismissing himself with a curt nod he headed out, at first wanting to meet
Chastity and Modesty by the stream, but he thought better of it. They could do
well without his company. If he was suspected by the village at large, then the
girls would follow suit, and he couldn’t let her deaths weigh in his
conscience.
On the fork of the path he took a left, a winding trail, rarely treaded, that
led to an old dilapidated house, and well beyond the house, a clearing of the
forest, where many pine martens and hares appeared during the summer months.
Days ago he’d laid traps since meat was, once again, running low in the house.
No matter how much he hunted -which wasn’t all that much at all-, and how many
provisions Bartholomew could make himself with, at the end of the week their
plates, especially his, resembled a pile of scraps rather than a proper meal.
Credence did not know how bad the other families had it, but worrying about
that would only lead to sin, as did the majority of things, so he abandoned the
train of thought.
Only when he was truly on his own, surrounded by trees that kept his utmost
secrets, maybe even from the eyes of god, did Credence allowed his feelings to
stray from the puritan yoke. His mind reeled with unanswered questions about
himself and about the village, about the nature of witchcraft and the devil.
Nibbling at the back of his brain were doubts about God too, and those were the
ones that quaked him most deeply. Every other deviation was but a mere
extension of the great big mystery that was God.
He shook his head and checked both traps but they were empty, and though it
meant getting by with less food and having his stomach grumble till the early
hours of dawn, undergoing the kind of pain that nestled quietly in his gut for
a long time before finally twisting his insides, Credence was glad. Because he
found no joy in killing animals, and he disliked the sight of blood oozing from
slit throats, falling on the cold ground.
    
By nightfall the same pregnant, dreadful air hung heavily inside the walls of
the Barebone homestead. After supper Bartholomew read from the bible for about
two hours, his voice raspier by the minute, but never less vehement.
The fireplace crackled in flames, and illuminated by its glow, it almost looked
like a placid scene of a joyous and warm home. The speech of the devil the only
smirch on the homeliness.
With great detail, and at Modesty’s request, Bartholomew narrated the noble
quest Scourers carried on their shoulders. He spoke of witch-hunting, an
activity that, judging by the glimmer in his eye, was more a sport for him than
a vindication of God’s design.
“There are many evil things in this neck of the woods, my child. Nasty
cockroaches from Satan that won’t die unless we stomp on them. We could bring a
whole coven to the ground, throw the witches into the fire and watch them burn
here as they will in hell.” Bartholomew was looking at something none of them
could see, his brain providing him with images of suffering the of the wicked,
“Fire, gallows, stones. It’s all the same to me. As long as those witches
receive their punishment, we shall be honoring the name of the Lord.”
Fixed like a nail on splintered wood, Credence remained as still as he could,
collecting the words that, like curses, fell from Bartholomew’s mouth. He could
see himself being accused, judged, condemned and finally shackled, as he made
his way to the scaffold with tears in his eyes.
He’d beg Modesty for help, maybe Chastity too, but they’d be powerless.
Defending a witch was as good as signing one’s name in the devil’s book.
“There’s been talk in the Village.” Bartholomew proceeded, “Constable Jones
told me more accusations have being flying through his door. More than he can
handle. Cattle being killed, crops that never sprout, witches paying nightly
visits to men...” He paused for dramatic effect, the man had always been one
for theatrics. Credence pondered maybe that was the reason he held on to the
Scourer title with such fervor, “More than one report has been made about a
demon that lives in the forest, aye. Comes out at night, big cloud of black
smoke that spoils all it touches, corrupts it. Minister thinks it’s their
leader, the one all witches bow down to.”
The knot in Credence’s throat barred him from swallowing properly, and his
tongue was dense mush in his mouth. Hyperaware of his body and its every
sensation, he listened and prayed for the reading to be over, for Mary Lou to
say it was time for bed, for anything, anyone, to cut the cord. He could feel
accusative eyes sliding off of him, although no one was actually paying him any
mind. Shouts and insults from the villagers started clouding his mind, so clear
and crisp, they snowballed in a frantic manner.
If people were aware of the ‘black demonic cloud’, they were aware of him. The
fact that the villagers ignored who the demon was, mattered not. In little
time, the constable, aided by a myriad of witnesses, would fit together
scattered pieces, and they’d lead them to the farthest edge of the village. One
knock on the Barebone house door and it’d be the end of him.
Had he given his soul to the devil and could not remember? Was it wise and fair
and right to let them find out, give himself up and accept divine sentence?
“They gather in the woods, men and women, to worship that demon. They sacrifice
animals to Satan and drink their blood to gain power – power no regular person
could ever have. And they sin not only of witchcraft, no. Those folks – they
lie and steal and seek fleshly pleasures-”
“Bartholomew,” warned Mary Lou with an edge to her voice. She always seemed
reluctant to let topics of the flesh be discussed.
The man almost snapped his neck to look back at her, the flames shining in his
eyes, “Do not interrupt me, woman. They need to know. About the witches and the
demons, the sinners of sodomy and bestiality that plague our lands and curse
our crops.” He flicked his tongue, and focused once again on the girls, who
seemed petrified and would not refuse to take their leave if given the first
chance, “Say, Chastity. If the devil promised you riches and silk and beauty
and pleasure, would you write on his book?”
“No,” as expected, Chastity’s voice was a droll, swift and unflinching. She was
perhaps the best one of all three of them, nothing wicked or unnatural could
ever be expected of her. Nothing remarkable either.
“And ye, Modesty? If the black dog whispered your name and gave you orders in
return for sweets and gold, would you make his bid even against our Lord’s
commands?”
“Never, father” her voice was small and breakable, and reminded Credence of a
wounded bird.
Mary Lou lifted her gaze, forgetting her knitting for a moment, and smiled at
her daughters, “They’re good girls, fearful and obedient, like our Maker
intended all children to be.”
“Aye.”
Inevitably, Bartholomew’s focus was then on Credence, the hunched figure
sitting on the floor, partly concealed by the shadows. Hugging his knees to his
chest, the boy found no respite and no relief in the bodily shield he’d
unconsciously made of himself.
“Boy, would ye? Write on his book with your own blood?”
“No, sir. I praise only Jesus for his is my life to give,” tremulous, hopefully
only to his own ears, Credence replied. He adored God, he adored Him, he adored
Him, he feared Him.
With a sneering smile from his gimlet eyes, Bartholomew pressed on, “What about
food? Would ye give yourself to him if Satan offered you a full belly by the
end of each day?”
As if on cue, Credence’s stomach groaned. A warmth pricked at his cheeks, but
his answer was unwavering, “No, sir.”
Fueled by a desire to taunt him or humiliate him, Bartholomew took a long drag
from his pipe and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, “Would ye sign
if he promised you pleasures of the flesh, boy? If he seduced you, and then
after lay with you?”
Some torture this was, even more shameful than a trial for witchcraft. Every
other person in the village had the potential to be a witch, and all who were,
were scoundrels of the same black pit, wicked and sinful in the same degree. On
the other hand, what Bartholomew was hinting at, what Credence knew inhabited
deeply within his spirit, resonated with a different, more disgraceful clamor.
Though his mouth had gone dry, Credence managed to croak out a third and final
No, sir.
“Ma checked him for witch marks today, Father. She found none.”
Modesty interjected. Though young in years, she was wise and kind, and not
seldom Credence believed she was the only one keeping him fed and sheltered.
“Aye?” scoffed Bartholomew, his eyes assessing Credence’s frame like a hawk.
Mary Lou huffed and stopped her knitting once more, and in her gaze scorn
overflowed. She must’ve preferred Credence to be marked all over with the signs
of his wickedness, branded like an animal. She despised him since he’d first
crossed the threshold of her house, always holding a grudge against him, ready
to lash out at the smallest of his mistakes, “Yes. But he still is no good.
There’s something funny about him, but nothing a good beating won’t mend.”
Across the walls shadows of the flames danced eerily, conjuring apprehension
and terror in Credence’s heart. He was no witch but he was just as guilty.
Mundanity had filled his every pore and sin had made its dwelling in the space
between his bones and his soul.
Outside a raucous wind carried the howls of the beasts, an evil chanting that
rang sweeter than the loathing of the Barebone clan. Lost to the jaws of the
forest, who would truly miss him?
Thereupon Bartholomew acquiesced in his wife’s request, and off they were sent
to bed after sharing a last prayer in the holy union of the family by the
hearth.
Unable to do anything else than turn on his cot, prisoner of endless threads of
ill-fated thoughts, Credence ruminated on the idea that had come to him short
hours before. Staying in the village would inevitably augment his peril, and if
found guilty, God’s mercy wouldn’t be a kindness granted to him. Jail and
rejection and undiluted hatred would be thrown his way, heavy as stones, and
just as hurting.
He wasn’t certain when or how his inner darkness had flourished, but if there
was the slightest glimmer of hope then he’d take it. Take it and never turn his
head back, leave Salem Village behind while wasting away on his own, festering
by himself in the wicked nature of his soul, harming no one, existing in
communion with God in the wilds of the colonies.
If God was just with his children, then he alone should be responsible of
judging him.
With his heartbeat pulsing as a drum in the back of his throat, Credence made
his choice and prayed for guidance and protection. Quiet like a mouse, he went
down the staircase and opened the door to the raven black night that engulfed
the country.
Enshrouded in a soundless veil, his steps seemed an intrusion to the musical
humming the trees whispered. Under blinking stars and a silvery glowing moon,
he entered the forest and deeper and deeper he went, until the trunks of the
trees, maples and oaks, grew taller, and the leaves swayed over his head,
quivering in the breeze. Inside the bowels of everlasting mystery, a different
tune was played, one with many different sounds, screeches and growls and
hisses; a symphony orchestrated either by god or by the devil, that was
beautiful and terrifying all the same. Navigating messy webs of roots and over
fallen branches, past wild brambles and across thin streams of mountain-born
water, Credence’s legs grew tired, and fatigue draped over him like a heavy
mantle. Exhausted and having lost his north, he made his bed on the foot of an
elm. The irregular terrain beneath him wasn’t easy on his back, but it felt
safe nonetheless. Eyes closed, his mind whirred with images of wolves and
witches, that with sharpened teeth, would no doubt feast upon his body while he
slept. Come morning, he’d be a lifeless body and maggots would have his eyes,
sucking them dry of all color, leaving only darkness to dwell in his sockets.
 
 
 
To my Father,
After further inquisition, it seems that what the no-majs call a ‘demonic cloud
of smoke’ is no more than an Obscurus. Though not uncommon, I believe this one
harnesses immense power. Am I to kill it, this child, for the sake of our self-
imposed secrecy?
 
“Fuck.”
The lethargic buzz of an incipient headache had begun to assault him. Lit by
the glow of a candle, Percival stared at the cream-colored parchment, blank and
patient, it laughed at him. For the fruitless mission the Council, advised by
his own father, had entrusted him with. For the forsaken wasteland infested by
poisonous ignorance in which he was stranded. For agreeing to be here in the
first place. And for the unbearable sense of blame that afflicted him for being
witness to the demise of so many innocent people.
Crumpling the letter in his hand, he threw it on the floor without much
thought, and got on his feet to stretch his legs. It was past midnight, and the
inside of the cottage stifled him, permeated with worries he wanted not to fret
over. A serene walk beneath the moonlight and away from the specter of his own
uselessness would appease his mind, thought Percival.
And with a flick of his hand the timid flame died.
Chapter End Notes
     heyyy, let me know your thoughts :P
     also, the 'government' is referred to as the Council bc macusa hasn't
     been founded yet
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     after all this time?
     always<3
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
      And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one.
                                        
A silent predator by daylight, once the sun had set and the sparkling firmament
unfolded, the forest bared out its fangs and bayed in the blackness, becoming
alive by grace of all the wondrous and mysterious secrets it preserved within
its limits while extending far beyond the edge of itself, pawing at the world
at large.
A vision of darkness, the place so many no-majs dreaded seemed like a blessed
refuge for Percival, away from the sanctimonious and bigoted atmosphere that
humans so proudly inhaled until intoxication; the hooting of a lonesome tawny
owl and the chorus of crickets and grasshoppers rang in his ears as his mind
took wings of its own and flew around the inevitable. The purpose of his long
journey across the province of New York by no-maj means, to his greater
displeasure, was doomed to fail from the second of its conception. He was a
more than adept wizard, honorary Ilvermorny graduate with plenty of experience
and expertise in many fields, but with a particular interest on magical
security and wizardkind protection. At age twenty-nine Percival expected to
have gained prestige on his own merits, but the Council, feeble as a fawn
taking its first steps, was anarchic rather than functional. Just as no-majs,
wizards had issues with the foundations of their government. Too many factions,
each seeking its own benefit without any concern for the others’ well-being.
There was a nefarious lack of unity even in the face of adversity. Selfishness,
it seemed, didn’t dilute in one’s blood in the presence of magic; it was a
human disease.  
A sphere of light hovered in front of him casting a faint glow that shrank and
expanded as the volume of vegetation surrounding him varied. The world,
Percival thought, was very much like a forest come nightfall. In the dark were
those less elucidated, no-majs who believed Satan to be the cause of all their
misfortunes; inexplicability equaled witchcraft, and all that was related to
witchcraft was punishable by death. On the other hand, the wizarding community
resembled the globe of light except it did the opposite: at times darkness
loomed closer wizards shrank in fear, and only when danger weakened did wizards
retrieved strength and compassion. It was a precarious and ineffectual
equilibrium, and there was no doubt in Percival’s mind that one day the wheel
would break and no reparo would be able to fix it. After all, what comfort did
a forgetfulness charm provide once a life had been taken?
In his eyes Salem Village was a land cursed solely by the ignorance and malice
of its own people. Walking through its few streets under guise, he was witness
to the avarice and ill-intention of many a person, the narrow sidelong glances
one threw another, the insincere smiles as they greeted at the meetinghouse.
Disputes had a history of erupting at the slightest of offenses, and, by
registered account, puritans had a strong proclivity for taking to court
whoever displeased them. Civilized a practice as it was, it also spoke of how
little room in themselves they had for forgiveness.
Gondulphus had surely commended him the dreary task to ground him, or to put
him through smoldering fire and give him a taste of what the real world out
there was like, as he so often repeated. His father, gifted and stern, was
rather reticent and, in consequence, Percival was seldom granted his affections
when growing up. Absorbed in the building of a new world -- a better world –,
Gondulphus Graves had forgotten it took more than just a pair hands. 
From impenetrable crevices furtive creatures growled and cackled, the sounds
mingling in the night wind, subconsciously deflecting Percival’s steps.
He walked without paying too much attention where he was headed. But that did
not matter. Lost under the black velvet skies of Massachusetts, he’d stroll
right through the gates of hell and not give a damn. It almost seemed
preferable to abandon the cause before he had to start writing down name after
name of the deceased, humble traces of ink over pristine parchment, whole lives
summarized in two words and two dates. Cursed from birth for being different,
marked for slaughter since the first lungful of air.
Zephyr ruffled his hair, and caressed his face despite the upturned collar of
his coat. The new season brought with it blooming flowers and livelier animals,
it painted the skyline a brighter shade of blue, and combed the grass with ink
of green; it warmed the rays of light that spilled from the sun and made the
wine sweeter in the mouths of men, yet it also brought death sentences served
on platter of gold. The muscles of Percival’s jaw clenched, and a heat rose to
the back of his neck. He couldn’t help but being furious at, not only the
appalling circumstances that terrorized his people once more, but the
inefficacy of the Council, of his father. Still, Percival was just a man, and
bearing the name of Graves was simply not enough to herd the entirety of the
American wizardkind under a fairer, safer banner.
He ushered his thoughts into another direction, because years of thinking about
the system’s repair had been as fruitless as an apple tree in wintertime. The
source of the problem, if it could be called as such, was magic, or the
suspicion of it. Minor or grand, displays of uncanny abilities were bound to
send no-majs to the border of lethal hysteria, as it had been proved for
centuries.
After days of prowling around the village without being noticed, Percival
realized most incriminations weren’t about true wizardry at all. Accusations
stemmed from long-harbored feelings of displeasure from one person to another;
with just one glance witches could inflict upon their victims pain greater than
that of the cruciatus curse. A tap of the fingers and the possessed girls fell
to the floor to writhe in pain, claiming the fires of hell to be burning within
their bellies; the witch had scraped their insides. It was infuriating. There
was no reasonable explanation, guilt lay exclusively on motive. The villagers
were ravenous beasts, hungry for the blood of their own siblings, avid to see
others wither away while they rejoiced in the grace of their Lord. It disgusted
him at the time it pierced his core with pity for those who were subjected to
the attacks of maddened people. Innocents rotted in cells: the majority of them
free of all guilt, another unquantifiable amount, guilty of having cracks in
their masks.
As he kept walking the fog grew thicker in his eyes, like a cloud of smoke that
embraced him, suffocated him. A looming cloud, as the villagers said.
The sound of parchment crumpling resounded in his ears, crisp and abrupt,
ripping the veil that for some time had enshrouded him. An obscurus. The idea
wasn’t all that far-fetched, in fact, it seemed to fit the situation
effortlessly. Obscurials were rare, not because there was anything unique about
them, but because they were nipped in the bud, at times, even by hand of their
own family. Savagery was a common human trait unfortunately. Many parents faced
with children beyond their control abandoned them to their lucks, some even
resorted to murder in order to save their own skins. Other victims of this foul
magic were captured by no-maj witch-hunters, and quickly given a swift
sentence. All the same, a witch was a witch in spite of their youth, and as
such, deserved nothing more than an expeditious journey six feet under.
If his conjecture was true, then an obscurial dwelled in Salem Village, and it
was rather powerful. Villagers spoke of nights as black as the fur of the
devil’s hound, and inexplicable gales that slew cattle and sheep. It was even
rumored such wind had caused the death of a previous minister.
Most obscurials he’d heard of lived no more past the age of ten, but this one –
if it was an obscurial at all -- seemed different. If it were a child, then he
or she was exceptional beyond precedent; the black cloud traveled great
distances, from the Village to the Town, and farther still, grasping the
coastline. A thrilling shiver ran down his spine at the implication of such
magic. That said, whoever hosted the obscurus was helpless and doing a poor job
of controlling it; the child would doubtlessly pose a colossal threat in the
eyes of the Council and the Wizengamot. Secrecy was the cultured name they’d
given to the act of sweeping mistakes under the rug.
The supposed obscurial was in extreme peril, Percival knew. No-majs would
condemn the child, leading it into a dank prison cell with scarce food and
water as sustenance, to await the unfolding of a trial destined to found him
culpable from the very first second; additionally, witches and wizards would be
inclined to consider the child a security threat, and thus, get rid of him,
discreetly.
Thereby, sharing his theory about the obscururs with the Council would be no
different than ordaining the prompt execution of the unidentified youngster. If
only he could find the child before anyone else did, before it was sent to the
gallows, then his expedition would not have been for naught.
An angry screech disrupted his thoughts, followed by a mantle of silence that
smothered the symphonic spectacle that was the forest by nighttime. Percival
gained awareness of the weight of his steps, the ruffle of his fabrics. Dimming
the light that hovered in front of him, his hearing sharpened, as he listened
intently for any snap or creak. As the nocturnal creatures grew quieter, the
moon glowed with brighter zest from up above. A chaste orb that smiled down at
the people of Salem, keeping them from ripping each other’s throats in an empty
blackness.
The ground turned softer underneath the soles of his boots, and a scent of
brimstone and ashes coiled under his nose. Percival walked mindful of his gait,
following that trail of seemingly palpable anguish. Shadows danced joyfully
between the trunks of trees.
Slowly, with his heartbeat pulsing fiercely throughout his entire body, he
found himself standing at the foot of a great elm tree with endless branches
extending like arms into the starry dome, and by its roots, posed like a fallen
angel, the pale figure of a young man cocooned in itself, badly sheltered from
the hostile winds of an early spring night. Though scrawny and gaunt of face,
he appeared to be no older than eighteen. Only a boy.
That the boy had to fend himself against the dangers of the wilderness, made
Percival wonder what hardships the poor creature had been forced to endure. The
tatters that covered his body, a symptom of his adverse condition. He slept at
peace, as if he belonged by the base of the old tree, curled over the bed of
soil and roots, the delicate back of a hand acting as a cushion for the side of
his face. Had Percival been less confident in his own senses, he would’ve
believed himself in a reverie, or more appropriately, lured by evil spirits
with a vision of innocence; had it been no more than a hallucination, his
actions would’ve unraveled in the same way.
Yet simply staring at the boy’s nestled frame, pondering about all the reasons
that led him here, and feeling the rusty gears of his own mind been set in
motion wasn’t enough. The mystery of who he was and wherefore he was sleeping
in the woods by himself, could wait in a corner along with the hundred reasons
that objected to helping him, stating it was, by far, not the cleverest idea.
Nonetheless, dismal times would not suck away Percival’s sense of human
decency. His north pointed where his principles lay, and his conscience was a
tightly-wind yarn ball. It had earned him an antagonistic repute.
As he approached the boy and crouched by his side, he was able to see the
gentle rhythm of his chest, rising up then coming back down, languorous,
unhurried. The ashy smell still lingered, carried by the breeze and tousling
the dark tufts of the boy’s hair. Percival whispered boy, not wanting to
startle him, but his murmurs went unnoticed as did the gentle shaking of the
boy’s arm. Even through the thin layer of cloth, a coldness more suitable for a
corpse in a hearse, reached Percival. Still, weary breaths; skin so pale marble
fractured itself in envy. Percival grazed the boy’s cheek with his fingers to
ascertain his guess, unerring. The boy’s temperature had dangerously dropped,
his skin, white silk.
With the strange boy in such state, there was no time to loiter and ruminate on
the possible repercussions the intervention could unleash. Ordered by the
Council, craftily manipulated by his own blood, Percival felt used. Used and
discarded, sent to live amidst the distress of a self-destructive town, only to
watch his like being murdered. He’d be damned if he let a frail boy die on his
watch.
Percival collected him from the ground and discovered he was too light in his
arms, almost as if the bones that sustained him were hollow within. From
somewhere in the dark, the shrill bellow of a cougar vibrated like an omen of
woe. Adamant not to surrender to absurd musings, Percival closed his eyes as he
held the boy closer to his chest, and with a single image in the forefront of
his mind, the soil gave up under his feet, twisting and dissolving, while the
echoes of the forest descended into a wheezing hum that, like a fine needle,
punctured the strangled serenity that flooded the space between the four walls
of the room.
Candles lit themselves at his command as he laid down the boy with care greater
than required. A warming charm to the blanket, and soon he was tucking a
complete stranger in his bed, admiring his features and speculating how much
time would pass before he had to obliviate him.
Percival was not one for charities, much less grand displays of open
solidarity, but there was something about the sleeping boy, something he
couldn’t quite put his finger on. As seconds crawled into minutes, the pungent
scent of ash that had followed them faded away, being replaced by a subtler,
more pleasant fragrance. Glimpses of a sunnier past that didn’t belong to him
translated into a mellifluous cadence that waltzed across the room and sliced
into him with blade of contentment.
Exhaustion had finally started to nibble at the back of his eyes, and it wasn’t
long until Percival decided he wouldn’t be writing on his records shortly.
Heavy and sluggish, he took a seat and commenced his wake over the boy’s
sleeping body. Draped over the Stygian quilt and with the lines of his face
softened, the boy didn’t pose much of a threat, if anything, he was the
description of vulnerability. Breakable, prone to be swept away by gentle
winds.
In the midst of the chaos that sprawled like a monstrous vine, and the
impending sense of uselessness that beset him and made him feel like the
invisible step in a staircase -- the ghost that made you trip over -- seeing
over the boy gifted Percival with a sense of purpose. The enjoyment and relief
of having to care after a young man instead of unsuccessfully guarding the
safety of the wizarding community, was an indicator of how low he had stooped.
At any rate, as things were, he was but a pawn in a greater game, one in which
he had neither hand nor say.
Shielded against the ruthlessness of the night by the rough walls of a
magically-assembled cottage, Percival felt at ease. Were he to close his eyes,
he could espy a peaceable nation and pretend he lived in the belly of the
woods, that no Scourers hunted after him, and that the boy on his bed was a
friend staying over. Slipping in and out of his thoughts, the very name of the
village, Salem, tasted different in his mouth. Wraithlike and obscure, like a
story told so long ago the details had warped and formed into a whole different
tale.
The marigold candle flames burned lower as the grating of the fireplace
crackled farther away. Percival did not take his eyes off the boy even as his
eyelids grew heavier, and before taking notice, before chastising himself for
his negligence, sleep stole his consciousness.
 
