Chapter Text
There are many things that Danny would never claim to know. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have parents, or what it’s like to have a birthday party, or what it’s like to ride a train. He doesn’t even know what it’s like to have a friend, or how to make one.
But one thing he knows - one thing he’s always known - is that there is no anti-magic person on earth that is inherently better than a magic-haver. He learned that young, and though he was taught with a cruel lesson, maybe it was a necessary one.
Those in power claim that they are no longer persecuting magic-havers, yet they turn a blind eye to the scum of Lywood and let any other stray persecutors off the hook. They oppress and they blame and they feed a hateful, hateful world.
And Danny knows the consequences of it. It killed his mother, left her pinned to a cross to bleed out. It left him abandoned in the woods as a helpless infant. It drove a woman to the point of mass murder. It hammers fear into the heart of society itself. Danny knows the consequences.
So when he hears that a man is due to be hung by night after outing himself as a magic-haver, Danny could almost describe the feeling that comes as blind fury, only a little less blind because he’s still mellowed from reading to the kids.
He purses his lips and looks into the eyes of the library assistant who’d told him, her hair done up in an elegant braid. They’re at a round table, the children having left only a few minutes ago.
“That’s happening tonight?” Danny asks, struggling to keep his voice under control as his vision fuzzes with red.
“Yeah,” the assistant says. She glances around before leaning towards him and whispering, “If you ask me, it’s a little sad. This guy’s lived at the Butterfly Lake for so long. It’ll be weird not to see him around anymore.”
Nothing about magic, or the lawkeepers’ decision. Nothing about the injustice of it, the unfairness. Danny wants to snap his teeth.
“And, uh…” He licks his lips, skin hot and twitchy. “Where are they hanging him?”
“The Ditches only has one hanging platform,” she says. “On the east side, near the farewell sign.”
“Okay,” he says, “thank you.”
She sighs, eyes sad. “You gonna go watch?”
He pushes himself to his feet. “...Something like that.”
“Maybe you can say bye for me? Tell him that I care? I can’t handle watching the hanging myself.”
He pauses, one eye on his pack in the corner. “...Yeah,” he says, “yeah, sure.”
******
Jordon’s arrest (kidnapping, really, in Jorel’s opinion) is far more distressing to Jorel than he thought it would be. Jordon and Dylan had latched onto him fairly quickly, but he’d made it a point to try keeping himself as distant and detached from them as possible.
That plan doesn’t seem to be going too well, unfortunately.
Maybe he’s just lonely. He hasn’t had a friend since Aron, much less two people that had just gotten excited when they saw him stealing. He’s not attached to them. He still doesn’t trust them. Hell, he barely knows them.
But god damnit, someone finally sees him and wants him and he doesn’t want to fucking lose that.
He just wants a friend again.
“You okay, dude?” Dylan asks, peering at him with big, worried eyes, one hand poised over his stack of papers.
“Fine,” Jorel snaps, and then immediately curses himself for it.
“Alright,” Dylan says hesitantly. He turns his attention back to the papers. “So Jordon’s in The Ditches’ county jail.” He bites his lip. “There’s a hanging tonight. We, uh… we could try to slip him out while that happens.” His voice is distant, reluctant.
Jorel frowns. He’s never liked the thought of hangings. Deciding who gets to live and die seems like a wicked game. “...What’s the hanging for?”
“Guy’s a magic-haver.” Dylan looks towards Jorel, a guarded look in his eyes. “That’s, uh… that’s it.”
Jorel’s hackles rise. What the fuck is everyone’s problem with magic? Aron’s mom and sister had been magic-havers and they were kinder to him than the majority of anti-magic people.
Oh, great, now he’s thinking of Aron again. Of course.
“We’re not gonna let him hang, are we?” Jorel asks through grit teeth. ”We better not.” And something like relief crosses Dylan’s face.
“I don’t wanna let him hang, no,” Dylan says. He runs a hand through his hair. “I was thinking… maybe we could use the opening speech for one of us to break Jordon out and the other one to start causing a scene? And then just… try to make shit as messy as possible. Like a distraction. And then one of us three can get up and get him out.”
Jorel stares at him. He’s… not sure that would work. “Yeah… I don’t think that’s a good plan.”
Dylan huffs, his face turning pouty quickly. “Well, do you have a better one?”
Jorel tries to think. “I -” He pauses. Dylan watches him smugly. Jorel crosses his arms. “No,” he mutters.
“Then we go with mine,” Dylan says.
“Fine.” Jorel huffs. “But if we die, you’re gonna have to pay restitution.”
Dylan stares at him. “H… how am I gonna do that if I’m dead?”
Jorel smirks. “You’ll figure it out.”
******
George’s mother wouldn’t be pleased with him. She’d always warned him, always told him to keep his head down and stay away from people, to never go to funerals or hospitals, that any slip-up could lead to his persecution. If she found out that he’d broken their precautions just because he felt sad for someone, she’d have his hide.
Sorry, mother, he thinks, in the chances that maybe she is watching over him. Part of him hopes that she isn’t.
“So,” Jordon says, his back aching as he presses it against the wall of his cell. Not that there’s anywhere more comfortable to stay. George turns to look at Jordon, his own hands folded in his lap. “Y’know, my little sister has magic, too.”
George lifts his head up at that, his eyes bright with intrigue. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Jordon remembers smoke curling around Natalie’s hands as she drew fire into their little fire pit, and despite the context of magic-havers’ place in society, there’s a swell of pride in his chest. “Fire ‘n shit. It’s pretty cool, honestly. She’s cool.”