 
Credence awoke early out of habit. The dawn chorus had seeped into his ears and
grown louder, rising his mind from a sea of dreams and pulling him back to his
bitter reality, prodding at his limbs with biting gaucheness until he was
stirring and rubbing traces of sleep from his eyes. Expecting to find rough
sheets over his chest, then cold soil under his hands, he was genuinely
surprised at the touch of warm wool against his also warm skin. The fabric was
too soft and his sleep hadn’t been plagued by tendrils of darkened fear, which
was reason enough for him to scatter away from the blue quilt as if it were
blazing coal. He was inside an unknown house, and had slept on somebody else’s
much snugger bed. Bewildered and astonished as he was, it took him some time to
discover he wasn’t quite alone. By a far side of the room, a man sat on a
chair, head slumped over his shoulders. By the deep slope of his frame,
Credence could tell he was tired, the slightest of snores spilling from his
mouth.
Had the man taken him in out of the gentle kindness of his heart or by a more
perverse reason, Credence didn’t want to stay to find out. There sat a man whom
he had never seen, an utter stranger who was either too brave or foolish, to
offer his own home as shelter for a boy he’d found in the woods when the moon
was up high and malignant spirits loafed on the branches. Everyone knew
everyone else’s domestic diatribes in Salem Village; whoever this man was, he
was not a villager. He could be a witch. Or a Quaker. Credence wasn’t sure
which was worse.
With his heart beating like a wild beast in his ears, Credence leapt from the
bed and made for the nearest exit, but his legs had yet to catch up with his
brain, and he felt the thud of his body against the floor before even falling.
In a flash, the man had awakened and was standing tall on his feet, towering
over the lump that was Credence, eyes still unfocused and brows furrowed. He
didn’t look like a witch, but then again, no witch was equal to another.
“Are you alright, boy?”
The man’s voice was rasp, like gravel from a riverbed, yet Credence couldn’t
perceive any animosity in his tone. Flabbergasted, he kept quiet and wide-eyed,
not daring to move from the crumpled mess he was, containing his breath without
thinking, and thinking without being aware of his thoughts. The mice might as
well have eaten his tongue.
The man spoke once more, Credence knew because he saw his lips moving, forming
words, but the sound did not travel wholly to Credence, all intent lost in
midair. What Credence could not ignore, was the firm hand being proffered to
him. Moved on impulse rather than reason, he took the man’s hand and was
swiftly helped to his feet. The palm was softer than his own, and he wondered
if the man belonged to a richer caste, if he’d seen a day’s work in his life.
There was no sin in wondering about another person’s ancestry, but he did not
wish to infuriate God when the birds still chirped at the first rays of the
sun, ergo Credence clasped his hands and closed his eyes asking for forgiveness
in a quick prayer, along with words of gratitude for being permitted to live a
day more in the Lord’s grace. Before he was done he heard a faint huff and then
a series of footsteps, followed by the hearty roar of a fireplace. Manners were
deeply ingrained in puritan children from an early age; infants were considered
fully-formed people, if in need of greater assistance to avoid temptation. Not
wanting to be perceived as discourteous, Credence trailed after the man and out
into the parlor, then all the way across it to the room that served as kitchen.
The walls were stark, and they seemed even more impersonal than the Barebone’s.
Stripped of all sense of homeliness, Credence couldn’t help but feeling as if
he himself were a stain in the blank pulchritude.
“It’s dreadfully early, boy,” said the man in a flat voice, not once staring at
Credence as he puttered around the kitchen, rummaging through the shelves,
stopping at his finding of a silver tin, “Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
Mute and foggy of mind, Credence merely stared at the man, raking his eyes over
him, trying to put a name to his face, and feeling apprehensive as to why he
had saved him from the feral maws of the devil. Under his bare feet the wood
lacked its usual dawn chill, in fact, a pleasant warmth seemed to embrace the
ambience.
“I shall take that as a yes.”
Planted on the spot like a tree, Credence observed the man as he fiddled around
the kitchen in search of a pot, a puzzled expression adhered to his handsome
visage. He seemed hesitant but brisk, perhaps not used to making coffee, or not
having prepared it in a really long time. Mr. and Mrs. Barebone weren’t fond of
the beverage, not to mention, it wasn’t easily acquired. As a result, Credence
had never tasted coffee. The process of its making struck him as alluring; an
air of unpracticed elegance in the man’s strides as he traversed the room to
reach for a bronze skillet in which to spill the coffee beans. A silent
bystander, Credence was delighted by the constant cracking ricocheting against
the metal, then the faint aroma unraveling as the roasted beans were ground in
a mortar, the man’s arm moving mechanically, his semblance annoyed. It resulted
far too easy to be distracted by the thriving scent of the infusion as the
kettle boiled in the hearth, and it gave him good reason to evade the man,
whose eyes Credence felt scorching the back of his neck. He could have stared
at the flames for the rest of his days, entrapped in its fiery gurgle.
Matching clinks rang at his side. The man had placed two objects on the table.
They were cups, Credence noticed, but cups unlike any other he’d laid eyes
upon. In the Barebone homestead, puritan rigor was of the utmost importance;
opulence of any kind was seen as divine transgression. Mugs and plates were
carved from logs chopped by his own hand. Humility was the only way to please
God, for who were they, sinful children, to surround themselves with shiny and
expensive items? Not even earthly kings should indulge in lavishness, much less
isolated men who lived the heart of the woodland.
The man took a seat as he poured the steaming black liquid into the white
porcelain cups, which had delicate figures painted in varying shades of blue,
their brim was golden. Credence imitated the man and sat down across him,
wrapping both hands around the teacup, marveling at the spreading heat in his
hands.
The man drank first, hissing as the liquid hit the back of his throat. Credence
followed suit, not before gazing in amazement at the glistening hue of the rim.
The flavor was heavy, almost overwhelming. More than simple liquid, it felt
like a substance coating his tongue and trickling down his gullet, hitting the
empty pit of his stomach, and dispersing its warmth to the very tip of his
toes. This man’s coffee tasted stronger than any drink he’d have, richer; not
watered-down.
“I drink mine black, but you can add some sugar to your own.”
Carried away by the flavor Credence had forgotten about the man’s presence. He
had his stare anchored on Credence, instigating an uneasiness to bubble inside
him. He was still at a loss for words, so he settled for shaking his head. He
couldn’t possibly take more from the man. Quaker or foreigner, he had shown
immeasurable kindness in saving Credence, in lending him the covers of his bed,
and providing him with a sizzling cup of coffee.
Sip after sip Credence kept his eyes fixed on the bottom of his cup, spine
rigid with the effort of keeping himself upright, strands of his dark hair
falling over his forehead.
He heard a sigh preceded by the startling sound of porcelain clashing against
wood, “Why were you sleeping in the forest?”
Like a swarm of bats, memories from the previous night lunged at him. There
were too many answers to that question, and none he could give without giving
himself away. Whether the darkness of his soul, the bloodthirst of the
villagers, the long-endured cruelty of his foster family, or the deep-settled
fear that inhabited in his heart, the man would think less of him, and rightly
so. Credence was corrupt, and sharing the mass of his sins was a burden he did
not wish for anyone else to carry.
Remaining obdurate in his silence drove the man nearer to exasperation. He ran
his fingers through his raven black hair, and meditated his words before
uttering them, “Are you in danger, boy? Are you being followed?”
Credence shook his head once more, fascinated that the man thought him to be in
danger instead of labeling him as dangerous. Through one of the windows he
could see the light growing brighter, soft navy shades outlining the shape of
trees and leaves. By this hour the Barebones would be rousing, and soon they’d
be wondering why Credence wasn’t up and about yet. In many ways, he was the
farm’s rooster.
“Look, boy… If you’re hurt, or you want my assistance, I need you to speak to
me. Can you do that?”
The man’s voice was surging same as the waves that crashed against the rocky
coasts of the Colony, but when Credence spoke his voice amounted to no more
than the cautious whisper of the seafoam, “Yes, sir.”
An expression akin to amusement glimmered in the dark orbs of the man’s eyes,
and a side of his mouth quirked upward. The gesture lasted as long as the flap
of a butterfly’s wings, and then he was back to creasing the space between his
brows, a hand lightly scratching the stubble on his jaw.
“Do you have a name?”
“Credence, sir. Credence Miller.”
“Good. That’s good.” The man appeared to be satisfied with the answer though
Credence doubted the two words meant much for the stranger. He’d never been
particularly good at reading people, but he was having a hard time simply
skating the man’s surface; whichever his identity was and whatever incentives
steered him, they were buried beneath a thick layer of ice. Unapproachable, he
was an otherworldly creature, a supernal being. “Are you hungry… Credence?”
The man was already standing up and retrieving both cups, then scuttling back
into the kitchen area, fetching packets from the shelves. He was hasty and
sophisticated, yet his movements bled away all confidence once the actual
preparation began, just as it had happened with the coffee. From the lingering
tact of his soft palm to the unseasoned nature of his modest cooking and the
healthy glow of his cheeks, Credence’s theory of him being high-born
materialized. It was unheard of, a true noble inhabiting some forgotten forest
in the New World; eccentric, but not impossible.
The joyous harmony of scents that flooded the air, swelled Credence’s heart.
Such appetizing aromas had never infiltrated his nostrils and filled his lungs.
Each passing second exposed a captivating new experience to Credence. Every
sense became overwhelming, but at long last a porcelain plate was presented
before him, and placed atop it were slices of bread garnished with cuts of meat
and cheese, hard-boiled eggs and fresh fruit chunks on the side. An additional
bowl contained porridge, dense and sprinkled with a light-brown powder. It was
more than thrice the share he was used to.
Gluttony was an unaccustomed sin for Credence, but with the feast splayed
before him, his stomach growled and churned eager. Steam wafted lazily above
the dish as the bread crumbled in itself, fluffy and lightweight; a whiff of
buttery cheese teased at the tip of his nose. At first dubious, Credence began
to eat and the more he ate, the better the food tasted in his tongue. It warmed
his belly, setting hefty and filling him up before he was finished. Engrossed
in the instinctive act of bringing bits of food into his mouth, chewing without
major finesse and then swallowing the mouthful, the man across him became part
of the background. Unobtrusive. From him came no disapproving words or
gestures, only the penetrating gaze of an outsider.
Midway through the porridge that was thick and sweet and didn’t taste stale,
the man spoke to Credence, whom he seemed more interested in than his meal,
which remained mostly untouched. “Have you any idea, perchance, what’s been
happening in the village lately? Why are so many a people being imprisoned?”
“It’s the witches, sir,” he answered dutifully after gulping down the dollop of
gruel, “Our God is weeding them out – the wicked, -- and punishing them for
their sins.”
The man seemed unconvinced, but he hummed in agreement all the same.
Skepticism, although not downright unexampled, made him uneasy; Credence hadn’t
made the acquaintance of anyone who didn’t believe in some sort of evil that
warred against the Holy Spirit, and non-believers were jumbled together with
the witches anyhow, often suspected of signing the devil’s book, for who else
would flaunt their peculiar, aberrant beliefs in the face of chaos.
More questions arose over the rest of the meal, and even afterward. Bound with
order and objectivity, it resembled the interrogations held in the
meetinghouse, except that in the place of gasps and cries from an impassioned
crowd, Credence’s answers were met only by understanding nods and contemplative
eyes. Unlike the authorities from the village, the man effectively coaxed the
words out of him without threatening him with lakes of sulfur.
They talked of witches and demons and the devil. About how he preyed on the
weak to seize their souls in an abiding contract. But Credence noticed the man
did not enjoy the talk of witchcraft, and often drove the conversation towards
the town people, curious of their background, their ethics, the diatribes and
banters among families, and the men whose ranks were higher. He wished to know
more too about the black cloud of smoke that the villagers were fond of
describing so vividly. “Is it true? A… big cloud of black smoke?”
Curdled blood, skin thin as paper. Credence could feel his stomach wrong side
up, a wave of nausea clawed up to the back of his mouth. He barely managed to
shake his head, but the man’s interest had banished; he retired the dishes, and
paced for a while, stopping to stare out the window.
He was older than Credence, but not excessively so, and he didn’t appear
weathered by the strains of life. Black of hair and brows, and with eyes as
murky as the open fields past midnight, he was a dark gentleman, yet Credence
had no trouble picturing a halo crowning his head.
“I must be on my way now, though I’ll be back by late noon. You’re welcome to
stay here as long as you wish.”
“I couldn’t, sir! I wouldn’t want to disgrace your home,” he protested,
concerned for both their safeties, not necessarily conjoined. 
The man stared at him, relentless and still. Eventually he broke into an easy
smirk and asked, “Are you a witch, Credence?”
The response came like a reflex, immediate and steadfast, “No.”
“In that case, I fail to see in what way you could possibly ‘disgrace my home’,
as you so oddly put it.”
Darting a hasty smile at Credence, he retrieved a black coat from the back of a
chair. The garment was of a deep shade of black with gold trims lining the left
side, the buttons were golden too. The sight of him, clothed in a sumptuousness
unbeknownst to Credence, was unquestionably out of place. The cottage was too
plain, undeserving of his obvious refinement.
Credence tried to express his gratitude before the man departed, but realized
he hadn’t offered his name. Hence, he asked, wanting to condense in a single
word the compassionate soul of his rescuer, “If I may ask… By what name should
I call you, sir?”
The man squinted, his dark-framed eyes seemed to be searching for something
inside Credence, and whether he found it or not, he extended his hand and said,
“Samuel. Samuel Burroughs. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The name didn’t quite fit him, Credence thought. It was far too common, shared
by hundreds if not thousands of other settlers, but it was an agreeable name
nonetheless. The man, Samuel, lacked the enthusiasm of his own statement.
 
Sunlight wasted away as Credence explored the forest. He didn’t recognize the
terrain, or the canopy, furthermore, the zone emitted a different acoustic,
which meant the cottage was located farther from the village than he’d ever
been. The realization could’ve given him wings to soar like the birds that
glided in the sky, not a single speck of remorse.
He found his way back without toil, the sun diving slowly in the western
canvas. The man, Samuel, had already returned from the village. Sat at the
ebony writing desk, he seemed fully concentrated on slithering his quill across
the parchment, then scrunching the sheet and starting anew. Credence didn’t
want to be an intrusion, so he gathered the best means of expressing his
gratitude was by leaving the man be.
Knees pressed to his chest at the doorway, Credence’s eyes glimmered with hope
at the unforeseen turn of fortune God had granted him. Fascination was too
small of a word to describe how he felt about Samuel, or the fact that he had
no livestock or crops, and dwelled so irrationally far from every else.
Intrigue was a more fitting term to cluster his feelings.
Enchanted, he contemplated the clearing before him until the shadows stood
taller and goosebumps covered his skin. Samuel greeted him with the mere hint
of a smile; a warm breath that enveloped him whole. 
 
With no place to go and no benign ties to his past, Credence decided to let
things run their course, and relish what the Lord had given him without
attempting to find mars in his design. As a result, he saw Mr. Burroughs as a
caring benefactor sent from heaven to aid him in his direst hour. He stopped
searching for the devil in the darkness of the man’s eyes, and chose to admire
their glisten and their warmth. Transfixed by the deftness of Samuel’s fingers
as he cooked and wrote and spoke, Credence willfully opted to ignore the
destinations of his meanderings, all the strange places where he did not say
his feet took him. It was, after all, none of Credence’s business. He was but a
guest in the man’s house, in his life; a dissonance in his quietude, and as
such, he continued thanking him by inconveniencing him the least. If he didn’t
cause any trouble, if he stayed put and did whatever few chores there were to
be done, if he answered the man’s questions truthfully without giving himself
away, then that had to be enough.
The cottage was of modest structure, even more so than the Barebone residence.
Tucked away in the dark folds of green, it consisted of four distinct rooms: a
main parlor and a kitchen area, divided only by spare pieces of furniture, a
dormitory and a washing room. All walls were white and unadorned, severely
contrasting against the obscure floors. It seemed a provisionary shelter of
sorts, a place where one could expect a pariah to hide in. Days ago the house
would’ve unnerved him, but now it appeared an oasis in the midst of a world
brought to its ruins. A slice of the promised land come to Earth.
In the man’s companionship, Credence encountered the kindness that for so long
had eluded him. Kindness of words and intent, kindness that manifested itself
in two solid meals a day and freewill of demeanor, kindness that capered in the
liberty of his musings, because for the first time he was allowed to think. To
think and wonder and imagine, and so he did. Many ideas crossed his mind like
shooting stars, several of them disappeared before he had measured their depth,
which was for the best, especially since too much thinking led to idleness, and
idleness could only lead down the path of immorality.
The first days were difficult for Credence in the sense that he wasn’t sure
what was expected of him. By morning they ate breakfast, Mr. Burroughs always
refused any assistance.
Thereafter the man would immerse himself in odd books. Books that weren’t
overrun with the Scriptures, nor any other religious message, some were written
in symbols he couldn’t recognize. At some point, Mr. Burroughs would leave, but
before nightfall he’d be back, sometimes carrying a bag of aliments and
sundries, yet the frown on his face was perennial. It seemed to Credence that
the air of the village and its people didn’t make the man any good. Credence’s
olive branch consisted of docile silence, a steady and persuasive remedy that
cajoled Samuel into his orbit, and pushed him to ask Credence questions about
his day, exchanging a few phrases throughout supper. Anger and annoyance
dissipated with each shared glance, shrinking and drifting off to burn with the
logs in the fireplace.
A subject less uncomplicated was that by the end of each day, when the owls
hooted and the crickets sang in disparity, they were forced to share the bed,
though not for lack of insistence on Credence’s part.
“Don’t be foolish, boy. I won’t have you sleep on the floor when the bed is
spacious enough for the both of us,” He didn’t say there was enough room
because the boy was mostly skin and bones, but Credence knew that was the main
reason why it was comfortable without being crowded.
The man, Samuel, had insisted, without using his voice. A vacant space made out
of unyielding silence that tugged at Credence’s better judgement until he caved
to a reason that wasn’t his own.
It was the eighteenth night since his arrival, and it felt just as awkward to
lie on a bed that was soft rather than coarse, to cover himself with woolen
fabrics that weren’t frayed, to not feel famine scratching the walls of his
stomach, and not crying himself to sleep, because no matter how grateful and
afraid and pitiful he was, staining the man’s sheets with the rainfall of his
emotions would be too vile of an offense.
Dressed in a borrowed plain nightgown, he lay on his side of the bed, and
watched as the man wrote in his leather-bound journal. Most pages were inked
already, but the man scrawled on as if it were his heavenly duty, so Credence
figured it was related to his work.
He always wrote with purpose, dragging the tip of the pen without hesitation,
dipping it back into the pot with no qualms, knowing which strokes his hand
would delineate fully. Absorbed in a world of letters, he tended to forget that
another person breathed the same air as him, that a boy nearly half his age
observed him with innocent fervor from underneath the covers.
It was a delightful distraction to see him hunched over the desk, a hand
carding strands of his hair or draping along his nape. His shoulders tensed and
his head slumped forward, his eyes seemed to tire inexhaustibly around the
edges, and a yawn or two would escape him before the last light was blown out.
When long silences had turned into easy conversations, a sense of familiarity
settled, disregarding all pretense, and stripping away the armors that
intuition had clad them in. Credence liked the solid sound of the man’s voice,
it made him feel as if he were traveling across the flatlands just before dusk,
when stars shone timid and both the sun and the moon shared the sky. Whenever
the man spoke, freedom prickled at his flesh. Openness. His voice carried
acceptance in each note.
“Mr. Burroughs,” he hadn’t meant to speak, for it was not his place to do so,
but his thoughts had run amok and gotten mixed with his feelings. There was
nothing in particular he wanted to talk about with the man. What he desired was
to hear him speak. A single word would suffice.
That said, Samuel was either too focused or had failed to hear him, which
wouldn’t be unusual.
Back home, with the Barebones, Credence would often be asked to repeat himself,
mainly by Bartholomew. He suspected the patriarch’s aim was to humiliate him
and wound what was left of his pride, perhaps to make of him a humbler servant
of God. None of them ever actually cared about what Credence had to say anyway.
“Mr. Burroughs?” he tried again, clearer and louder, but to his disappointment
the name fell into an unresponsive void. Not so much as a single twitch from
the man. He sighed and reprimanded himself for his insolence, his disrespect. A
working man wasn’t to be bothered with trivialities, and the childish need to
listen to another person’s voice in order to feel comforted fell into that
category by all means.
Remorseful and ashamed he settled under the covers with his back to the man,
body curled in itself. The incessant glide of the metal nib and the spontaneous
clink of the glass pot lulled him into sleep, as the darkness in his chest
remained tight under lock. Still, it caressed the undersurface of his flesh, a
purr turned into sensation, that dragged against him in a guilty manner. The
tearing of his seams didn’t worry him anymore, but he still feared, somehow,
Mr. Burroughs would find out and, in consequence, throw him out and accuse him,
or at the very least, be repulsed by him. The more he thought about it, about
the man finding out his terrible secret, the warmer became the purr against his
ribs, scratching and snipping, advertising a frightful night devoid of memory.
In its place, Credence centered on the occasional tapping of the man’s boot,
the squeaking of the wooden chair as he stretched his back, the harmonious
melody of wild sounds that squeezed between the wall panels. He closed his
eyes, and envisioned the man being exactly as he probably was, and the image
was as good as any sleeping draught.
By the next day restlessness won Credence over. Having nothing else to do other
than eat and wander through the woods felt wrong; he was useless. Since before
he could remember he’d been taxed with chores that amounted themselves in a
great pile, leaving no opportunity to think of anything else than prayers that
cycled around the same thought of god cleansing his soul, and asking his
forgiveness for being impure.
Once the sun had passed its zenith, he decided to tidy up. Not much work was
needed seeing as so little belongings inhabited the cottage alongside the pair
of them, but he recalled the desk was a bit cluttered as were the kitchen
shelves.
Plates and cups, pots and empty bags, all scattered and in no discernible
order. It took him less than fifteen minutes, and it had only taken him so long
because he could not stop gaping in wonder at the fine china that his dirtied
fingers clasped. Like murals from European palaces, the blue prints sketched
delectable forms across the white porcelain. Figures of fantastic animals and
intricate flowers, they seemed to swirl before his eyes. Smooth, polished,
precious; he’d never touched anything so beautiful. Scared of letting the
crockery fall to the ground and have the delicate pieces shatter, he returned
them with exceeding care to their rightful place, and made his way to the
bedroom.
An impersonal chamber, a gush of warmth spread at the top of his ears upon
gazing at the bed. Guardian of their sleep, it lay unmoving and disenchanted.
It stared back defiantly, the contours of their bodies imprinted over the
marine blankets.
Ignoring an issue didn’t ever stop it from unfolding, this he knew from
experience. But his sinful admiration for the generous man was a problem he
preferred to tuck in the farthest corner of his mind, where the line between
fantasy and reality stretched too thin for the eye to distinguish, where he
could almost correspond him to the realm of dreams.
More than a few blank sheets of parchment were neatly ordered in a stack,
whereas others covered part of the desk, and some littered the floor, crumpled
in balls. The journal was gone and only a handful of books were left. Tomes
bound in leather as well as velvet and vellum, some inelegantly sewed at the
spine, most with pages yellowed by time. Quills were discarded haphazardly, as
if the man didn’t care for their cost, as if they were expendable and not a
luxury only lettered men had access to.
Amongst the myriad of pages, one caught his eye. It was dated a few days back,
if his memory was to be trusted. The calligraphy wasn’t meticulous, but it was
graceful and easy to comprehend. It was more a draft than a letter. A message
forgotten and never delivered.
 
Father,
As days go by, I keep failing to comprehend the purpose of this mission. I see
the awful unraveling of the maelstrom you wish me to write about, but I am
neither a historian, nor a philosopher. My place is not here if I can’t do
anything to remedy this maledict, any fool in possession of the capacity to see
and hear and write would be fit to do this job. All I can report is the same
old story, people being accused, people being tried, and people being unfairly
sentenced to execution.
The tale is repeated time and time again, with little variation of detail. Is
it really your intention for me to stay here and simply record the horror? I
wish to do some good for this country, and I fear no such thing can be done if
I’m to follow the Council’s (and your) exact instructions.
 
Your son,
Percival Graves
 
 
A year short of reaching three decades of existence, Percival felt alive in
ways he hadn’t before. Beneath his skin, an ethereal tingling kept him company
throughout the day, never receding. His heart thrummed incessantly; him, only
the bearer of the wild-beating organ that rattled and fluttered in the cavity
of his chest. It was a curious sensation, to be so keenly aware of one’s own
body during wakefulness. It was maddening and disconcerting, and not unlike
being under the influence of Amortentia.
Graves being his surname, and having a position in the recently-formed Council
meant he was no dunce. Percival was aware this sudden, brazen change had been
caused by the boy he’d found sleeping at the foot of the elm tree. Credence.
Credence who had been so light in his arms and frequently scurried his gaze
away from his, who ate with contained excitement, who wandered for hours in the
woods and was able to spark Percival’s curiosity in many different ways.
The boy was a gentle dove, but he was lightning and thunder too. The serenity
and the storm; he’d come to shift the contented monotony in which Percival had
resided during the last years. In his paperwork he’d found stability, in his
erratic missions, an idealized fallacy of purpose. He was a man who sought the
greater good expecting far too little in return. Thus, he rarely saw within
himself. It was a view he could live without seeing.
Yet the boy’s presence alone became an exercise in introspection, and Percival
wasn’t sure he liked what he saw.
He longed for something greater, something purer. With his kinfolk dying at the
hands of savages, and having his hands tied by the Council and the Wizengamot,
he was but a marionette for them to play with. A cog in a great machinery,
greased and diligent, he was efficient, and in his efficiency lay his lack of
importance. Replaceable, even to his own father.
He’d written him a letter last night, asking to be given a more adept station
in the Council, never intending to send it. He did not wish to part in case his
request was accepted. Leaving meant packing the cottage in a pouch, and
abandoning Credence to his luck. Because Percival felt responsible for the
boy’s safety, because in a wicked twist of fate he’d stumbled upon him, and now
Credence was his to keep and look after.
However, he couldn’t ignore the fact that the foundations of their placid
relationship had been cemented on mistruths. Samuel Burroughs was a fabrication
concocted for the sake of magical secrecy; a no-maj man with a background so
vague and hazy it had to be true. By omission and creation, he had succeeded in
masquerading himself from his guest.
Apart from his name though, Credence didn’t know much about him. He didn’t ask,
perhaps because he was scared that in doing so, questions would bounce back and
he’d need to disclose ghosts from his past.
They were but grasping at straws in quicksand, switching roles between savior
and victim, breaking fast by the morning, cohabiting in tangible silence, and
sharing a bed come night. And for Percival that was the strangest thing,
sharing a bed. He was no blushing virgin, and in his sheets more than a few
partners had found pleasure, but after the act was done, sprang the resolute
need to be left alone, unperturbed, unconquered. He craved touch as much as any
other man, but he had no acute desire for intimacy, for there were better uses
for his time.
Yet lying next to Credence provided him with a newly-discovered sentiment. He
reveled in the secureness of his presence, the gentle pattern of his breathing,
the dipping of the mattress as he shifted in dreams. The gulf between them was
too large a distance, still Percival wasn’t crazed with lust. If he wanted to
please Credence it was by means of reassurance and protection, of being able to
see him and let himself be seen, but even that was too great a risk.   
The sight of the village was the same as every other day. It was the dullest
part of his task, having to watch daily activities take place: seeing
genuflected figures in church, beady-eyed authorities that looked down on
others from their mighty podiums, condemning their brethren just because they
could.
Hours stretched into eternities, the rattle in his chest thrashing with more
vehemence, and then he was off into an alley, invisible to the people and
spinning off his center, disapparating in an inaudible pop of sound, landing in
a glade that was concealed from all likely intruders. He smoothed his clothes
and walked toward the cottage, the journal heavy as a yoke in the inside pocket
of his coat. A pleasant hum in his ears.
As he crossed the threshold Credence’s presence irradiated warmth. Pure and
wholesome, he was a flare of truth drifting in the spring breeze. Percival
hadn’t learned yet to navigate the boy’s waters, he was a riddle. Lost in his
darkness, Percival felt like a lost boy.
The boy’s greetings consisted of wary good afternoons and how do you fares, or
more rarely, I made you supper, but he was met with none.
The wards were still up and the place looked exactly as he’d left it, if
anything a bit cleaner, but it was hard to tell. There hadn’t been much of a
mess to begin with. It was intuitive and rational to go into the bedroom and so
he did.
Never lost, just quiet, Credence stood by the desk with a sheet of parchment
gripped so fiercely in his hand the knuckles had gone white. His eyes glued to
the paper, Percival thought he looked paler than usual. Like a moth attracted
to the flame, the boy had seen something that wasn’t meant for him, and as a
result, he had burned.
“Credence, what’s all this? My missives are hardly yours to read as you
please,” the curtain had fallen at last. Rather than concerned, he felt
disappointed.
“You are not… Your name – is it Samuel Burroughs… sir?”
“I—no. No, it’s not.”
Costume ripped, no sane puritan would call their children Percival, and his
name, albeit not all that uncommon for wizards, wasn’t popular at all in
Credence’s kind. Ever since the boy had woken up that first morning, ever since
he’d said his name corresponded to that of Samuel Burroughs, Percival felt a
nagging sensation in his insides, that told him he did little more than spew
endless lies at his guest. The pantomime bordered on the absurd. The self-
fabricated persona he hid behind was ragged and lacked substance, moreover, it
was a barrier that forbid him from being who he was. A coward caught in a web
of lies, perceived as a despicable impostor.
Percival pinched the bridge of his nose, and reflected on why he was housing
Credence when there were no real bonds tying them together, no obligation to
protect him from whatever harms the world could inflict upon him, and even
though he found no definitive answer, the conundrum in his mind in regards to
the boy untangled, if only by the length of a needle.
Powerless in his capacity as both a wizard and a patriot, a need for caring and
protecting and guiding had risen within him like a stem reaching up to the sky,
and like a tree in full spring, he desired to shelter Credence beneath his
shade.
“Sir?”
“Credence… “
“It’s fine, sir – I… understand. It’s not my place to judge you, but lying -
- The Lord would not approve.”
The boy had a recurring tendency to make everything revolve around the Lord,
which was not surprising based on the fanaticism puritans professed. His belief
in God was perhaps Credence’s strongest pillar, perennial and deeply treasured,
thus he had developed all facets of his soul, like a flower turning to the sun.
Bathed in the light of his own faith, Percival had no doubt it was his
resilience which had allowed him to withstand the torments of his past.
Surrounded by a rabid multitude of liars and defamers, the idea of pretending
to be someone else much longer and possibly driving the boy away, seemed
intolerable to Percival. There was no god he could pray to, as he’d seen
Credence do on several occasions. But he knew magic, and standing in front of
Credence, whose eyes were open wide, and whose hands were clenched at his
sides, posture rigid, Percival felt the ancient thrum of energy coursing
through his veins, a chant of olden, a choir of mages.
“You are not mistaken, Credence. Dishonesty never bred any goodness, therefore
I cannot criticize your judgement of me. Not ever should I have been anything
but honest with you,” the boy appeared to be expecting him to lash out at any
moment. “My name is not Samuel, nor is my surname Burroughs. I only said that
because I – I’m working, and my job… It requires certain level of anonymity,
for security reasons.”
“Oh… I see.”
“But I do not want to keep lying to you. After all, we are living under the
same roof, even sharing the same bed every night,” it had been only the
fraction of a second. A quick glance above his shoulder, the subtle reddening
of the boy’s cheeks. Yet in Percival’s eyes, it made the boy shine under a
different, sunnier light. What before had been an affable and frail face the
color of ivory, now appeared to him a Renaissance sculpture of both seduction
and virtue. What before had been an unassuming desire to protect was gradually
twisting down paths where crimson roses scenting of yearning pricked at his
flesh, drawing blood by the rustic sharpness of thorns. “Percival Graves,” his
voice came out hoarse with the realization, a sensible shift had taken place
within him, a snapping sound that shook him out of himself for an instant, “My
name is Percival Graves.”      
The month of April had rolled in through the windows, sweeping away the cold
vestiges of winter, and embellishing the woods with fresh bursts of color in
the shape of wild flowers and richer hues of green. Nurturing the creatures of
the forest, it had also quenched the demons that tormented Credence. This
Percival knew because by night the boy’s sleep had found calm, he rarely
trembled and turned, and kept mostly to his side, breathing evenly but making
no sound.
Birds chirping and petals unfolding, their grace could not parallel the boy’s
ethereal beauty, even when he looked a step away from utter fright. A
delightful treat to the eye, the time spent under Percival’s strict care had
filled in the boney hollows of his cheeks.
“Percival?” echoed the boy that he’d come to think of as his.
Consonant and vowels rolled in his tongue, put together in the right order and
produced with uneasiness from the concave valley of his mouth, they were a fine
tune to hear.
 Once again he was someone, he was himself, and to a man who’d practically
lived in confinement for two lengthy months, with no contact but for a heap of
letters addressed to his name, it felt like the validation of his own
existence.
“Yes.”
The boy’s eyes darted to the floor, and he chewed the inside of his cheek,
clasping his hands together, fiddling with his fingers. Thereafter, he looked
up and stared at him with piercing gaze, peeling away layers of falsehood,
seeing right through him. “I’ve never met a person named like that, sir.”
Puritans, blessed – or cursed – with names less than flattering but always god-
fearing, it didn’t astound Percival to hear those words from Credence. “I’m
certain you haven’t. But I assure you, it is not that unique.”
Somehow, revealing his identity lacked the significance he thought it’d have,
for what was a name if the rest of him ought to remain in shadows? Percival
Graves was a powerful wizard rivaled by very few in combative expertise,
cunning of mind and with a strong moral compass. A no-maj man working in
secrecy, he was not. Disclosure of his name counted for nothing if it did not
convey his design as a person; his essence lay hidden still, and it was as much
a betrayal as saying his given name was Samuel.
The boy in his care was gentle and pure and severely misguided from an early
childhood. Misconceptions about the world he lived in and the own skin he
inhabited had been instilled in his core, and had made lodgings out of the
marrow of his bones; he was young, but he was wiser than his years, stubborn in
his convictions, yet so fragile and unalloyed. A gemstone fragmented by self-
rejection. Percival felt he lacked the heart to continue the charade.
“Come here, Credence,” he strode over to the bed and patted the space next to
him. There were innumerable ways in which what he was about to do could go
awry, but all shriveled when equated to lying to Credence, “Listen… “ his hand
on Credence’s knee was a welcomed diversion. Percival could focus on the
stretch of his own fingers, their sudden flexing, and the lines across his
knuckles. The gesture felt more intimate – and possessive – than the many
nights they’d slept side by side.
Credence’s lips were parted, richer in their distinctive pink tone and slightly
wet. Enraptured by either anticipation or something else, the dark orbs of his
eyes bore heavily on Percival. A single drop of Veritaserum and he’d be
confessing to the least decorous thoughts, and, to his amazement, the boy
leaned closer, as if chasing after his warmth, closing in the space between
their bodies, relishing in their togetherness unaware of his own actions,
propelled by instinct.
“I believe I owe you an explanation of sorts.” The boy began to protest, a
rapid shaking of his head, but Percival held up a hand and shushed him. “I do.
Now listen,” insentiently, his hand had traveled higher, spread over Credence’s
lower thigh, it squeezed with gentle pressure to garner the boy’s attention.
Then, he lost himself in the soothing circles his thumb drew, and his voice was
low in his ears when he spoke, “My current job requires me to investigate and
register all witchcraft accusations indicted here, in Salem. And track their
development, as you might expect. I am neither a minister nor a justice, or any
other kind of authority that may be presiding over the cases. You may think of
me as a mere visitor, a passerby. It’s against the wishes of my superiors for
me to say this much. See, I’m supposed to flog myself into secrecy, so to
speak. I should not even be talking to you, my boy, much less have you living
with me.”
“Shall I leave then, sir… Percival?”
“No, no, Credence boy! I would never ask that of you, I do not want you to
leave. For one, I strongly disagree with my superiors’ views, and, I know for a
fact, you haven’t got much of a choice. Sleeping in the woods in the dying
winter is not common for the privileged,” his mouth curled up sideways in a
heartfelt smile, one he wished Credence would accept as an honest token of
understanding.   
At his side, Credence was listening intently, clinging to every word with
resolute attention. He was sharp of mind, and Percival could see, by the slight
narrowing of his eyes, that he knew there was something else, something the man
wasn’t telling him. But he’d been raised not to question his elders, and old
habits rarely expired. A guest in Percival’s house, he wasn’t to pry and demand
explanations there where they weren’t given freely.
“These people being accused of witchcraft … they are not evil, Credence. Your
justice system and your neighbors are doing them a grave disservice. I want to
fix that,” he tried again, “I am not unlike some of them, but that doesn’t
imply I’m evil either. Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you, my
boy?”
He had intended to say it all at once, but the words had formed into a snowball
and down a steep slope they’d rolled.
Credence was staring at him fazed, hearing without really listening.
Impressionable and conditioned to think inside a very small box, his thoughts
must’ve convoluted into a mess unable to take the words for what they were.
“I – yes,” he swallowed, the bob of his throat the victor of Percival’s focus.
The boy was hurriedly growing in beauty by the second. All of him, angles and
curves, remarked themselves in darker strokes, and Percival wondered how he
hadn’t noticed him before. The gap between them could’ve been saved by a slight
tilting, but all Percival did was stare into the dark pools of his eyes, awed
by the skin heat that exuded through the fabric of his breeches, hearing the
tiny exhalations that escaped Credence. He was like a flower in the springtime,
blooming beautifully and embellishing his surroundings with the delicacy of his
petals. Percival had always been selfish, and as he gazed at the boy the
feeling increased. He wanted to pluck him from the root and pin him to his
lapel as a boutonniere, keeping him close to his heart, and letting his
delectable scent deluge him.
He planned on saying more, but he was lost in the boy for an inexplicable
reason. Percival had always been one to appreciate beauty, but even if Credence
was physically exquisite, there was something beyond his grasp, an unnamable
quintessence that lay at the very center of his being.
“You are a good man, Mr. Percival. You – you took me in, gave me shelter. And a
bed to sleep in. You are not cruel, and I have known nothing but kindness from
you, sir. Whatsoever it is you do, I’m in your debt. And I would never judge
you for it, ever. You may trust me.”
At the tip of his tongue lay the word that would inevitably tip their little
haven upside-down. A single word that would effectively end the string of lies
that, like a snake, had coiled at the feet of their bed, creeping up the
windows of their conjoined solitude like poison ivy. A grimy thing of dark, his
identity had never felt as much of a burden, a crime.
“Credence,” he wished he could say it and be done with it, whatever the
consequences, but it wasn’t his card to play. Behind him stood the ghosts of
all the living witches and wizards that feared for their lives in the false
safety of their own homes, and an army of memories from those sacrificed in the
fight for acceptance pounced on him. He wanted to bare himself as he truly was,
let Credence see him, but in acknowledging his real self he’d be tearing down
the wall wizardkind had paid in blood with, “Thank you.”
Unable to estrange his heart from the pain and rage hidden in his sleeve, and
not wanting to trouble the boy any further, Percival lingered in silence. He’d
let the boy believe there was no more to be known about his line of work, and
in doing so, spare him of any moral struggle that would only quake the ground
beneath his feet, and swallow him whole into a hellish land of condemnation.
To overlook certain facts was to lessen the weight on the boy’s back, and carry
it himself, like cross over his cowl muscle, feeling it dig into his flesh. A
poor imitation of the boy’s true savior.
Having cleared the mist in his head, Percival’s senses reconnected with his
mind, and they seemed heightened. Now that their close proximity was no longer
to be ignored in favor of moral dilemmas, came the worm of curiosity, caving
and eating away the shroud that separated good sense from folly. Thinner and
thinner it faded, as he stared at the curvatures and slants and softened hues
that were Credence’s visage.
In the arcs of his brows Percival encountered a land of mystery, in the shadows
beneath his eyes he saw traces of serene violence often revisited. The corner
of his mouth, that charming junction, was the promising edge of a chalice
containing the elixir of life and death, fused with lust and innocence and
profanity. He wouldn’t oppose to having time stop indefinitely, and consume
sweet nectar from the boy’s plush lips.
But to corrupt Credence was like corrupting virtue itself, like steering the
path of righteousness to the wayside. He was young and suggestible, naïve, and
didn’t know any better.
If asked, Percival had no doubt, the boy would comply to his demands,
disregarding his own convictions in favor of repaying the kind man.
Nonetheless, Percival hadn’t been sent to the jowls of the wolf to woo a boy in
the peak of his youth. Far more important issues were his to look after, and so
he disposed of the idea of taking things further with the boy.
He retired his hand from Credence’s thigh and stood up to quickly survey the
desk, perusing for any other mislaid documents, yet found none.
 
 
The new name – or rather, the right name – suited the man better in Credence’s
opinion. The syllables were foreign in his mouth, but there was poesy in them.
Whimsical, he thought. A name from a faraway land, proper of a man whose past
was but a murky cloud.
As he lay in the bed that night, and sometime after Percival had fallen asleep,
Credence articulated the name in silence, savoring the way his tongue and lips
moved.
“Percival Graves,” he would repeat the twosome like a litany on a Sunday
morning. Again and again, until they had lost meaning. Hence, he tried to
recover it by stealthily staring at the figure by his side.
In all their nights together Credence had kept to his side, back facing the
wall, nearly falling off the edge in an effort to occupy less space. But seeing
the man sleeping profusely, and encouraged by the steady choir of the forest,
Credence stared without inhibitions at the face he’d come to care deeply for
more than he was willing to admit to himself. Percival Graves was handsome in a
beatific way. In the way that made Credence want to beg for mercy and crawl in
repentance for every sinful thought he’d ever had.
The devil seemed to have greater power in the woods than in the village,
perhaps due to the lack of worshipping that took place in its midst. Credence
felt him, the little dark man, filling his soul and polluting it with
temptation and desire. Despite being given relief from the corrosion that used
to embrace him like the arms of death every time the sun set, he was now
plagued and asphyxiated by the other darkness, the one that was shameful in the
eye of every woman and man, the one that branded him as a lecherous deviant, a
creature bred for iniquity and sin. If God’s ever-watchful eye were indeed upon
him, Credence’s fate had been sealed.
His eyes traveled south, from the sharp jut of Percival’s jawline to the
expanse of his chest, covered by a loose white shirt, and then farther down, to
the place where blankets draped over his lap. It was an affront against his
privacy and his confidence, but Credence couldn’t really tear his eyes away,
wondering how different the man would be from him, wanting to acquaint himself
with the man’s bare body.
Notwithstanding, exhaustion won him over shortly after, his mind reeling with a
clash of prayers and impurities, the oldest fight of sanctity versus evil. That
night, unlike any of the nights before, Credence slept facing Percival,
relishing in the new-found warmth that came with it.
Over the course of the next days the confession seemed to have made a major
impact in their relationship. Comfortable silences were now filled with
courteous and friendly words, and more often than not, they talked for an hour
or two before going to bed.
They would speak of everything and nothing at the same time. Remarks about the
weather and the forest, observations on what was happening in the village,
banal discussions that made them laugh, but couldn’t peel their layers
completely away. They were strangers living in the same house, eating together,
caring for each other, but strangers still. Having little in common, Credence
regularly ended frustrated after their seemingly deeper conversations. He
wanted to know more about Percival, to have him narrate stories about his
family or his friends, to get a sliver of who he really was, but he remained a
secret. Even if he spoke for hours on end, Credence would end up scratching the
back of his head, lost and confounded, and hungry for something he wasn’t even
sure existed.
Nevertheless, a bud of friendship had taken root between them. He could feel
it.
Credence rarely thought of the devil those days, busy with thoughts of Percival
and their pleasant life together. He was not a entirely ingenuous though,
Percival was in Salem for a specific reason, and whenever his job was finished
he’d be likely to depart, and Credence would be left on his own once again.
That, and other reasons he desired never to label, made him value their time
spent together, to cherish the present and disremember all other worries, for
those would stay even after Percival left.
He liked watching Percival. Whether cooking, writing, reading or simply lying
on the bed, it brought a sense of completion to Credence. They gravitated
towards one another, as if driven by invisible forces, and it wasn’t unusual
for their hands to touch.
As maddening as it was welcomed, the weight of the man’s hand on his shoulder
was guilty of breaking Credence from within. Even worse was the pressure of
said hand when it slotted perfectly in the small of his back, and lingered
there like a heated point of leverage. Percival seemed to barely notice the
effect his skin had on Credence, or maybe he cared not for it. In any case, it
was a blessing, because he didn’t shy away from Credence, if anything he grew
fonder of letting himself be in continuous contact with the boy.
From the village came daily news of faithful parishioners being accused, even
acolytes fell prey to the greedy clutches of Satan, but those worries were at
back of Credence’s mind. Dazed by the quiet comfort of his new life, he was
only spellbound by Percival.
And as days succeeded each other, with every waxing and waning of the moon, an
undeniable affection had ingrained his heart with the fierceness of iron
shackles. Anticipation was met with childish giddiness as soon as the sun sank
behind the rows of trees, and by the time he was tucked beneath the sheets
watching Percival write at the desk, his heart soared and dropped and trembled,
like brittle branches in the wind. Now they shared a bed, but not merely as
strangers, not even as comrades. There was something else, a profound intimacy
that manifested in the absent space between their bodies.
Percival would blow out the candles and climb under the covers. As if on
tentative reflex, Credence would creep into the extended hollow of his arm,
burrowing in his heat, laying his head over the man’s chest, and falling asleep
to the sturdy beating of his heart.
They didn’t speak of the drastic changes their sleeping arrangement had
undergone, but there seemed to be no need, for it had happened gradually, and
just like dew sprinkled over the grass at dawn, they didn’t question it.
The simple act of breathing reinvented itself when they lay together. New,
undiscovered, fascinating; inhaling didn’t differ from eating dessert from the
devil’s hand, neither did exhaling veered from receiving benediction by God’s
own mouth. A dichotomy of nature, Credence was sinking in a well and he could
only dig deeper.
Had God asked him to create a man clean of sin and free of fault, he would’ve
created Percival Graves just as he was. Every hair in his head, every inch of
his skin, even the inflections of his voice, seemed custom-made for Credence.
In the darkness, they’d share glances. Percival’s eyes would glimmer and
Credence would see them smile somehow, showering him with fondness he did not
deserve. To contradict him further, Percival’s arm would curl around his middle
and hold him closer, and they wouldn’t talk, but that would be fine too.
The brevity of their time together stretched infinitely in a lambent scope.
From the pit of scarcity, they retrieved naïve demonstrations of affection and
comfort, that could very well be deemed as camaraderie by any onlooker.
A thousand and one ways existed for one person to care for another without
disgracing the holy scriptures, yet Credence wondered how emotions that so
naturally ran in one’s blood and made one’s heart swell so big could be wrong.
The line between virtue and sin became blurry, and at times, faint, as if
erasing and redrawing itself, thicker or slimmer there were he saw fit.
Could Percival be the one every puritan in Salem was scared of? Was he the
devil that infested the woods and guided maid’s hands to write bloody in his
book? Once a plausibility, it now lay buried deep in shame, for he knew
Percival was a good man, and by night the only person he guided was Credence
into his arms.
And so Credence’s prayers started to begin by thanking the Lord for putting the
kind man in his life, and ended with him asking for Percival never to part from
his side, as selfish as the plea was.
Oft times he wondered how the man was so exceedingly good at everything he did,
yet could be vastly perplexed at simpler things. The first time Credence saw
him shave the man had talked on and on, as if waiting for Credence to leave,
but he had stayed, wanting to see the long line of his neck stretch as the
lustered edge of the blade caressed his cheek and pulled at the stubble. The
razor seemed outlandish in his hand, but the man had managed, and after a curse
or two he was clean-shaven. A furious blush had made a fool out of Credence,
but Percival only smiled.
From that day on, watching Percival shave had become one of his favorite things
to do, though he rarely indulged in it, since he knew it was neither
appropriate nor adequate to gawk at another man while he did something so
private. Besides, Percival gave him little to no opportunity, being finished in
less time than was humanly possible. And it wasn’t only shaving, he noticed.
Percival was an impossibly fast cook, only Credence’s presence seemed to slow
him down. He also possessed unbelievable swiftness of foot, and Credence would
always lose sight of him shortly after he’d departed.
It was little after midday when Credence entered the washing room, and stopped
dead in his tracks by what he saw. Percival sat before the molded mirror
reading an odd newspaper while the razor hovered in midair, stroking the sides
of his face in quick, methodical motions.
“You’re a witch.”
His voice startled the man who turned his head, the edge of the knife slicing
the skin and bringing blood to the surface, streams of crimson liquid trickling
down his face. “Damn, Credence!” He stood up and stared at the mirror,
evaluating the damage. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it bled plentifully
nonetheless. He glanced at Credence with ire igniting the darkness of his eyes,
until he felt ashamed and much too young, head bowed down to the floor.
“I am not a witch,” said the man calmly, even having being caught doing
something preternatural, something that defied the natural order imposed by
God, “Men are called wizards.”
Although his voice was mellow, it was also condescending.
Credence had been taught from before he could remember that the devil owned the
souls of witches, that they were his servants and nothing good could come from
them, so it shocked him to be staring at a self-proclaimed witch --or wizard--,
and feel something else besides horror, something that replaced repulsion.
Percival walked towards him and tilted his chin up, his gaze was downy and
tender. No creature of hell could stare at him with such caring rawness.
“It’s alright, Credence. Magic is not the evil beast they told you about,
doesn’t have to be. I’m just… different,” Percival raised his hand and waved
his fingers, as if to show Credence there was no trick or illusion, and then he
placed it above the mess of flowing blood without making contact. It was as if
time went backwards, rivers of red made their way up and into the wound, and
the gash… closed, the skin untarnished and without scar.
Then Percival smiled, but the pearly shine of his teeth only curdled Credence’s
blood. In his eyes he saw the eyes of the devil, and his presence augmented
God’s absenteeism. The air in his lungs vanished and his feet weighed the same
as iron blocks, he was fixed to the floor like the nails that crucified Christ,
and he was scared. There was a loud thrumming in his ears, and the objects in
the room blurred around the edges. He was drowning in a lake of brimstone and
fire, and from the heights of heaven he heard jumbled voices calling out his
name, most of them condemning him. The Lord’s prayer was thick in his tongue
and foggy in his brain, and clamminess had covered his skin along with a
trembling cold that invaded even the beds of his nails. Pulse accelerated, time
surpassed him, and he was falling and tumbling, shattering like splinters of
timber under the ax, breaking.
He needed air. He needed God.
The last he saw of Percival was the man staring back at him, hurt and disbelief
clear in his face. He wasn’t to be trusted though, a witch or a wizard, was
Satan’s ever-loving devotee, and Credence wanted nothing to do with it. He ran
amongst the sea of trees, and he kept running.
 
 
    
Chapter End Notes
     guys i apologize for the incredible delay, first i wasn't feeling it,
     and then i spent way too much time editing
     feedback always helps, i also need validation T.T
     again, sorry and thank you for reading my story!
     edit
     i forgot to addthis, laugh with me at how puritans weren't shy when
     in came to naming their children, YIKES!!!
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     this will be a long ride, folks. put on some music and bring some
     snacks<3
     p.s. my heart is pounding so fast right now, I'm nervous as hell!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
 
 If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to
                      purify us from all unrighteousness.
                                        
                                        
Atonement was a prospect buried beneath the loams of hell. Credence had all but
written his name in blood, given himself to the man in soul if not in body,
though that had crossed his mind too. How wicked and perverse was he to ignore
the word of the Lord, to cast aside all teachings imparted to him since before
his memory had switched to life? For two entire moon cycles he had slept with
an advocate of Satan, lain with him under cover of blue, and listened to the
quiet, calming beating of his wretched heart. For weeks, his world had revolved
around a creature that was neither divine nor gracious. He had broken fast
everyday with an impostor, a man who’d had little qualms about altering his own
name under the pretext of working a dangerous job.
He should have suspected then, that something was amiss. That a thing of
darkness resided in Percival’s soul. No son of God would go out of his way in
Credence’s aid, not without asking something in exchange, for true Christians
knew their poor worth and their sinful nature, and were not without fault of
selfishness and own interest.
If anyone was to blame, it was himself. He had let the devil guide him into his
burrow, he had covered his eyes with soot and gullibility, closed his ears to
all demonic whispers. He worshipped Percival like a false idol, had fallen to
his feet, willing to wash the uncleanliness away with his own tears, just as
the sinful woman did with Jesus. It said a lot about him, that he had walked
into the man’s trap and, stupefied, had cherish him with greater affection than
he’d felt for anyone else in the short span of his life.
Blinded by disgust and horror, he had no direction to run to, being carried by
his feet by mere intuition of the mind, lost amidst a neck of the woods he knew
little of, but he did not care, for there was no place for him to go anyway.
The last refuge for his soul had been that little cottage, alongside Percival.
Percival, a man of deceitful face and name. A man who seemed kind at first, but
was the devil incarnate, who had seduced Credence with sweet words and sweeter
meals. The boy felt repulsion tickling his uvula, and had to lean on the rough
bark of a tree to retch, and catch his breath. The sun shone bright, and the
wind sang as it did every noon, drifting fallen leaves, and stirring the minds
of the sinful with its pure whistle. Although Credence’s world had descended
into an unforgiving void of fright and compunction, a lake of sulfuric
perdition, the forest remained unperturbed. Serene, unseeing of all turmoil
unraveling in its belly. God’s design did not transmute because a lamb strayed
from the herd. A single sinner was not enough to make heavenly wrath rain down
on Earth, and even though there was a sense of relief in it, Credence felt also
hurt, for his life seemed of little importance to the God he worshipped.
Fatigued after running until his legs were brittle and his stomach heaved and
his head felt dizzy, Credence slumped down and gathered both knees to his
chest.
“Forgive me Lord, for my sinful nature. For being born a wicked creature, for
trusting that man and forgetting your wisdoms,” repenting would serve him
naught, he knew. There was no fixing the error of his ways.
He stayed there, sobbing between prayers, expecting to see Percival, raising
his head from prostration each time a noise creaked, and loathing his guts each
time because of it. He had poisoned his spirit and his conscience by letting
the man in.
Clad in garments that weren’t his own, Credence wrapped himself tighter, and
hummed a melody, that humdrum tune puritan mothers taught their children to
help them learn the alphabet faster. The words, familiar and reassuring, a
welcoming haven in the middle of nowhere where he could squirrel away and let
go of all wrong, cast aside his sins, and drift in a purgatorial haze for
however long his body permitted.  
When he opened his eyes the air had turned colder, and gloomy shades populated
the thin segments of sky that were visible in the thickness of the darkened
foliage. His stomach growled, and Credence realized how accustomed the organ
had become to receiving its fair share of nourishment every day in the couple
of months he’d lived with Percival. He couldn’t help wondering about the man
then: if he was in the cottage reading by the light of the oil lamp, or writing
devotedly in his journal as he did every evening; perhaps he’d gone into the
Village. A silver lining within him conveyed a greatly distressed Percival
looking for him in the many rifts of the forest, worried out of his wits,
aching for Credence to come home.
To seek the farce that was the Percival’s warmth was a sin of its own, but it
was all the comfort he could offer himself. He had nowhere else to go, no
friendly face to turn to for dear assistance; he was as alone as he’d ever
been. He dwelled on reproachable musings then, thoughts of Percival caring for
him and vice versa, and the more he imagined, the more he felt the seams of his
self being ripped up.
“You’re most welcome to lodge with me for however long you wish, dear boy,”
Percival had said what seemed like a lifetime ago, and Credence had garnered
the words in disbelief, tucked them in the folds of his heart for safekeeping.
What a foolish, naïve boy he had been. How foolish he still was to think of
little else but Percival in this direst hour, think of his elegant hand fitting
the small of his back, the brush of his creased knuckles along his crimsoning
cheek. How tenderly he’d looked at Credence at the break of every morrow, how
husky his voice when he whispered his greeting from behind heavy eyes, letting
Credence bask in the closeness of their flushed bodies.
Mary Lou and Bartholomew and all the other locals had been right when they
proclaimed the devil was chivalrous and of striking beauty. The Father himself,
Credence reminisced, had counted Lucifer among his most beloved angels before
falling from grace.
Yet for all the writing Percival did on his records and letters, he never once
asked Credence to write anything, and, as a witch, that would’ve been his first
and foremost goal: to secure Credence’s soul for the Dark One, to have his
muddy blood traced neatly over parchment of white. But he hadn’t. Either he was
too careless or incredibly astute, with a more elaborate scheme to reclaim
Credence’s soul in the long run. Whatever the reason, it mattered not. It all
came down to the betrayal, the lies and manipulation of the truth, why had he
hidden from Credence? Had malignity consumed the last vestiges of whoever
Percival Graves had once been?
A sentiment akin to pity seeped inside his brain, and in the eventide, he
beheld the tips of his fingers horrified, for the same awful smoky blackness
appeared to flow from them, in fact, the smoke emanated from his entire body,
like a macabre aureole. A sudden saltiness at the commissure of his lips
alerted him of the string of tears that ran grotesquely down his face, yet as
much as he tried wiping them off, the more his eyes grieved. If Percival could
see him, but no--
“Stop!” Credence shouted, the word echoed and sent a cawing bird flying off its
branch, “Stop, stop, stop!”
His body, unruly and perverse as his soul, payed his commands no heed, and a
splitting pain hit him right then, nearly disjointing him. Clear as blessed
water, he could see the darkness struggling to escape his flesh, to mercilessly
butcher the scraps that were left of him. He attempted many a time to plead God
for help, but he was unable to; the excruciating hurt voided his brain of the
capacity to even beg.
Abruptly he felt the damp soil against his face. It was damp and soft as his
limbs thrashed frantically, teeth grinding, and mind breaking in half. His
frame convulsed, but he couldn’t let go; a part of him, that scarce goodness
within his pith, hauled the darkness to avert it from overriding his senses as
it had done so many nights before, but it would not hold much longer. Credence
simply wasn’t strong enough. He whimpered and shook violently, cold sweat
dousing his forehead. Sight failed him, and all he could see were indistinctive
lumps, differently-colored shapes that could very well belong to Satan’s realm.
Mantled by his searing delirium, Credence imagined strong hands keeping him
steady, and the very faint stubble of a cheek grazing his own, “Forgive me, my
boy,” declared a familiar voice that dressed him in cloth of solace, “Forgive
me,” the voice repeated. His hands stretched out in pursuit of Percival; the
man would forgive him, Credence knew, he was much too kind regardless of being
a witch. His slightly chapped lips would purge Credence from the turpitude that
had sullied his core like poison hemlock, slowly tugging him into an early
tomb. He could almost feel the tepid beating of Percival’s heart.
The tremors relented, and the pain subdued. The ruggedness of his breathing
fought to find respite, yet his mind persisted in a state of mistiness. “You’re
safe, Credence. I shall keep you safe,” said Percival from an unseen place, as
the black threadlike steams receded into his pores.
A clamorous treading sound, like that of many footsteps, reached him shortly. A
twig snapped. Lungfuls of dense air burned his nostrils on their way in. His
heart galloped at full throttle.
“Lo and behold, brothers of mine,” Bartholomew’s guttural voice thundered in
the dimness, he was accompanied by a pack of sinister-looking Scourers, “The
devil take ye! I knew ye had sold yourself to the Evil One the minute you left,
boy. Always meek, always a craven... For long years ye shamed my house with
your immoral deviance, but now –Now, the Lord has exposed your sins, and ye
shall account for each of them before the justices and the ministers and the
villagers. And I pray ye be found guilty, ye filthy demon!”
Fighting would be of no use, Credence thought. He was largely outnumbered, but
even if it’d been only him and Bartholomew, his wearied muscles wouldn’t stand
a chance.
They tied his hands behind his back, and dragged him across the woods.
Eventually, a dry thump at the back of the head knocked him senseless.
 
 
The arms of fear were strong, and their reach was vast. Percival had committed
the mistake of underestimating what terror bred from hatred could do, and so,
Credence, that charming and pure boy he’d taken under his wing, had ran off
into the forest with the gears of his brain still stunned. Greater fool he’d
prove to be by believing Credence needed only time to rearrange his views.
However, once late noon had comfortably settled, Percival knew letting the boy
go had been a rather poor, callow choice.
For hours and hours, he searched for Credence, through thickets and trees, by
streams and lakes, apparating at the heels and tops of mountains and peaks,
with a heart clenched tight lest it broke his chest and ran off too.
But by the time no light but that of the moon and the stars shone in the sky,
Percival reconciled with the idea that Credence was gone. Perhaps the mere
thought of breathing the same air as a wizard had weighed too heavily on him.
Maybe his heart had pulled him back to wherever he came from.
As he returned to the cottage that now seemed lifeless and uninviting, Percival
realized how little he knew about Credence’s past. Apart from his name and the
bits he’d collected from idle chatters in bed and in the kitchen, the boy was a
stranger to him. Yet a stranger who had imprinted the shape of his body on the
bed they’d come to share every night, a stranger who gave the whole Salem
ordeal some sense of purpose, a stranger Percival longed ardently to see at the
end of every draining day, a stranger he deeply cared for.
Perhaps he knew not who Credence had been prior to finding him by the foot of
the elm tree that far night ago, but in the short space of weeks the boy
managed to transform the dreariness of Percival’s days, gifted him with a warm
spark. His heart, before only an efficient mechanical body part, had been
thawed and ignited by grace of tender kindness, and such a heart, so vulnerable
and raw, was unpredictable, it beat like a feral wild beast, it stomped
enraged, and howled as if wounded by flaming arrow.
That night, after many fruitless attempts of writing a letter, Percival lay on
a bed of stone that stretched for miles. He could only toss and turn for so
long. It wasn’t insomnia that pulled away his sleep, it was Credence, or
rather, Credence’s absence. How was it that a bearer of the Graves’ name had
let a stranger in so easily, made himself vulnerable in his haste to help a
seemingly hapless soul? Were Gondulphus to suspect anything of the affair,
disappointment would impregnate his eyes.
The sounds of the night resonated loudly, Percival could’ve heard the drop of a
pine needle, even his own blood he heard thrumming inside the tubes of veins
and arteries. Though his sight was weary, closing his eyelids only shunned away
darkened figures, but his mind remained just as awake, and conundrums bloomed
one after the other, weaving an infinite web of possibilities, of regrets and
what ifs.
Being a strong supporter of honesty, Percival pondered if he’d acted right by
coming clean. Somehow he was certain honeying the facts wouldn’t have enticed
Credence into staying with him. The boy’s convictions were firm, almost set in
stone. Whatever the teachings he’d been taught since infancy, they had taken
deep root in his soul, and, to his eyes, Percival was not only a witch but a
liar too. And that hurt the most, that he was thought of as a liar, someone
capable of throwing Credence’s trust to the wind.
Thin rays of light spilled onto the dark wood floors.
Days ago, at this time, he would be rousing from sound sleep, warmed by the
blanket formed by Credence’s sleeping figure, his head tucked in the hollow of
Percival’s neck, arms clasped around his middle as if he never wished to let
go.
Exhaling a sigh filled with the tiredness of both his mind and body, Percival
threw off the covers and braced himself for a brand-new day he felt unprepared
to live. Bread turned into tasteless mush in his mouth, coffee scraped rather
than trickle down his throat. Even the animals seemed quieter, and the usual
morning breeze hid in caves and hollow trunks and rock undersides.
Had Credence been by his side, a placid talk would fill in the silence, his
modulated voice inadvertently giving shape to the torrid mess Percival was.
He’d be sitting in the chair opposite his, looking at him from under fans of
thick black lashes, stirring within Percival a feeling he thought forgotten in
days of nursery rhymes and childish fragility.
The white cup decorated in blue shattered as it landed against the wall.
“Damn it, Credence!” He heard himself yell, long after the words had left his
mouth.
Nevertheless, there was little he could to remedy his hurt other than dust off
a bottle of brandy. That the sun had just risen did not matter.
Midday rolled in and found Percival still seating by the table, having downed
the amber liquid, head pounding like an axe falling on a stump. That day he did
not make it to the Village, and neither did the day after that.
On the third day after Credence’s departure, and after a restless but
slumbering night, Percival decided the time for grieving had passed. Wherever
the boy had gone to, it was clear, he was better off without Percival, and, in
some cruel yet fair way, it was a fortunate turn of events. Living with
Credence, letting him see Percival for who he was, had not only been foolish
but also a serious Secrecy breach, an error that could very well cost him his
life; Gondulphus himself would’ve been at the end of the wand that executed the
sentence.
And so, Percival didn’t linger on the bed remembering the comforting presence
of Credence, nor did he regard the lasting bottles of brandy in the cabinet.
Instead, he had two cups of the strongest coffee magic could muster, smiling
demurely at the small liberty. After a quick wash, he put on his clothes, and
off he went to the Village.
His mission hadn’t gained much more significance in his days of drunk
contemplation, but he clung to the hope to right some wrongs before the wheel
steered into absolute chaos. If he could do anything to aid his kin, and even
no-majs caught in the crossfire, then the oppressed of Salem would find an ally
in him, Wizengamot policies be damned.
Less than quarter of an hour later, Percival was alerted new events had taken
place in his short absence.
Salem Village had long been a marsh of confusion and filth and injustice in
which its inhabitants drowned. One day, its buildings and trees and people
would be buried deep beneath the earth, without a single soul to remember them
by. Worse, hundreds of stories wouldn’t be told truthfully.
One of those stories was that of the great black cloud, the one all villagers
said could kill and maim, and was the breath of Satan knocking at their door.
Yet now word was all that evil belonged to a simple boy. After further
investigation, invisible to the locals, Percival confirmed his theory.
There was an Obscurus in Salem Village, and apparently, the poor child, a boy,
had been caught trying to escape.
A pair of ill-looking women gossiped discreetly about the incident, but their
descriptions were so vivid that the gruesome, horrid details must’ve been
product of the joint imagination that characterized small towns. One thing was
clear though, a questioning session was to be celebrated promptly in the
meeting house, that same afternoon. Everyone would go, it seemed. It was
anticipated by all as if it were something to be admired or relished; Percival
wished he could separate the innocent from the guilty, write it all down and be
long gone.
But he had a duty to carry out, and so when his pocket watch approached four in
the afternoon, he slipped inside the meeting house along with dozens of other
parishioners, ready to witness whatever misdeeds were in store for the luckless
child.
Inside, all pews were already packed as were the balconies, those who’d arrived
late stood, and waited exasperatedly for the inquisition to begin, like hounds
snuffing the air to get a whiff of their kill.
Before the room, three men dressed in black garments sat behind a table.
Meanwhile, at the front row of pews, sat a handful of girls who’d been declared
by all as the afflicted, the bewitched. They were the first to have suffered
the damages of witchcraft, the first ones to have endured torment for the sins
of the villagers. Their word, more than often dubious, became law; whatever
they said, in the absence of verifiable proof, was believed and taken at
heart’s value, same as holy scriptures. No authority could undermine that which
he could not experience. Thus, everyone trusted wholeheartedly the girls’
judgements, their fevers and frenzies.
During his weeks in Salem, Percival identified five of his kind, though he
wasn’t entirely sure: a middle-aged couple that kept to themselves, an old man
by the name of Gomer, a young woman who seemed to enjoy partaking in the
communal mischief with sharp tongue, and most notably, one of the afflicted
girls, Mercy Lewis. There were many ways in which he could validate his
suspicions, but doing so would only bring the limelight to the witch or wizard,
and he wasn’t really in a position to offer ample aid, not endorsed by the
Council anyway.
Murmurs quieted when a warden emerged from the back door. He was broad of
shoulders and belly, a black hat on his head. And at his side, a huddled figure
with hair too black and skin fair as milk, radiance washed away. It was no
young child, the Obscurus.
It was Credence.
As if being struck by thunderbolt, like being thrown into a lake of scalding
water. Percival focused on the boy who’d been his mere days before. He still
wore Percival’s clothes, but they were besmirched and wrinkled. From afar, he
resembled more than ever a wounded creature, yet he retained that angelic
delicacy Percival had first seen when he found him asleep in the forest, the
same exquisite and rare softness that glowed every morning wrapped in
Percival’s arms.
Percival evoked the three never-ending, solitary nights in which his mind had
walked down avenues of a time shared with Credence, a past he did not want to
let go - could not let go, especially now that his boy was hauled and ogled as
if he were a ghastly beast and not a blameless, sweet-tempered young man.
The initial obfuscation bled into uneasiness, and as the unintelligible hum of
the crowd discerned once into clearer voices and words, that same uneasiness
clad itself in armor of rage. Most presents had already decided Credence was an
evil-doer, leaping to the certain conclusion of giving him a swift lethal
sentence.
Percival gritted his teeth and took deeper breaths, inching closer to the front
of the building where the court was being held. He prayed to no god that
Credence could somehow sense his presence, that he could know not everyone
wished to see him hanging at the end of a noose.
Holding on to blind fury was easy, hence that was all Percival could do:
breathe in the anger he could not manifest lest he caused havoc. He was mad at
the mob for being so insensible, mad at the three men for pompously partaking
in the charade, mad at the girls on the front pew for spewing lies that had
snowballed into this most detrimental situation, and mad at Gondulphus for
sending him on the wretched task in the first place, he was even mad at
Credence for leaving him, and, in consequence, endangering his own survival.
Most of all though, Percival was mad at himself, for not running immediately
after Credence that day, for not apologizing for his massive mistake, for not
telling him the truth from the start, for not doing enough, not saying enough.
Nonetheless the emotional clouding of rationality was a skill he’d learned to
master over the course of the years, and if ever a time came when it was of
crucial importance, then that time had materialized thusly: a full-packed
meeting house, three interrogators and his boy, who seemed ready to fall if the
gentlest of winds blew on his face.
Up there near the pulpit, with his head cast down, Credence was a skein of
twitching nerves, with hair matted and grimy, face blotchy from days and nights
spent crying and despairing, Percival assumed.
The man in the middle, a short cross-eyed man cleared his throat, his name was
William Sergeant, the overseer of inquisitions, he was the bluntest and crudest
of all three, his methods were primitive at best and, on most occasions, he
left without secure confessions.
In the disheartened gist of events, this man was Credence’s safest bet, though
there was no doubt the final judgement had long been passed.
“For the record, is your name not Credence Miller, boy?”
“It is, sir,” answered Credence, eyes skittering nervously.
“You stand here owing to the fact that you were apprehended in the woods by
Bartholomew Barebone, the man who raised you, under suspicion of witchcraft.
He, and his colleagues, honorable men, all agree that you are a servant to the
devil, that you ungrudgingly conspired, and schemed along the Dark One to
undermine and threaten the lives of the good people of Salem, is that not true
as well?”
“I did nothing—“
“A simple ‘yes’ will suffice, young man.”
“But I didn’t—“
“You did not what? Are you denying being caught red handed? Are you calling
these good men, who do nothing but defend our people from the clutches of evil,
liars?”
“Please, please! I am not a witch!” Credence shrieked, eyes wild and afraid, he
seemed to be holding on to a too thin thread, staring fixedly at a small girl
with mouse-like features and flaxen hair.
A scream, loud and acute, followed by a chorus of others shrieks; some girls on
the front row clawed at their bellies or chests while others yanked their
manes, flailing in their seats.
“Lies!” shouted the magistrate pointing at the afflicted. The he spoke to the
mass as if wanting to incense them further, “See, brothers and sisters? See how
this loathsome boy, this worshipper of Satan, tortures these poor girls? He can
deny it, but we’ve all seen how they shrieked in pain when he refused his
master by lying in our faces.”
Credence was looking at the swarm of faces, gaze leaping unsteadily from one
side of the room to the other, he appeared a lost young child, and Percival
realized, dejected, that was all Credence was: lost.
He fumed as the interrogation, that resembled more a medieval witch-hunt,
proceeded. Sergeant’s intent wasn’t that of extracting Credence’s side of the
story, he cared little for what the boy had to say in defense of himself, and
instead, only sought a guilty confession, pressing forward, putting words
Credence had never uttered in his mouth, cheering the public to blame him of a
crime, a sin, that only Bartholomew and his men could attest for, exalting the
afflicted girls into renewed fits of madness.
“Do you confess then, to covenanting with the devil?”
“I—“
“What did you trade your soul for, boy? Riches and gold, love, protection,
what?”
With contrite face, Credence replied, “I never—God is my only sav—“
“How dare he speak the name of our Lord!” exclaimed a disembodied voice. Jeers
and heckles followed suit, all slamming against Credence. In their eyes, the
boy was the foulest of offenders. Percival wished he could burn the whole
village to the ground.
It was evident the interrogation would not end up well. Moreover, paralleled to
others he’d witnessed, no one wanted as fiercely for the accused to be hanged.
Clamors asked for the boy’s life, for his head, for there to be an end to the
streak of ill luck they’d been suffering. Were it up to the villagers they’d
hang children if it meant healthier, more abundant crops.
The afflicted had kept mostly quiet by that time. Percival saw most of them had
glassy, red-rimmed eyes, and their skin lacked the glow of health. They seemed
lost to their present, as if their mind had wandered after the first fits, as
if they weren’t paying attention to the strafing of that who, supposedly,
caused them harm and disease. In any given case, a victim wouldn’t be so
unaffected and detached by the words of their aggressor, for therein dangled
their hopes for justice. So, it was strange of them to not even flinch
throughout the questioning, but still combust into nonsensical fits whenever
doubts sprouted, as if to accommodate the puzzle pieces against Credence.
And then the questions veered down a path Percival found interesting, the one
in which the words declared by the interrogator rang with more than an ounce of
truth, “Witnesses say black smoke emanated from your body, like tendrils of
evil darkness… Lord have mercy upon us!” he cried out intensely, “Brothers,
this is the devil’s new plot, his newest trick to tempt us into fear and sin,
but we shall endure in the Holy Spirit. We shall not be cowered by this
creature, this pawn of evil! We have seen you, Credence Miller. We have seen
your body transformed into the cloud of smoke and ash, prowling the skies, the
wind… You mutilated and killed our cattle, most likely than not brought our
crops to rot too. Do you deny any of these imputations? Will you continue this
sham? Speak now, the truth! Confess!”
But Credence merely raised his shoulders, they trembled. He was under great
strain; it was a miracle the Obscurus hadn’t taken over.
Percival’s heart ached deeply for the boy, his sweet boy, subjected to the
unfairest of humiliations. Credence seemed impossibly small there where he
stood, with all scornful eyes cast on him, boring him into the ground, and
condemning him with ubiquitous contempt.
The other two magistrates observed keenly the development of the session, while
one appeared taken by Sergeant’s every word, committing them to memory for
later perusal, the other had the look of one who believes he can do a more
graceful and effective job than the one that’s being done, his upturned nose
and narrow eyes conceited him airs of superiority above the humbler laics
before him. The latter was the individual Percival mistrusted most, not because
he was an arrogant, power-hungry man, but because he didn’t serve any means of
justice. He was the man behind easy confessions, the one with a tongue sweet
and sharp enough to drive even the most innocent into admitting to crimes and
sins they hadn’t committed. He liked most to see them hang.
“Respond to the servants of Lord, boy!”
Copious tears ran down Credence’s cheeks, and drooped at the edge of his jaw.
He was hunched up, and wet snot trickled from his nose. He looked every year as
young as he was, only sixteen and already facing such miseries. Yet… sixteen
years harboring an Obscurus shifted the outlook entirely.
“Did you or did you not, perform all these atrocious, blasphemous deeds?”
Sergeant pressed on.
“Please!” Credence begged. Percival feared he was about to get on his knees,
but the movement seemed only the inability of his weakened legs to support him
properly.
Almost three hours had transpired since the inquisition began, the inside of
the meeting house was now opaque and the temperature had dropped by ten.
Credence, dressed in nothing but one of Percival’s plain shirts, shivered,
trying to tone down the intensity of his sobbing.
Having failed in his endeavor to wring out a vibrant confession, Sergeant
called the session to an end and with a last prayer, encouraged the villagers
to use the gift of understanding to better themselves in the light of the Lord,
and to never forgo the vicious consequences siding with the devil could bring
about. His parting words he reserved to make an example out of Credence,
signaling him as the major culprit of Salem’s misgivings and distresses, urging
the members to stare at him as if he were a mirror, to avoid falling into sin.
Tugged by a rope, as if he were a common beast, Credence was ushered through
the backdoor as people began to fill out, if not entirely appeased but
contented with the public humiliation.
The only soul, apart from Percival, who seemed aggrieved by the scandal was the
young girl with straw hair and skin just as sallow Credence had stared at so
vehemently. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. She was held by the arm of an
older girl, breakable features composing her face. Both trailed behind the
Barebone matrimony, the mother admonishing the youngest in cutting whispers.
“Hush now, Modesty! Do not weep for the wicked.”
He followed them on their way out, mind still clouded by the sudden events.
The man walking with them, Bartholomew, Percival knew well enough, though, in
his mind, not an inkling had bound the fearsome Scourer to Credence. The boy
had deceived Percival just as Percival had deceived him. From the blurriness of
his past to the Obscurus that devoured his insides with voracity, all had been
a lie. The couple of months nothing but an illusion crafted by the necessity of
both parties.
Nevertheless, the present circumstances did not abet for long contemplative
introspections to explicate what had gone awry or why.
All eyes glared at Credence, accused most severely of practicing witchcraft.
After Sergeant’s fanatical speech, rather than interrogation, Credence would be
seen as an architect of evil, a master to many witches in Salem. No proof of
his innocence could wash him from guilt, not that such a proof would ever exist
in the first place.
Percival Graves had raised stations thanks to a cold head and a leashed heart,
he was the first man to come to action when catastrophe struck, the one whose
mind wasn’t obscured by fear or anger or despair, the one whom men of lesser
strength and temper looked up to. Before being sent on the fruitless endeavor
to Salem, he’d had under his charge the service of more than a fiftieth of
witches and wizards, but as the situation matured for the worse across the
lands, more and more of his underlings had been dismissed, some had quit while
others were repositioned. After months of struggle and hassle, the Council had
left Percival with less than half the original workforce. Gondulphus had swept
in like a vulture then, delivering a speech rather than engaging in a
discussion with his son. The Graves patriarch paid no attention to Percival’s
polite protests, even less to his irate retorts. With a dismissive gesture of
the hand and a document containing the minutiae of what he was to do, Percival
was deposed from his rank, and sent off to Massachusetts. From the heart of
distress up north, he’d journeyed to a place infected by firestorm, and at the
very bottom of that hell he’d found Credence.
The boy was evidently a danger beyond being an Obscurial. He was especially
dangerous to Percival. He, the level-headed man, reduced to an inner turmoil
that disabled him to act according to what was required of him, tempted to do
instead what seemed infinitely easier.
Oh, how those wet lashes and crimson-tainted cheeks had the power to break him
in half, how he yearned for nothing but running to Credence’s aid, liberate him
from the cell those savages surely were keeping him in, and take him back to
their little cottage in the woods, nurture him back to health and hold him safe
in his arms – kill anyone who dared threaten them. Issues weren’t so easily
resolved though, especially in times such as these, when the safety of all
wizardkind balanced precariously over a thin line. Consequences of a reckless
rescue would resonate for weeks, months, maybe even years to come. It was a
hard choice to make, but Percival finally resolved to go back to his cottage,
and think of a way out that didn’t involve exploding the prison and all of
Salem with it.
After what could’ve been hours of pacing like a bandit between the watchful
stark walls that weren’t unlike the Council’s eyes if they knew of his intent,
a seed had germinated in Percival’s mind. What would the seed bear him was
still unknown to him, but it was the easiest and fastest solution without
harming anyone too severely.
In the forefront of his mind, recurrent and impending, the image of his father
made its appearance, along with tales of old, tales of his ancestors and how
they’d barely managed to escape the deathly hooks of the witch-hunt back in
Europe. That fight costed every member of the wizarding community dearly, and
the screams of pain and sorrow still mingled with their present, an all-
pervading feeling that resided in the hearts of all carriers of magical blood.
It ran in his blood too. But that feeling hadn’t bestowed him with fear, but
with a thirst for equity, and now he would achieve it by saving Credence
without being noticed by the Council.
Salem would perhaps be remembered in history same as Valais, but Credence would
not be a part of it, he would not be just another name scribbled in his
records. If Percival had any say in it, and he had, for who was there to stop
him, Credence would be saved, from the others and from himself.
 
 
The cell was damp and too dark for his eyes to see past his breath. There were
others in it, older women as well as young ones, all huddled and trembling,
their voices whispers diffusing the silence that, like a reeking mantle,
settled over them. More than one prayer could be heard in the distance, broken
utterances that reminded Credence why he was here and what terrible things the
magistrates were accusing him of, things everyone seemed eager to see him hang
for.
But amidst the darkness and the teetering of his teeth, Credence could find no
solace in the scriptures or in the loving promise of a far-flung father or in
Modesty’s welled eyes as she looked at him with disappointment and fear. If at
any given time he’d bowed down to Satan, it had been in the cottage, the day he
nestled in the crook of Percival’s neck. If his soul had been purchased in his
obliviousness, the buyer was none other than Percival Graves. And how wicked
was it that Credence felt comforted by this? Shivering, his thoughts revolved
around the dark-haired man, he hugged himself closer, gripping fiercely at the
fabric of his shirt, trying to evoke a fragrant scent that had rapidly
dissolved, and mixed with the acrid wailings of his inmates. The only shred of
hope Credence clung to were those golden days that, in hindsight, appeared
excerpts from the most beautiful story ever told. A story in which he wasn’t
wicked or deviant, and he was loved, and no darkness inhabited within his soul.
Before the crowd, he had seen too well-known faces that only craved for him to
be found guilty of all charge sooner rather than later. The session had been a
bountiful dosage of the spiteful Salem. Standing at the front of the room, with
all eyes fixed on him, Credence embraced the agonizing fear that instated his
neighbors to act without qualms, and wondered, not for the first time, if there
wasn’t some truth in all the madness, if they, the villagers, weren’t right to
seek justice the only way they knew to protect their own against greater
forces.
Almost a week had gone by since he fled the cottage. A week with little rest,
his muscles ached and his eyes stung. There was a foul taste in his mouth that
would not leave. The last proper meal he’d have was shared with Percival, and
just like that, his mind returned to the man, unable to stray too far or too
long.
Is he worried about me,he wondered, does he know where I am, does his heart
care for my wellbeing and safety as I care for his?
Bitter tears sprouted at the corners of his eyes, their saltiness so familiar
to him these days.
“Dear Lord… allow me to find Thy comfort in my torment, permit me to see beyond
my shameful grief and sorrow, let me beseech Thy loving embrace, even though I
was born unclean and will always be unworthy of Thy grace…” A girl not much
older than Credence prayed words that, previously, would’ve softened Credence,
and shamed his soul, but in the unadulterated blackness of the cell, the prayer
had the face of a hollow deceiver, and it irked him, if only slightly.
The swifter the sentence the better, he thought. There was no point in delaying
the inevitable. He could be questioned a thousand times, and still the same
answers would prevail. He would not grant the Barebones or the rest of the
villagers the satisfaction of an untruthful confession, for in doing so he
would truly besmirch his soul, and his conscience would rob him of any
peacefulness. Besides, no matter his declarations, he would be found guilty,
and that he could not deny entirely. A polluted spirit had claimed him, but he
had never, of his own accord, given himself over to the devil. They’d have to
hang him just like that, he only wished he could see Percival one last time.
Compared to his life-long neighbors, the witch -or wizard- had been nothing but
kind to Credence. If he could see him before dying, Credence believed he would
forgive his lies, after all, it was probable Percival just wanted to shelter
his naïve ears from a harsh truth. Credence would ask for forgiveness too. He’d
left too many a thing unsaid, tucked safely beneath the cottony softness of the
pillows, coiled at the back of the shelves, behind cups and plates and tins.
A loose end still lingered, but as the night crawled into the first hours of
the morrow, it stitched to the rest of the story. Percival had come to Salem to
fairly and effectively register and account the disturbing events that were
unraveling. However, he was there in no capacity to stop them or tamper with
them, if so… had he been there for his audience, invisible to all eyes? The
thought made a terrible hurt clench in his chest. These hearings, they were the
reason Percival went into town every day and returned home appalled, seeking
Credence’s company. To know the wizard had been so close yet so far at the same
time tightened his gullet harder than the rope of his certain noose.
The rumble of his guts had become a manageable ache. In Salem prison, only
those well-off could afford survival, food as well as water and whatever other
simple comforts, were to be bought, the money destined for the Village’s
welfare, but straight into the pockets of those higher-ranked. Credence knew
this because there were days in which Bartholomew bought articles above their
budget, giving feeble if any explanations as to how he’d come by the means of
procuring said objects.
But then night passed, and another day broke.
Credence’s stomach growled again. His only rations were the scrapes a girl by
the name of Anne left him out of pity or compassion. She was kind, but in all
her reclusion she spoke not one word. Her aunt paid for all her meals, and she
didn’t endure hunger like most of the other prisoners. She had taken to watch
Credence out of the corner of her pale blue eyes.
Credence feared his trial might continue, but hours transpired, agonizingly
slow, with the remembrance of Percival overfilling his brain, wondering if he’d
see him once more.
There were no distractions to deviate the mind in prison other than
anticipation and dread for whatever was to come. Nerves ensconced, lips bitten
till they bled, hands wrangling. Minutes happened in a blur, bleeding into
centuries while dying before being known. Incarceration was a hole few came out
sane of, if they came out at all.
Lilac hues decked the skies, and the lessening of the sunlight that filtered
through the barred window, let Credence know late evening had arrived. Yet he
had not been called upon, for whichever reason, and he sighed relieved, perhaps
glad his death laid farther away, but he didn’t want to raise his hopes because
he had close to none. No one would speak in his favor. He himself wasn’t sure
of being innocent.
The figures of the three women he shared cells with fell one by one into sleep,
and he at last, joined them once his lids were too heavy, and the fatigue had
wrung out his bones, and amalgamated them into something akin to iron. The
straw was coarse against his skin, but it was preferable to the cold harshness
of the stone floors.     
His sleep was light and unrestful, resembling more a slumber after a hard day’s
work than the proper lie down at the death of day. His brain produced no
thought, no ideas, no coherent string that could keep his mind reeling, and
yet… as if from a faraway, sunnier place, came the occasional pattering sound
of drops, the tired snores of fellow prisoners, and even the chilly licks of
gusts. The night was cold, his skin covered in goosebumps, the bare soles of
his feet roughened, a cut stung from time to time. There was a dryness in his
mouth, and swallowing was beyond him, instead, only sand touched his palate.
How far away were those mornings with coffee and oatmeal and bread and cheese,
how distant the hand of Percival ruffling his hair before going off to work,
how vulnerable his back without Percival’s chest slotted against it. If he were
to die he wished it could be by the man’s side and not with rats and empty-eyed
women as witnesses.
His lips were parched same as the sheets of parchment Percival wrote on.
Credence too wished to be covered in the ink of his ornate pen, to be
gracefully traced by the pulse of his hand. However, there were no lights to
illuminate his confinement, no candle flame, no bright moonlight spilling onto
the ground. It was so dark he could imagine himself back at the cottage,
tackled by nightmares perhaps, but there nonetheless. There with Percival,
undisturbed and unperturbed by the clamor of a dying world. Him lying down on
their bed, Percival’s steps approaching him with a slight grin curving his
lips, the scent of him, ink and smoke and cologne, inundating Credence’s
senses, filling him with a vitality that had walked out on him the moment
Bartholomew seized him in the forest. It was too dark to see anything at all,
but it was quiet enough to hear the echoes of that life rushing back all at
once, to smell that sweet temptation just a few steps away, and almost savor
Percival’s skin.
“Credence,” it was merely a whisper, but it felt fierce as a whiplash, and it
roused him from the hazy sleep he’d been falling into for an eon.
He sat up straight, wiping away phantoms, and blinking until his eyes didn’t
stick themselves together again, but just as he thought, there was no sight of
Percival. Only that same darkness, all-engulfing, asphyxiating--
“Credence, my boy,” repeated the voice, this time more adamant, tattered at the
edges but all the tenderer because of it.
“P-Percival, sir?” he replied, trying to locate the source of his make-believe.
“Forgive me,” one moment there was only darkness, and the next, the shaded
outline of Percival Graves was staring at him by the gate of his cell, looking
far less polished than usual, the growth of a beard evident on the bottom half
of his handsome face. Obscured by the night, it was difficult to scrutinize
further, to see if his eyes carried the same sadness and hopelessness Credence
knew his own to be filled with.
The man stood there, unflinching, waiting for Credence to say something else,
but his mouth had yet to build a bridge with his fuddled mind. Even if a horde
of thoughts stampeded his brain, the space between his ears remained a blank
canvas.
What his lips could not speak his legs made up by trembling as he picked his
weakened frame from the ground and stumbled forward, colliding against
Percival’s chest, burying his face in the crook of his neck, that warm space
he’d craved as if it were holy sanctification. His body, though lacking
hydration, managed to well his eyes causing fat tears to fall on the white
linen of Percival’s shirt. Percival, the kind man, the courteous, compassionate
wizard who was cradling the back of his head while rubbing soothing circles on
his back with his other hand, muttering in his ear words he was too distraught
to comprehend.
Credence sobbed because he could not do anything else, because doing anything
else was pointless, and his heart had decided to pour all its fears and worries
and hurts on Percival. He cried because he had ruined everything, had abandoned
Percival, and still the man had returned to save him a second time when he
shouldn’t even had saved him a first one. He cried for Percival, who had broken
into the prison, and was holding him while he wept like the broken thing he
was, assuring him everything would turn out just fine.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he promised.
He had imagined those same words moments before being apprehended, but it was
different this time, for Percival’s mouth spoke the words, and Percival didn’t
speak in vain.
“Do you trust me, Credence?” he asked, after Credence’s breathing was no longer
that of a frightened deer, and his chin was tilted, allowing him to stare right
back into the black pools that were Percival’s eyes.
“I do, sir. I promise I do.”
“Hold on tight then, my boy,” Percival smiled, and squeezed the grip on his
hand.
The axis of the world shifted beneath his feet, his empty stomach flipped and
dropped, and the insides of his head seemed to rattle from side to side. Just
when he thought he’d vomit all over Percival, firm ground greeted his feet, and
steady disorientation tugged at him like a rider pulling the horse reins.
It took him a while to come back to his senses, but when he did Percival was
there to sustain him, so close he could breathe him all in, and keep him within
his lungs.
“Are you alright, Credence?”
Both knew that was a question with no simple answer, too many pitfalls and
traps lay behind it. The wound was still crude, the sentiments far from healed,
but as things were, Credence was the best he could be, thus, he nodded and
dared hold Percival a little longer under the pretext of not yet trusting his
feet.
“Come. You should rest now. We can talk come morning. There’s no rush, my boy,”
half-carried by Percival to the bedroom, he was swiftly changed into clean
clothes, and laid most caringly upon the fleecy bed. His whole body seemed to
whirr with every breath, and his lids turned to lead once more. Before losing
consciousness, a cup was pressed to his lips, and fresh water trickled down his
throat, drenching his shriveled insides, and washing away some of the dryness
of his lips, though they still felt flakey.
He fell asleep underneath warm blue covers, a fluffy pillow under his heavy
head, and the comforting weight of Percival by his side.
When he woke, light had recouped strength, filling all corners of the room with
its yellowy warmth. However, no he was alone, and, for a moment, the idea of
being back in prison seized his heart, but this was real. He really was back in
the cottage, rousing on the bed he shared with Percival, smelling the wood and
the fire in the chimney, and that obstinate Percival scent that clung to the
fabrics he was cocooned in. The gentle clattering of dishware beckoned him like
the chirp of a lark. A constant yet dull thrum buzzed in his brain, but more
sharp was the sullen jab at the top of his stomach. He recognized it as plain
hunger, the kind he hadn’t felt in a long time. 
In the kitchen Percival stood at the table slicing a loaf of bread. A banquet
of savory and sweet was splayed over the wooden surface, earthy colored
edibles, and even a colorful fan of varied fruits. Spoons stirred cups on their
own.
Days ago, he would’ve bolted out frighten to death by the sight. This morning
his heart skipped a bit, but entertained the mechanics of such magic.
“Good morning,” Credence’s voice was raspy, either from the lack of use or the
days spent without water.
Percival looked up, a radiant smile plastered on his face. Almost at the same
time resounded a clumsy clatter of spoons as they stopped brusquely, clinking
loudly against the ceramic. In their haste to act normal a puddle of coffee had
spilled over the wood.
“Fuck. Uh, I’m sorry. I apologize for my obvious… this,” he gestured at the
mess, a blush coloring the high points of his cheeks. Despite the dark circles
under his eyes, Percival was striking as ever, younger looking somehow.
In return, Credence couldn’t help but succumb to awkwardness as well, rosiness
peppering the bridge of his nose. To add to his humiliation, his stomach
grumbled anxiously, a gurgling sound Percival must’ve heard all too clearly,
for he pulled out a chair and signaled for him to sit down. Ever the obedient
servant, he complied without second-guessing. 
Despite the painful familiarity of the setting, Credence felt no different from
an intruder, or rather a guest who needed to be steered in order not to offend
his host with poor peasant manners. His back ramrod-straight, his gaze
flickering, unable to stay put and stare at Percival for longer than a handful
of seconds.
“Eat, please. You must be starving,” Percival’s eyes were soft, but his jaw was
set in the way that meant he wouldn’t take no for an answer, the same
countenance he adopted when he was frustrated.
Credence took a mouthful of sweetened porridge, then another and another more
after that one. Living with Percival had rapidly accustomed him to a life in
which meals were mandatory and his belly never complained.
The warm oats sat heavily inside, and he couldn’t eat much more after.
Forgotten was the buttered bread and cuts of ham; still he gobbled five
strawberries, they were rich in color and richer yet in flavor.
All the while he felt Percival’s eyes weighing on him, but he allowed the
silence between them to simmer throughout the course of the meal. The knot in
his throat would constrict him were he to speak too soon, would break on him,
and his control would break in consequence. Percival had done enough consoling
the night before. Now Credence had to be strong, after all, it was his fault
they were here in the first place.
“Credence?”
Percival’s plate was untouched: bread, eggs, sausage and berries ignored.
Clasped by the handle, his cup was nearly out of coffee after being nursed for
about fifteen minutes.
Then Percival reached out to him, placing his hand over Credence’s, giving it a
gentle squeeze. He continued, “Have I acted right, my boy, bringing you here? I
value your safety above anything else, but I haven’t forgotten the terms we…
ended on.”
Credence looked at him. Though he did not speak, he hoped his eyes were
eloquent enough to transmit his feel on the matter, warm enough to burn away
the space that had grown between them. He squeezed Percival’s hand.
“I should have asked your forgiveness that day, Credence. I should have been
honest from the start instead of planting lies. I… I am not used to this,
apologizing, --but what I mean to say, is… I am sorry, truly. For my deceit,
for not running after you, for letting you be thrown into a cold cell. I am
sorry for not seeing what should’ve been obvious, for being blind to your
suffering, and the toll it was taking on you,” his voice was thick with
emotion, but the words did not waver.
The lump in Credence’s throat bobbed, and he anticipated another frisson of
tears.
“I am sorry, my boy,” reiterated Percival, the apology knitted not only in his
words, but also the disarrayed state of his hair, the sunken stare, the
hesitant touch of his hand, as if he wasn’t sure it was well-received.
“I am-“ started Credence, but he had to swallow around nothing, gather his
thoughts and try again, “I’m sorry too, sir Percival. I – I should have been
more understanding. You’ve been so kind to me, kinder than anyone I’ve ever
met, and I broke everything… I wasn’t honest with you either, I lied and now...
Now they want to hang me for it. And you --You saved me, again,” emotions
tackled him, and his vision blurred.
“Listen to me, Credence. You have done nothing wrong or evil. You are a sweet,
kind, caring, wonderful young man. Merlin, only goodness lives within you, my
boy! You are not what they say, you hear me?”
“I…,” he thought of contradicting him, but Percival was stubborn, and Credence
didn’t feel like initiating a fight so soon after reuniting with him, “Yes.”
“Good,” he took another sip of his cup, gaze never abandoning Credence.
Credence wished they could get past the whole affair, to go back to the
bedroom, curl in the bed and let the world pass them by, ignoring all the
troubles that were keeping them apart.
“Credence, dear boy… I am not here to judge you; nor would that ever be my
intent. If it is within my power, I will help you. I will listen and
understand, and I’ll keep you safe from anyone or anything that tries to hurt
you.”
“How did you… how did you find me?”
“It wasn’t of much difficulty seeing as your interrogation has been perhaps the
most well-attended. I must say though, the locals were grotesquely excited to
see you condemned,” his lips pursed in displeasure, “Not even your family
showed mercy.”
“They are not – Not my real family,” he replied, and just saying it out loud
felt like dropping a weight off his shoulders, “They took me in when I was six,
after the fire my family died in. Ever since I’ve been living with the
Barebones, but they’re not--“
“Not your family. I understand, my boy,” he dallied a bit before continuing,
unlike the magistrate his questions didn’t inspire fear in Credence’s heart. It
felt only natural to tell him everything, to strip the many layers he’d covered
himself with since they met. Unlike Sergeant, Percival didn’t label him a
wicked rogue, “Does it hurt?”
The question surprised him. Credence had expected Percival to ask about his
deviancy, when it had started, what did it do, was is intentional? But no.
Percival’s main concern was if it, the rotten darkness of his soul, inflicted
pain upon Credence.
“No, not right now. I -- It feels like fire when I… when that happens, but it
goes away, and then I’m not really sure how it feels because I do not remember
much after that happens.”
Percival nodded, his mind surely spurring with many ideas. He seemed hesitant
to proceed, but after a sharp click of his tongue he spoke, “Credence, I
believe -- I am certain you are what we call an Obscurial,” seeing Credence’s
visage yet to catch up, he elaborated, “An Obscurial is a witch or a wizard
who’s been forced to conceal their magic, to suppress it completely. Most
Obscurials are children no older than the age of ten, and there aren’t all that
many. Unfortunately, they are easily targeted by no-majs like Bartholomew. Some
wizards kill them too to avoid major issues, and the rest… let’s just say magic
turned inwards is potentially lethal. I have never heard of an Obscurial living
for sixteen years, my boy.”
“Oh,” Credence looked down. His heart beat in dissonance, climbing up to his
mouth, ready to be coughed up at any second. Cold sweat pearled his forehead.
One moment he was staring fixedly at the half-finished cup of coffee, hearing a
clatter ringing in his ears, and the next, Percival was kneeling at his side,
cupping his face.
“Look at me, Credence, please.”
It was difficult to breathe. He had always known there was something inherently
wrong with him, Mary Lou reminded him of it every day, but to have Percival
acknowledge it as well, to put a name to the dark thing that hid inside his
chest, the very thing that would be his demise, was too much to bear.   
Percival repeated himself, his voice beckoned Credence like a fish to the hook,
and then he was looking at his weary face, concern written in the strong
furrowed brows.
“It’s fine, my boy. We will handle this. I won’t let you get hurt,” I won’t let
you die,Credence heard.
His very essence was vile. Who was there left to care if he surrendered to
another sin? He wrapped his arms around Percival, clinging to his shirt, trying
to feel the skin it covered, slim fingers digging harshly. And Percival held
him back, just as fiercely, as if he were something precious, an invaluable,
good soul.
“I won’t lose you, Credence. I can’t lose you.”
 
After that, settling back into their routine was easy, yet some days two steps
forward meant three step back. Credence, still shaken by the events, was jumpy
at every sound, and never left the cottage. The forest remained unexplored, hut
he felt as if he knew every tree in it already. Magic on the other hand, was a
newly found discovery, and its many wonders never ceased to astound him, fear
and trepidation fading bit by bit. Percival, for his part, spent less time at
the Village, or went back to check on him throughout the day.
For a drawn-out period, talk in the Village was fixed on the escape of the
dangerous witch Credence Miller, the very one who incited others to stoop down
into sin, filling the devil’s black book with names, terrorizing neighbors
while attacking their crops and cattle, and causing havoc all along the coast.
It was rumored he had covenanted with Satan himself, and not with any of his
demonic minions. Nonetheless, the Barebone clan was still held in high regards,
what with Bartholomew being a Scourer and Mary Lou an open spokeswoman against
many evils, no taint had come to them. On the contrary, many lauded them for
having took in the orphan out of the goodness of their Christian hearts, and
lamented the wicked turn the boy had taken. They were pitied and praised, the
perfect puritan family.
Since the interrogation and trial had obviously been postponed until his
recapture, and to appease the worried souls of the locals, Scourers had been
out in the woods for weeks searching for him, under order of eliminating him on
sight. The fugitive had demonstrated the highest of culpabilities, no deed of
redemption was to save Credence.
Meanwhile in the secreted cottage, Credence and Percival relished in their
united solitude. Days were almost idle and carefree. Nights however, proved
more difficult, even if Percival was there right next to him on the bed. Even
if he pressed swift good night kisses on his pale cheek when the candles were
put out, or on his nape when he felt anxious and couldn’t sleep.
“I’m sorry,” he said, unable to keep away from upsetting thoughts.
Lately it felt as if an apology was always falling off the tip of Credence’s
tongue, for he was sorry. He was a disaster. He was no child of God, but he was
no true child of magic either, like Percival. He felt like the faultiest of
creatures.
“Come here.”
Some nights Percival would tell him stories about his life while Credence
rested his head atop the wizard’s chest, lost in the gruff voice and the
pleasant thumping of his heart, legs tangled in an intimate fashion.
“My grandfather, Tristan Graves, came to the Americas from Ireland, in search
of a better life, I suppose. By that time these lands were still very young,
and Ilvermorny, the American school of wizardry, was rather small. Since the
1630s and following Hogwarts’ tradition, that is the British school of
wizardry, Ilvermorny sends letters to its students when they turn eleven to be
properly taught magic control, though it’s not a fool-proof system yet since,
unfortunately, many young witches and wizards have passed unnoticed,” Credence
was glad to hear sincerity mingled with every word Percival muttered, and
though the things he described seemed too far-fetched for him, he cherished
them all the same, “However, I started to formally learn it before that age. My
father, Gondulphus, was mostly responsible for my early education, wanting me
to excel my peers once I was boarded off to school. After graduating, I trained
myself in different skills, of course. Granted that’s only expected if one
wishes to have a say in the Council, that is our… government,” this last he
said chuckling, “See, America is much too vast, and there’s still no consensus
as to who holds the bastion.”
“Much like us then?” Credence asked.
“Us?”
“The normal people,” he clarified, poking Percival’s chest.
“Ah, yes! Many powers keep meddling in businesses which, sincerely, do not
concern them any longer. Wizards aren’t completely distanced from the realities
you mention, my boy. We too want political autonomy, yet as you well know, we
face other tribulations on top of that. All these persecutions have led to
numerous attacks, murders of innocent no-majs by scorned wizards. Sadly, my
father informs me the tally has massively increased as of late… Nevertheless,
you are wrong, my boy. You are not one of them,” this he said with a smile on
his lips.
“Hmm,” Credence didn’t know what else to say, but these talks weren’t for him
to give an elaborate opinion anyway. Percival spoke to soothe him, to keep the
monsters at bay.
“The point is – “ Percival said after a while, retaking the source of the
conversation, “Yes, wizarding schools do exist. But like no-majs, we are still
somewhat tied to the British Empire, consequently, the whole educational system
could do with some key improvements, I believe. In fact, even the Council
should sort out its priorities, if you ask me,” he cleared his throat, “There
are sufficient resources to fund more magical schools and universities, or at
the very least stretch Ilvermorny’s budget, but bureaucracy, my boy, is an evil
yet to be defeated.”
Oft-times Percival would turn very political, despite wanting to lighten
Credence’s spirits with each story. Nonetheless, that was unsurprising. The
patriotic vein of young men pulsed heavily, and it mattered not if Percival was
a wizard.
“You feel very strongly about this, don’t you?” he asked, smiling up to meet
Percival’s gaze.
“I --Yes, of course I do! Though if you think me impassioned about it, you
should meet my father. The man drinks, eats and breathes politics, wizarding
and no-maj alike. He can be a little… suffocating.”
Percival broke out in a chortle that seemed to break the taut uneasiness that
had coiled within Credence once the sun had dipped in the rosy horizon. His
laughter was contagious, therefore Credence found himself echoing the sound,
though his own was more subdued, a buzz that bubbled in his belly, and fainted
as soon as it crossed his lips.
“I do not think your father would ever want to meet me, Percival.”
“Ah, no. He’s… To be truthful, I doubt he’s much interested in meeting anyone
who isn’t a politician. The man is brilliant, an exceptional wizard and an all-
round tremendous person, but he is a little hard to approach. In time though, I
think he’d like you.”
Were they not enclosed by darkness, Percival would’ve easily seen him blush.
Credence shook his head and sighed. Venturing farther down that road would only
bring discomfort about. He was not yet certain why Percival allowed this level
of intimacy, if either it was normal between wizards, or if he had inclined
tendencies as well as Credence. But if it was the latter, then Credence
couldn’t think of their conduct, Percival’s conduct, as immoral or shameful. A
man like him, so high and mighty, couldn’t do anything wrong.
With Percival’s fingers carding his hair, Credence fell into earnest sleep.
Warm and contented, nightmares didn’t pay him a visit.
Apart from endlessly writing on his journals after going to the Village,
Percival had taken to poring himself over books Credence had never seen. The
seemingly interminable fountain of leather-bound tomes was a mystery to him
till one day it was no more.
A currant-colored bag that tied with flimsy strings. A little bag able to fit
the entire length of Percival’s arm.
“An extension charm,” Percival declared cheerily, “Most of my books I keep here
with me. It’s extremely useful, and as you can see…” he handed the bag to
Credence, “weighs same as a feather. Marvelous, wouldn’t you say?”
Credence nodded dumbfounded, and after Percival stretched out his arm in a
manner that seemed to say ‘be my guest’, he dug his arm inside the bag,
fascinated by seeing the limb disappear while his fingertips grazed the spine
of many a book, “Wonderful,” he whispered under his breath.
“Indeed,” agreed Percival, sporting a self-satisfied smirk, then added “I have
been looking for cures, you could say, to extricate the Obscurus.”
Credence shook his head, “You don’t have to, Percival.”
“I know, Credence, I know,” he said, taking both slim hands in his own. Then he
tilted his head, and waited for Credence to meet his gaze. Boundless compassion
and affection flooded his brown eyes, “I want to help you, my boy. I said I
would.”
“But it is not your obligation. You have other, more important, things to do.”
“I’m living with an Obscurial, dear boy…” he said without a hint of malice, “I
don’t think myself mistaken when I say you come first. Besides, there’s not
much I can do for Salem now. Suspects are interrogated and restrained, yes, but
the executions have stopped since you escaped. I believe they fear
repercussions will come to them if they so much as hang person more. It’s
mayhem, but it’s contained. Not that I am allowed to interfere, even if I
wanted to.”
“But you saved me,” Credence said, voice small.
“Yes, I saved you. Because you matter too much for me to care about the damn
rules,” a vague smile concealing the unintentional grimace, “There are books
here I have yet to read completely. Books about simple spells and charms from
my Ilvermorny days, books about the history of wizardkind, and other books that
focus on the darker aspects of magic. On those there is the sporadic mention of
Obscuri, but granted, no author has written an in-depth handbook on how to
control or banish one.”
Credence gasped, “Banish? Would that be possible?”
“Well…” Answered Percival, scratching the back of his head, “Few authors have
mentioned it. Theoretically speaking it is doable, though I’m not sure what the
ritual would entail. Seeing as there are no official records, and is only
talked about as a thing from legend, I assume it requires older magic, the type
of magic medieval witches and wizards vowed to abandon.”
Credence ignored old magic even existed, it was all a novelty to him, “Why?”
“It employs our very basic nature and magical core. To directly interfere with
it is a risky endeavor that could easily end up in the death of whomever is
practicing it. Sangromancy, necromancy, bone magic, all seven of the forbidden
arts, practices that would make the pelage of Sphinx stand on edge.”
Credence played with the hem of his sleeve, a loose thread bothering him, or
perhaps it was easier to fix his attention on the string rather than look at
Percival, “Would it be possible to expel it though, even if it were through
such… magic?”
Percival never gave Credence false hopes, never promised something he could not
deliver. Not that he’d be home early, not that he would erase the minds of the
townspeople. He did promise not to desert Credence once his task had come to
completion. And despite the last one was yet to be confirmed, Credence’s faith
that he’d keep his word didn’t waver.
“In theory, yes,” seeing as this answer was not satisfactory enough for
Credence, Percival added, “If research goes well, and I find any hint of
anything that could work, we shall try, though I can’t make any promises, my
boy.”
It was plenty of a hope for Credence, “I’d like to try then, once you find more
information.”
Percival nodded solemnly the way soldiers do when they go off to war, and
smiled, cradling his face with smooth hands, and planting a firm kiss on his
forehead, “I shall look harder then.”
Several nights after being freed, Credence remained wide awake. Other nights he
barely rested, waking up at dawn with puffy eyes, and nodding drowsily
throughout the day. Nonetheless, the worst nights were those in which fear and
something else, that unnamable being, took hold of him, leaving his body to
quiver and thrash in Percival’s arms after surfacing from sordid nightmares.
Nights in which he felt the contours of his body dematerializing into smoky
tendrils that filled the room with its unnerving presence.
Percival’s eyes would go wide as full moons, but he succeeded in talking his
darkness down with soft words and whispered reassurances. It was an
unsustainable situation, and they both knew it. What they ignored, for it
remained a distant dot in an abyss of black, was how much longer they’d have to
acquiesce the ever-impending Obscurus.
Despite feeling like a terrible burden, Credence was starting to wholeheartedly
believe Percival wished him by his side, Obscurial or not.
It didn’t take him many more days to come across a possible remedy, though he
was rather reluctant to share with Credence its specifics, arguing it probably
wouldn’t work.
“Percival…” prompted Credence.
It was late noon and they were, for a change, outside the cottage, seated on
the large rocks at the back of the terrain. Percival had assured Credence no
one would come their way. The structure was completely concealed, out of sight,
hearing, scent, and touch. If anyone came walking by they’d see an empty
clearing, and would have an inexplicable urge to turn the other side and be on
their way.
“You promised,” he chided, aware it was a low blow, but reluctant to abandon
the possibility of exorcising his demon.
Percival exhaled loudly, “I know.”
The month of April had fluttered away, and May had rolled in, extending its
sunnier days lazily. The foliage of the trees turned a richer shade of green,
the soil retained its moistened look. As night was approaching the temperature
had dropped, Credence was wrapped in a blanket, knees tucked beneath his chin.
He squinted at Percival, but the glower had the adverse effect, and the other
simply grinned, and rubbed the back of his neck; his other hand buried in the
front pocket of his breeches.
“Obscurials may be the the most powerful and unpredictable of magic users known
to this day, Credence. The energy they contain – you contain, is incalculable,
even after being tightly suppressed for so long, and because of that same
reason, turned sour. That’s what makes this ritual all the more dangerous. We
do not know how either you or the obscurus will react. It has protected you
from peril before, but if we actively attempt to remove it, it could retaliate
and kill you instantly.”
“But… You said it can’t survive outside of me,” he argued trying to keep up.
“That is true, my boy,” he agreed proudly, “But this is not a reasoning
creature, this is a parasitic entity, one that can easily overpower you, and
which is nearly, if not impossible, to control.”
“But do you agree then,” he insisted, “it would be best to… banish it?”
“Yes,” Percival replied reflexively, “Without a doubt. But… As I thought, old
magic is to be employed. Sangromancy, to be more specific. It would be
dangerous, and there’s no guarantee it will work, seeing as there are no
records of anyone ever attempting to remove an Obscurus.”
“Sangromancy?”
“Yes. Blood magic. Blood is, after all, our life force. Because it is vital
many wizards used to practice it to enhance the efficacy of their rituals,”
Percival gave him time to grasp his meaning, “The text made mention of another
practice. Sex magick.”
Credence felt the tips of his ears burning. He wanted to detract his gaze from
Percival’s, but he had insisted vehemently, and paying any less heed would make
him come across as rude.
“Oh, I didn’t know,” he mumbled gracelessly.
Percival shifted his gaze, perhaps to give Credence a chance to recover from
the revelation, “There’s no reason why you should. It’s an outdated practice,
if I recall well. Some witches and wizards still practice it, but it’s only
used to achieve very specific goals because it garners such high amounts of
energy. It heightens the senses, can put one in a deep trance, and is also used
as a means to transcend corporality. Hence why the common wizard forgot about
it,” he glanced at Credence from the corner of his eye, “Anyway, according to
various authors and anonymous texts, the combination of both blood magic and
sex magick is the most potent for complex rituals, including those of expulsion
and cleansing, which is what we’d be doing if we were to expel the Obscurus.”
A tawny owl hooted high up in a branch, and shadows had begun to appear behind
the trunks of trees. The rock felt cooler against Credence’s palms.
“I trust you, Percival. But I haven’t done that, or any of the sort,” he
admitted, feeling an angry blush spreading all over his face, “It would be
sinful to taint one’s body with such acts if not blessed by holy marriage, and
only then to seek a child for the glory of the Lord,” Credence bit his lip,
remembering the many homilies of the minister, “But I… If you think it could
help, I think we should try.”
Percival stared at him for a long minute, his shoulders were not squared as
they had been before the conversation had unraveled. He stepped closer to
Credence. Perched in the high rock as he was, he had to tilt his face upward to
look at Percival, like a flower turning to the sun. Percival ran his knuckles
along the curve of his cheekbone, and he couldn’t help leaning into the touch.
Inside his stomach a flock of wild butterflies whiffled.
“Very well then, my boy.”
He could feel Percival’s eyes scorching him, same as a roaring fire, as they
traveled downward, to his lips. Credence averted his stare, an ebullient heat
expanding along his neck and across his chest, making every inch of his skin
tingle.
When Percival next spoke, his voice was still calm, but its previous rawness
didn’t saturate his words, “I promise I won’t hurt you. This is not how your
first time should go, but I shall be gentle.”
“Thank you,” Credence managed to croak out, face spluttered in red.
Aided by Percival he got off the rock, and wrapped the blanket tighter around
his frame. Their footsteps back to the cottage were slow-paced, idle. There was
no hurry. For all it mattered, they could’ve laid the blanket on the ground,
and slept under the starry black alcove. Perhaps one day they would.
Percival’s flat voice chimed in, “Sex should be something you share with
someone special, because you love them or like them. Sometimes you do it only
because you want to do it, but not because you feel forced to,” the look on his
eye was apologetic, “I wish it didn’t have to be like this for you, Credence.”
Credence pondered his words. Percival never said anything about marriage or
chastity, or how wrong it was to practice sex for any other reason than to
bring a child into the world. He didn’t say it was a greater sin if such act
was shared between two men. Didn’t say it was an abomination, or an unnatural
deviance, as the scriptures sustained.
Percival only wished Credence’s first time was with someone he cared for, and
not to dispel of his demon. Yet again Credence wished there was no Obscurus to
begin with.
“Me too.”
After two more days of ancient book studies, and two nights filled with
nightmares that left Credence a smoky trembling pile on the floor, Percival
announced over breakfast he knew as much as there was to know about the
banishment.
“Banishing spells work better a few days after the full moon, that is in about
a week”, he said after a mouthful of pear tartlet, “But we’ll do it whenever
you feel ready. I would not pressure you into something like this, Credence,
you are aware of that.”
Credence halted his spoon in midair. Then he came back to himself, and gulped
down his bite. Expectation roiled in his gut.
His nerves had teased him ever since that speech outside the cottage. Every
night, before falling asleep, he sensed the weight and heat and scent that
emanated from Percival. He wondered the feel of his bare, sweaty skin. The
taste of it. Although he knew it was only for the sake of the ritual, he
couldn’t quench his misplaced fervor.
Under the table his toes curled, “I’ll be ready when the moon is.”
Percival nodded decidedly. His dark brows were set, same as the firm line his
lips drew. His noble determination to help settled his expression into
something that tore Credence’s heart.
“Good,” the wizard uttered. Then he stood up and walked to the front door,
taking his jacket off the rack, and looking at his reflection on the small
mirror though his eyes seemed to be looking right through it.
Percival had to meet with another wizard who worked for the Council three towns
up north. They were to trade information and discuss the events, draw
conclusions and possible solutions the Council would not take at heart’s value.
“Tedious”, the wizard had said, “but necessary.”
He’d promised Credence the night before, he’d be back by supper, but it still
filled him with dread, Percival’s departure. It always did. Every evening the
same nagging feeling invaded his muscles and bones, the terror that Percival
wouldn’t cross the threshold of their home, wouldn’t hold Credence in the
welcoming embrace of his arms.
“I will check the wards before leaving. Just in case,” he looked dashing in his
embroidered silk suit. The dark shades he preferred, contrasted terribly well
with the tones of his complexion, the high cravat emphasized the elegance of
his jaw and neck, the stylish coat complimented the straight breadth of his
shoulders.
Credence blinked dazedly, and swallowed another mouthful of porridge.
“Thank you.”
“No need to thank me for something like that,” Percival countered amused, “The
Council would kick me out its ranks faster than you could say Wampus if I were
reckless enough not to revise my own wards.”
Credence smiled at having recognized the Wampus reference. Percival had told
him all about Ilvermorny and its four houses.
“Alright,” he assented. And then, because he didn’t want Percival to leave with
a simple ‘alright’, Credence plucked up his courage, and strode towards him,
awkwardly putting his arms around him, and murmuring another ‘thank you’
against the expensive clothes.
Percival patted his back, and, without the ungainliness that soaked Credence
from head to toe, kissed his temple, as if it were easy, and didn’t weaken the
back of Credence’s knees.
“Be safe, my boy. I’ll be back soon.”
The week leading up to the full moon passed by in a flurry.
Credence felt joyous excitement sparkling within him, thundering and stomping,
hitting him most forcefully whenever Percival was within his orbit, which was
to say, all the time Percival was home. What before could be masked as sheer
curiosity about the mysterious wizard, converted into a sick desire to know him
better, emotionally and physically. Prayers directed at God didn’t sate his
hunger, nor did they quietened his jittering, excitable nerves.
He would chase after the man’s warmth, seeking that familiar comfort that
placated the uneasiness of his Obscurus most effectively.
Safely tucked in the wilderness, Credence permitted his instinct to be closer
to Percival to flourish. And Percival never shunned him, or turned him away,
never rolled to the other side of the bed, or complained when Credence
annihilated the inches between their bodies as they sat in companionable
silence before the fireplace.
Percival had picked up a Bible for Credence, and, at first, he found some
solace in its verses. Nevertheless, he began to analyze what he read, many
times questioning the morals and connotations of the stories, often seeking
Percival’s opinion about his God. More and more, Credence encountered
wickedness in the scriptures, but there was goodness too. The Lord, it seemed,
was not who Mary Lou and Bartholomew and the minister claimed.
And so, in finding his own voice Credence began to listen to his body too. A
body that reacted to Percival’s proximity with acute clarity, that seemed to
vibrate each time Percival fed his words to the shell of his pinkened ear, that
roused early in the morning with traces of his shameful dreams.
Finally, after what appeared an eternity, the date arrived.
It began like any other day. The same trill of the birds and whooshing of the
wind, the same tranquility while breaking fast, the same hollow feeling when
Percival left, and the same emptiness of the hours spent without him, but the
expectation of his return intensified tenfold.
When the creatures of the night came out of their lairs, and the alabaster moon
clambered its way up to stare at the lands splayed at her feet, Credence felt
his stomach churn. They had a light supper, but every bite had been heavy and
squashy in Credence’s mouth.
And then it was time for the ritual to commence.
Percival guided him to the bedroom wherein candles were arranged in a large
circle on the floor. It seemed every bit as evil as the puritan mind could
muster. “Maybe Mary Lou wasn’t so wrong after all”, a voice whispered in his
brain. But he trusted Percival, he’d pushed him into doing this, and he wasn’t
about to back down due to long-ingrained beliefs he no longer agreed with.
“I wish I knew of a less obtrusive way to remove the Obscurus, my boy.”
Percival had stressed the evolution magic had undergone, especially in the last
two centuries, but the old pull of a more primitive power still thrummed.
“Magic –power, comes from a body’s energy. No one knows why a person is born
with magic. What sets us apart from no-majs, perhaps, is no more than dumb
chance. But it is all about the energy, Credence.”
And it made sense, what Percival said. Although Credence doubted he would ever
become a good wizard, or if he would even be brave enough to carry that title
without cowering at the memory of the cross, he had always felt connected to
his body in a manner that wasn’t typical for those around him, like Modesty or
Chastity. He could feel, especially lately, currents of energy churning in his
blood. At night, it had been worse; when Mary Lou and Bartholomew had him beat
up and shivering in the cold with only a threadbare shirt covering his back,
praying to an unforgiving God for mercy; on such nights, so long ago, he
could’ve tear down the walls of Jericho or crush Babel to the ground, so
powerful he felt.
Also, the days spent in the cell had dissipated the fog in his eyes. Goodness
was not owned by a single path, it diverged into many affluents. When Percival
had gone to his rescue, he knew there was kindness in him, the type that was
pure and asked for nothing in return. The first weeks in the cottage Credence
had been nothing but a nuisance, a liability, a good-for-nothing youth, but the
man had come for him, and, like a savior of the Old Testament, swoop him from
certain death.
“It’s alright if you do not wish to do it this way anymore, Credence,” Percival
was giving him a last chance to say no, to elude a mound of sins that had
nothing to do with witchcraft and everything to do with temptations of the
flesh.
But Credence, sinner that he was, wanted to see the ritual through.
“I want to. I want to banish this evil from my soul. I want you to help me,
Percival,” despite aiming for a strong tone, his last words broke around the
edges and cut him, making him seem more vulnerable before the man.      
Percival walked up to him, and it was blissful relief to have him so near, to
feel his well-built body slotting against his own. His hand cupped the back of
Credence’s head, and he couldn’t help inhaling the musky scent of his neck.
Credence hadn’t meant to, but, from his eyes, rebellious tears made their way
down the slope of his cheek and onto Percival’s white shirt. Only the darkness
stirring within him was an indicator that the moment was more than a hopeful
dream.
For the first time in his life, Credence was grateful for his evil, the
Obscurus.
In the dank warmth of Percival’s skin, he felt the grave cadence of his voice,
“Energy is a vital force, Credence. And as I told you, it manifests itself
directly in the blood. If I cut you, you will bleed, and if you do not stop the
bleeding, you’ll die. Do you understand that?”
He nodded because he did. The villagers practice bloodletting to free a person
from evil humors when illness hit. It was common knowledge.
“Just to be absolutely clear about this: We are going to need blood to make the
banishing spell work. Your blood and mine both. I know this may seem
frightening to you right now, for it is frightening. I have never performed
this kind of spell before, but I’ve done enough research to know the gist of
it, and the possible outcomes should the ritual go askew,” he stared at
Credence, and there was gentleness in his eyes as well as deep regret that
nearly caused Credence’s knees to buckle under his weight, “I will be with you
every step of the way, darling. You haven’t fear.”
“Alright,” he replied sheepishly.
Percival hadn’t voiced his inquiry, but Credence heard it nonetheless. He
didn’t have anything to lose. His family and the locals had turned their backs
on him; he was an outcast, a pariah. If it were for them he’d be hanging in the
town square, an example for everyone else not to submit to the devil. Compared
to their kindness or lack thereof, Percival was a god of mercy, and even though
the blasphemy still made him tremble, a part of him knew he was right. He
confided in Percival, he was a good man, a powerful one, and maybe he was God’s
gift to Credence for all the suffering he had endured in his life.
It started slow, like the changing hues of the leaves when autumn strolls in
sluggishly. Percival took a step back, and, with deft fingers, undid the
buttons of Credence’s shirt, divesting him of the garment with swift, confident
motions.
Shame boiled in Credence’s core, but it was buried deep within his bones, and
above it, like a substance, a layer of desire and expectation floated. He was
rotten because beyond the needful reasons that brought this act about, he was
moved by a lunge of sinful lust.
That the holy scriptures reviled a man lying with another mattered little to
Credence, especially when Percival’s hands traveled southward, to the front of
his breeches and undid them as well, letting them fall at his ankles, exposing
the pale length of his lanky legs. He felt much too thin and inadequate, a
famished sight, unworthy of a handsome gentleman like Percival Graves. Exposed
from head to toe, there was no concealment for the flush that spread like a
bonfire over his chest, or the hardening of his prick. On his nape, a hot
weight bore him down, but he dared not cover himself, and betray the last shred
of his dignity. What they were doing, what was about to transpire, was solely a
mean to get rid of the Obscurus, as Percival had said.
“Please lie down,” muttered Percival, gesturing to portion of the floor circled
by white candles, and over which a white symbol had been painted. He didn’t
recognize the sigil, but it seemed rudimentary and old.
He felt silly and unsure, like a tiny mouse hiding under the wood planks of the
granary. The flicking flames were distracting, and they kept him warm despite
being nude, but all too soon his gaze shifted, and fixed on Percival. Just like
Credence he was stripping down. Little by little, more of him was unveiled, the
peeling of the coat exposed a shirt, then the shucking of said shirt revealed a
lean, muscled chest, lightly dusted by fine hairs. Perhaps he had stopped
breathing, perhaps the air had gone from his lungs to his head and flummoxed
his brain, but truth be told, Credence felt dizzy, as if a pressure was keeping
him underwater, as if he couldn’t draw a single breath. While he struggled to
appear nonchalant, Percival tossed off his boots, dark trousers followed suit.
Where Credence was slim, Percival was toned. He could’ve defeated Credence in
an instant, yet he had always been so painfully tender. Were he to beat him
like Mary Lou did, the boy wouldn’t have survived, not only because Percival
surpassed the woman’s strength, but because a strike from him would shatter
Credence’s whole world.
He started to sweat cold then, heart ricocheting against the bony walls of his
ribcage. He wanted to jump out of his skin, to fall asleep, and awake once the
ritual had been completed. Tense anticipation nipped at his skin.
Pleading for Percival to start the ritual wouldn’t do them any favors though.
He was not an expert on ancient banishments, and Credence did not wish to
infect him with worry.
“Is it going to hurt?” he asked, mainly to fill the silence since he didn’t
care much for the pain, he was used to it.
Percival winced as he set herbs and incenses alight, their pungent aroma
pervading the room, and making Credence feel heavier but somehow more awake
too. “It shouldn’t. But I do have to cut you to draw the blood.”
Credence hummed and waited for Percival to ignite the rest of the sundries. His
movements lacked all bashfulness. He seemed comfortable in his nakedness,
disregarding Credence’s blatant ogling. He even smiled when he caught him
staring at his half-erect member.
“These are alkanet, yarrow, sandalwood, and rue. They’re known for their
cleansing properties,” he said, pointing to the ignited leaves.
Plants weren’t Credence’s forte, but he recognized a name or two. He liked that
Percival took the time to explain what was going on, if only to not let him
feel like an utter fool. All the same, Credence was a stupid, wicked boy, and
now Percival felt it his duty to help him despite having to commit shameful
atrocities in his behalf. If there was any goodness left in Credence, he would
run back into the woods and let himself be killed by a feral wolf. Thus, he
wouldn’t contaminate Percival, but he wasn’t good. Not anymore. Perhaps never
had been. And because of that he was here, in need of a banishment spell, about
to have his blood spilled, and his body soaked in carnal sin in the hopes of
scourging the evil that dwelled within him.
Outside the wind whistled, it sounded like a croon, a lullaby of sorts, gently
swaying the branches, and singing the creatures to sleep. The crackling of the
fireplace resonated too. He would’ve fallen asleep if it wasn’t for Percival,
who was now kneeling by his side, staring down at him, and telling him it would
be over soon, “It will be just fine, trust me.”
Then a black sash was wrapped around his head, and he couldn’t see anymore.
“Loosen up, Credence. I need you to focus for me.”
He was lying on the wood floor, but he might as well be falling. Percival’s
voice seemed to barely reach him from another world, a place so far away
Credence could hardly hear him. Dark, strange, it was the prison cell all over
again. In his mind, the squeaking of rats thundered, their ghosts gliding
against his bare skin.
“Credence. Focus on my voice. I need you to breathe,” instructions were easy to
follow, so that he did. He concentrated on the low, gruff intonations of
Percival’s voice, clinging to them as his seams started to unwind.
“Focus on the sound of the wind. Do you hear it, sweet boy?”
Yes, of course he did. It was a lament and an ode, mingled in a beautiful
melody, swirling just outside the walls. It was gentle but it was strong, and
then he was wafting just like a leaf, being pulled and pushed by the airy
currents.
“Do you feel the warmth of the candles, Credence? Focus on that too,” he was
speaking lower, but Credence heard him clear, like mellow cream lathering over
Credence. Now the heat intensified, it was doubtlessly gnawing at his flesh.
Warm, too warm. The same heat of the candles had invaded his body, and it
twisted at the base of his spine, spreading lower, unfolding between his legs.
He was pulsing, thrumming, his hips canted upward.
 Shame was a feeling he scarcely had room for in his heart, his mind. Not then.
A sudden rush of blood traveled downward, and then his cock was curving against
the flat expanse of his belly. Hot, heavy, desperate for release.
Percival’s hands were on his thighs, keeping him ground to the floor. Credence
wanted those hands higher, but he couldn’t ask that of him. He couldn’t ask
anything, only take whatever the man deemed fair and necessary to give him.
“Now, inhale. Deeply. Go on.”
Credence did as he was told, his nostrils filling with strong scents. The odor
combination was potent, he could feel it almost solid, as it made its way into
his lungs.
Though deprived of his sight, the rest of his senses overwhelmed Credence. He
felt a sudden urge to kiss Percival, to thank him for the lengths he was
willing to go for him. Yet his tongue was but a knot in his mouth, and his
brain was saddled with fever. In his ears, Percival’s voice rang, he was
speaking words Credence tuned out, perhaps because they seemed to belong to
another language. A monologue, almost chanted, that arched Credence’s spine,
and intensified the blooming heat behind the swell of his sack. It was
humiliating to say the least, but there was comfort in knowing part of his
delirium was caused by the incantation and the ritual itself.
Hot wax dribbled on his chest, but he barely felt it, for his lower half was
starting to burn up with zest. He could feel the Obscurus scraping his insides,
threating to storm out, and burn the whole of Bay Colony to ashes.
All that stood between doom and salvation, was Percival, whom he could not see,
and could barely feel. There wasn’t nearly enough of his skin in contact with
Credence’s, even his hands had abandoned his thighs.
Seconds passed like fractured eternities, Credence’s heart slowed down, but it
was only the calm before the storm. The air compressed around him, and at long
last, a disruption. Percival’s voice and the clink of glass.
“I shall start the ritual now, Credence. Please do feel free to object if you
experience any discomfort, it’s do not want to hurt you, my boy. Ask me to stop
if it becomes too much,” his voice had hitched up at the end, as if
questioning, so Credence nodded and took a deep breath.
Then his wrists were being tied, arms outstretched. The same happened with his
legs, which, secured by ties, were obscenely spread out. Had he wanted to quit,
it was too late now despite whatever Percival may say.
The pulse of his heart thrummed in his veins, but more curiously, in the most
intimate part of his body. Perhaps the man could see him, see his disgrace.
Maybe he was disgusted, yet thanks to the sash, Credence was unaware of it. He
needn’t see revulsion in his savior’s face; he could live in delightful
ignorance.
“Please,” he begged with a whimper, twisting on the floor, attempting to grind
his hips. If the devil possessed his soul already, then he might as well plead
to have his evil ravished out of him.
He heard a quiet grunt, and then Percival’s finger drew lines on his chest.
Surely one of the symbols he’d seen drawn on a piece of parchment.
The ink was Percival’s blood.
Then he heard water splashing in the vase, and later, the dull thud of a cloth
falling to the ground. He wanted to ask what was going on, but he wasn’t sure
it wouldn’t negatively affect the spell.
Shortly after, a slippery digit probed at his entrance, the touch light and
alien. “It’s alright. I will take care of you, sweet boy.”
Little else was there for him to do other than wait, wait and struggle to
contain the Obscurus, to keep it tightly leashed in the confines of his bones.
Yet it was difficult. With each stretched-out minute he felt like coming apart.
The room was filled with his pathetic whimpers and mewls, the fact that
Percival had not scolded him for it was nothing short of a miracle.
The pressure at his entrance increased, as did the unrepentant writhing of his
body. But then, after various futile attempts of getting the entirety of the
digit inside his sinful heat, Percival succeeded, and rhythmically thrusted at
a comfortable, yet agonizing pace.
And then Credence was spilling his load all over his own skin, while Percival
jerked out the last streams out of him.
If Mary Lou could see him now, she’d beat him bloody, tear the flesh out of him
with wrathful lashes while raining down the righteous fury of God on him.
Bartholomew would simply watch, contempt boiling in his sockets.
But he was far from the Barebones. He was being taken care of by Percival.
Obeying Percival’s previous command, Credence refocused on what his senses
could perceive, tact now included. And that one was the most delightful,
because Percival’s finger was fully buried in his tight channel, curling in
search of something, being sucked in by the dilated muscle.
“Pardon me if this is mildly unpleasant,” said Percival after Credence let out
a rather keen sob.
Trapped in blackness, he was overawed, tears stinging at the back of his tired
eyes. He didn’t know if they were open or close anymore, it made no difference,
“No, no,” he choked out, the response strangled around his windpipe, “It’s
good.”
Percival didn’t answer, not verbally, instead he retrieved the finger only to
push in anew, this time with two digits. It was a solitary addition,
nonetheless the burn of the stretch was greater, even when helped by more
slick. Credence welcomed it. The pain of sodomy was no heavenly atonement, but
it was a start.
“I know this feels rather intense, Credence, but I need you to hold tight. You
cannot let the Obscurus take a hold of you, not yet. Not until I say otherwise.
You must remember that,” Percival announced breathily. Credence tried to calm
the wantonness of his body.
Heavy drops pattered against the window pane, providing Percival’s chant with a
background texture.
“Sanguis et vitalis vis, liberta hanc animam meam. Ejice hunc malignum
obscurum,” Credence hadn’t the faintest idea what Percival’s words meant, but
it didn’t matter. He was being pleasantly carried away by it, in spite of the
incessant humming of the Obscurus.
Outside rain poured down with greater intensity, as if in tandem with the
passion Credence was experiencing. He wondered if it was all a coincidence, but
he suspected that wasn’t the case.
Percival’s fingers stretched the reluctant ring of muscle, the Latin chant now
a washed-out litany broken by the loud moan that was ripped out of Credence’s
throat as the digits brushed against a sensitive spot inside of him.
With another finger Percival stretched him further. Credence wondered if he
could die from this slow-administered pleasure, wondered how long ago Percival
had started the stable pumping that had him feeling like an ablaze coal.
“…relinquit hoc corpus… Credence, I’m going to enter you now, alright? I need
you to unwind. I will walk you through this, just – just focus on your senses,
darling. It will all be over soon. And breathe.”
“Yes, yes, sir Percival. Please,” he was soaked in sweat, not only due to
Percival’s clever ministrations, though that was a reason he would happily
endure again anytime, but also because of the Obscurus that kept coiling and
unfurling, attempting to break through Credence’s flesh and wreak maelstrom.
Nonetheless, focusing on his breathing and everything that was perceptible to
his senses, as Percival advised, helped. The air was heady with the many scents
of herbs and flames and sweat and blood and magick. He was all but squirming,
eager to have Percival proceed with the next part of the ritual.
The stertorous quality of his gasps flapped inside his chest, and tumbled from
his lips. He only wished he could see Percival instead of merely feeling the
touch of his skin, but they had agreed on the sash to make it as objective as
it possibly was in such a situation. Still, dread clasped his heart, it felt as
if the Obscurus was overriding him, as if the evil darkness would prevail, and
his weak body would succumb to its force.
“Credence?”
The empty weight of Percival hovering above him, without Credence being able to
touch or see him, was asphyxiating in its own way, much as the difficulty to
restrain the lecherous moans that escaped him while Percival’s grip massaged
with purpose his once again hardened length, paying close attention to the
crown, swirling his thumb ever so lightly across the slit.
“I – I… Percival?” he croaked, the words lost in the storm that was swelling
outside.
“Yes, my boy?”
“Would you… take the sash off?” and then he elaborated quickly, almost
stumbling over his words, “I want to see you, I won’t last much longer with it
on.”
Silence, and then Percival said, “If you’re certain…”
With the blind off it was easier to ground himself to what was happening, which
was not to say the experience became underwhelming. On the contrary, looking at
Percival, nude and flushed and disheveled, made the pool of heat burn hotter
inside Credence. Besides feeling the fingers digging inside and on the jut of
his hip, he could see the flexing muscles on Percival’s forearm, the tight
resolve of his lips.
The room smelled intoxicatingly, and the aroma was undermining Credence’s
faculties. His mind was falling out of himself while his goose-bumped flesh
whined madly.
Percival chanced a glance his way, and, encouraged by whatever he saw written
on Credence’s face, he took himself in hand and lined up the head of his cock
with the chaste entrance.
Credence could’ve melted right then, same as the wax of a candle. The point of
contact was unbearable, slippery and stingy, it hurt, but the pain was
tolerable, and, devil take his soul, it was delightful too. His body seemed
greedy to pull Percival deeper into the snug hole, yet tied as his limbs were,
leverage was an impossibility. Percival was the captain of the industry, his
slow lunges conquering the most intimate space of Credence’s body, eliciting
debauched, hoarse sounds from his raw throat.
The force of the Obscurus receded in Credence’s mind, it stayed put, giving
room to pleasure, buzzing softly and stroking his organs, amounting to the need
of get sweet relief once more.
Lastly, Percival’s cock was fully sheathed inside Credence. The sensation was
bizarre and not as pleasant as he imagined in the plethora of his shameful
dreams. Like being filled to the brim, stretched out like tenderized meat. More
than anything though, having Percival inside, swollen and throbbing, was
paradise.
Thereby, while easing his inhalations, Percival’s heated eyes contemplated his
face, the sides of his nose trembling. He began to jostle his hips forward,
like waves washing ashore, first hesitantly, slowly, dragging back leisurely,
then pushing into Credence’s clasping hollowness in the same manner. After a
few more thrusts, with Percival’s full-blown eyes on him, Credence started to
move in return, coupling each of Percival’s thrusts with shoves of his own,
chasing the sense of being opened so obscenely.
Lightnings were kissing him all over, pricking and nipping, arching his back,
and driving him down a spiral of erotic madness, making him beg for Percival
never to stop, to go harder and faster, to ruin him with divine wrath, and
flood a diluvium inside of him.
The tempest outside seemed to match Credence in desperation, thunders struck
with ferocity and drowned the lewd squelching noises their groins produced when
colliding time and time again, growing more frantic each time as their energies
blended.
Credence felt about to explode. It was akin to the auguring feeling at the
underside of his flesh before he woke up in the woods, scratched and bruised
all over. Nevertheless, what reigned over him now was not the same evil. It was
something just as powerful but a thousand times more pleasing and devastating.
Tears welled up his eyes, “Percival…,” he practically mewled, fascinated by the
evident discomposure of the man.
“It will be fine, my dearest boy,” illuminated by the fickle light of the
candles, he appeared to Credence a beautiful specter. A smear of blood tainted
the side of his jaw, “I want to you to unravel, Credence. Let out those lovely
moans of yours. Be as vocal and blunt as you wish. Though perhaps I should—“
his voice was like molten molasses, his hips plunged forward, hard, “-- give
you a reason to do so.”
The unbridled passion combined with the overwhelming Obscurus roasting his
insides, made Credence feel as if he were inside a fireplace, though hell would
be a more fitting term; as if he were wasting away by means of hellish
punishment, a foul sinner being sweetly tormented for the wickedness of his
soul. Like Percival was the devil himself, executing an unyielding sentence,
scourging him by granting that which he most viciously craved for, but
intensified, with bolts bending his spine and a cannonade of blows plowing his
rear.
Percival’s hands were placed on his shoulders for purchase, the planes of his
abdomen tautened by the continuous effort. There was fierceness in his stare, a
predatory intent, eager to devour him. However, that assumption could well be
but an extension of Credence’s lust-fogged head.
He wanted more from Percival though, more than the blood he spilled and the
energy of his innermost core, the proficiency of his body in making Credence’s
back curve up to the ceiling. He wanted more skin, to have the weight of him
draped atop his own frame, their heated, sweat-soaked bodies merging, mingling
into a substance beyond coherency, becoming a unique organism that beat and
breathed and gasped together. Climaxed together. He wished Percival could feel
what he was feeling, the delectable punch at the pit of his belly with each
penetration, the thrill of the Obscurus avid to escape as if holy water
slipping through his fingers. He wanted Percival’s mouth melding with his, to
feel the push of his wet tongue, the sharpness of his teeth.
Like God answering to his worshipper’s prayer, Percival leaned down, puffs of
his warm breath condensing the skin of Credence’s neck and jaw, “My perfect
boy, you’re doing great, Credence,” and then he slid farther down, and worried
one of Credence’s nipples in between his lips. The erect bud overly sensitive.
Credence cried out.
“Is that something you like, dear?” He did it again, licking, then biting just
hard enough to tear more indecent noises from Credence, whimpers and pitiful
screeches.
The flow of his charges didn’t relent, slower but all the bolder, he continued
thrusting inside the breached opening, hitting more often than not the bundle
of nerves that had Credence dangling at the edge of ecstasy.
Credence who, up until then, was unaware this unheavenly amount of pleasure
could be derived from one of the greatest sins appointed by the Lord. Credence
who had given free rein to his salacious side, no longer able to swallow his
wickedness.
“Please --Percival, please, touch me,” he whined, impatient to feel closer.
That there was no more intimate touch other than the one their hips were
eloquently undulating to went unsaid. Percival knew him well enough, better
than anyone ever. He knew Credence found comfort in being cradled, that he
slept better if he could listen to a heartbeat, that body heat made the apples
of his cheeks come alive, that ‘touch me’ was a long-lived plea neither of them
spoke of. A plea for intimacy of the romantic kind, a plea for their bodies to
fuse and their words to die in a kiss.
“Please,” Credence repeated.
When Percival kissed him, it was as if everything else had stopped or turned to
nothingness. He tasted of magic and fire and danger. His lips were gentle,
molding against the seams of his mouth, seeking permission to delve, and
Credence parted granted it, imagining himself the red sea parting for Moses. He
was yoked to Percival. As he’d parted his soul then his legs, now he’d parted
his lips. A part of Percival decanted all itself into Credence, and the beast
battering his insides seemed angrier by this.
Credence envisioned vapor leaving his flesh, he was combusting in an endless
whirl of energy.
“Come on, Credence. Hold on a little longer. It won’t be long now,” Percival
muttered against his temple.
The Obscurus wrestled tougher, “No, no, I can’t. Not anymore.”
Percival gripped his cock by the base, firm yet not unkind, “Only a little bit
longer, my boy.”
Credence gulped and nodded, he couldn’t disappoint Percival, not after all the
trouble he’d put him through. The ritual needed to be completed successfully,
if so, then the Obscurus would be gone. He could feel it rattling his bones,
hammering his heart and brain, shuddering every vertebra, filching him of
proper reason. Yet trying not to abandon himself wasn’t easy for someone so
inexperienced, and who knew so little about the sins of the flesh. 
“How do you feel?” asked Percival, wiping a tear that had rolled down his
cheekbone.
He could only moan. His wrists ached and so did his ankles, come morning there
was no doubt they would be chafed.
Percival pacified him with a shower of fleeting kisses as his whimpers grew in
frequency and acuity.
Credence shut his eyes and then a faraway pain sliced him, a blade digging into
his skin.
“Sanguinem et vitalis vis, liber haec anima mea…,” the chant felt more powerful
now with all the rampant energy released, maximized by the ardor and their
magic. The words made his frame tremble and open, like the grounds after an
earthquake.
Credence susurrated Percival’s name time and time again, exceedingly aware of
every sensation his body experienced, mindful of Percival fracturing him so
sinfully good, conscious of his soul shattering under the strain of the
Obscurus.
When he felt warm liquid landing over his belly, he was too far gone in his
daze to even notice he had come. Thereafter Percival quickened his pace, and
the Obscurus ascended to his pores. He was being ripped and torn like a
ragdoll. Arms extended, he remembered the son of God, the blasphemy did not
even register.
“Let go now, Credence. Let the Obscurus go now,” the words leaked like dense
liquid in his ear, and wormed their way inside his head. Percival bit his
earlobe, the fatigue not deterring him from ramming into his body.
Dark bile rose to Credence’s throat, and he felt another orgasm yanked from his
spent cock.
Percival trapped his lips once more in a kiss. It was a bruising affair, no
finesse or elegance, just desperate clashing of teeth and tongues, the manic
need to consume one another.
Nerves shook Credence, his whole body spasmed for long seconds in which a
blaring thunder rang so loudly everything turned into white noise. Furthermore,
his surroundings transformed into the blackest of nights, while his body
flailed as if he were one of the afflicted.
It was dark, and not a drop pattered against the windows. Percival’s sounds had
died too.
A river of flames licked him raw, and then he was rising from the bed of
gravel, emerging into waters that were so thick they choked him.
When he surfaced, it smelled of burnt herbs. Trembling gasps greeted his ears,
his own. Percival was cupping his face, and murmuring warmhearted words.
“Calm down, my boy. Come back to me, that’s it,” he was saying.
He was out of the murky lake, but he could not breathe yet. There wasn’t enough
air, and his lungs were too small, the room was closing in on him. Trapped,
back in prison. Jailed in a hellish cavern. He was wicked and all of Salem knew
it. He would hang for it.
“Hey, hey, Credence. Listen to me,” Percival’s hands were on his face, their
eyes locked. Strands of black hair were falling in front of his worried face,
“Breathe deeply now. Come on, do as I say, dear. Deep. In…,” Credence clung to
the sound of his voice and did as he was told. It was always easy to follow
orders, “…out. In… and out.”
Agonizingly slow, Credence came back to himself. His heart stopped its riotous
galloping, and his hearing returned in gradual ripples.
Percival was propped on his elbow, watery eyes swamped with concern. He brought
one of Credence’s hand to his mouth and kissed the inside of his wrist,
reddened and oversensitive. He’d been untied, hands and feet.
“You blacked out for at least five minutes, Credence. I thought I’d fucked up
for good.”
Credence did not answer, his throat felt mangled, twisted and broken in half.
“I think… I think it worked, Credence,” Percival explained, “I finished just as
you let go. The energy and the spell, the blood… it all piled up. You yelled so
hard I felt my eardrums splitting. And then you started to convulse in my arms
as everything went pitch black. But you still lived, so I dare say that thick
darkness was the Obscurus. It filled the whole room. Shortly after it
disappeared, and then – then you weren’t coming back, my boy.”
Credence was stunned. At the same time, he was so terribly exhausted he could
not think well, or fully grasp what Percival was telling him.
“Fuck, I thought I had killed you, Credence.”
Percival’s eyes brimmed with tears, and soon he was kissing Credence all over,
wet, clumsy kisses, on his forehead and temples and cheeks and nose.
When he looked into Credence’s eyes, the latter could see terror there but
relief too, “Do not ever allow me to do anything like that to you, Credence.
Ever.”
And then he leaned down, and kissed Credence on the lips, short and gentle.
The storm, that moments ago had threatened to turn the cottage into debris, had
died down to a mild drizzle. Raindrops splashed melodically against the glass,
resonating with every beat of Credence’s worn out heart.
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     I apologize for the incredible delay :( my official excuse is Uni but
     in reality I only wrote when I felt like it. ALSO!!!! #dontjudgeme
     for that whole scene. THAT was one of the main reasons i wrote this
     fic in the first place lmao, that it got a little too wordy and
     serious at the beginning is not entirely my fault (tho it totally
     is). sorry if it was too wild of a twist, *crawls into a hole*
     ___________________
     special thanks to ceciliasobral for fixing my Latin<3
End Notes
     come find me on tumblr! elvishflower
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!