There’s a warm feeling in George’s chest, and he knows that it’s a blessing to spend his last few hours finally having a conversation with someone. A pleasant one, at that. “So, do you… support magic?” he asks, a little knot of hope in his stomach.
Jordon shrugs. “Well, my sister’s a great person and magic-havers definitely don’t deserve the shit they get. It’s not fair, y’know.”
George almost wants to cry. Whatever mechanism of the universe decided to let him have a conversation and have it with someone good, he could never thank it enough.
Maybe he won’t die lonely.
“Thank you,” George murmurs. Jordon blinks at him. “For not condemning us.”
Jordon’s face softens slightly, and he looks away, awkward. This is too emotional for him. He bites his lip. “Kinda sucks you’re gonna die, man,” he says, struggling to keep his tone light. “You seem pretty cool.”
George sighs, heavy. “It’s okay. It was going to happen eventually. I’m not afraid.” Truly, sadness and fear are such different things.
“Right,” Jordon says, and they fall silent again.
******
So maybe Dylan’s stake in “rescue the magic-haver” is more personal than he would like Jordon or Jorel to believe. Maybe he’s had a moment or two where he’s been worried for his own status as a normal person.
Maybe Dylan once tripped and fell and was so terrified of hitting the ground that he dissolved into nothing and resurfaced high up on a tree branch. Maybe Dylan once looked into the mirror and went inside his body and pressed so hard from the inside out that he could see the shadow stretching across his skin. Maybe Dylan once woke only to look down at his own sleeping body and panic when he remembered that astral projection was something only found in people with magic.
Yes, there’s always the possibility that maybe Dylan has… stronger feelings about this.
But it doesn’t matter anyway, because Jorel doesn’t want the guy to hang either, and there’s no reason for Dylan to lay all his feelings out on the table. There’s no convincing needed. No big reveal. Thank God.
“So how are we doing this?” Jorel asks, sprawled on the counter like a cat, his legs dangling.
“Right,” Dylan says as he ties his hair back. “We’ll slip into the jailhouse together, take out any lawkeepers left, and then you get to work on breaking Jordon out. I’ll go and do the chaos-causing.”
“What are you gonna do?” Jorel asks, though one eye is already on the bottles of lantern fuel piled in the corner, like he knows where Dylan’s going with this.
“Easy. I set shit on fire. Scatter the crowd. When the lawkeepers start freaking out, I’ll try to distract them. Y’all need to come help me as soon as you get Jordon out.”
Jorel takes a deep breath. “We got this?”
Dylan nods, lips set in a firm line. “We got this.”
******
Jorel and Dylan arrive by the time the noose is set up, the crowd forming at the base of the platform, insults already prepared at the backs of their tongues as they wait for the filthy magic-haver to be brought out.
It makes Jorel sick.
“Come on,” Dylan whispers as they finish dragging bags of feed off to the side of the platform, into the tall grass, throwing glances up at the setting sun, both of them robed in black with bandanas pulled up over their mouths and noses. They drop their pack, making sure that none of the bottles inside have spilled, before scurrying towards the jailhouse.
“Ready?” Dylan breathes as they press themselves against the side entrance, watching as two lawkeepers haul a large man through the front entrance, towards the hanging platform. Jorel growls, turning to Dylan with a solemn nod.
They fling the door open, crashing inside. The woman at the desk looks up at them, eyes wide. Dylan withdraws his mallet and flips it in his hand.
“What is thi -”
Dylan strikes the hilt against her temple, watching her crumple to the ground.
“Get Jordon!” Dylan whispers to Jorel as he hurries from the jailhouse, and Jorel starts down the corridor.
******
Danny makes sure his things are secure in his pack before dropping it a short ways away from the jailhouse, withdrawing his crossbow and strapping it to his back. He secures his extra bolts to his hip.
He pulls his hood over his head.
He can hear the crowd jeering and shouting even from here, calling for blood, for death. The anger boils in his veins. He can feel the weight of the crossbow on his back.
Crossbows take so long to reload.
But he can’t let go this time. He scared the woman so badly. He needs to not be a monster, just for now. He doesn’t want to scare someone who already thinks they’re going to die.
With a deep breath, he starts towards the jailhouse.
******
“It’s time,” the warden announces as she stomps down the row of cells towards George, another lawkeeper in tow. Jordon looks up at her with big eyes, his breath catching.
No.
“Don’t kill him!” Jordon cries, leaping to his feet. The lawkeepers glare at him. “Please don’t kill him!”
“Shut up, pig,” the warden snarls. “You’re in no place to be making demands.”
“It’s okay, Jordon,” George says dully as they unlock his cell. “It’s alright.”
Jordon watches them haul George away as he rattles at the bars. “Stop it! Don’t kill him!”
He rattles the bars so hard he doesn’t even hear the other approach.
“George!” he calls, panic eroding his senses.
“Jordon.”
Jordon shrieks and whips around. Jorel’s unamused face stares back at him. Jorel slips his dagger into his pocket and withdraws his lock picking tools. He begins to hurriedly work at Jordon’s lock.
Jordon has no idea what’s happening. “I - wha -”
“Dylan’s trying to distract the lawkeepers so we can rescue the dude they’re hanging,” Jorel says simply, jimmying the lock. “Get ready to fight.”
“What -”
“Try to keep up,” Jorel says, drawing his second dagger from his pocket and passing it to Jordon. He ignores Jordon’s shock as the lock clicks open. “Come on.”
******
Dylan rushes back to the feed, his heart pounding as he struggles to strap the mallet back on his hip. He slides to a stop, throwing a look towards where the executioner is preaching on the platform, the noose in his hand. Dylan tugs the pack open and begins to pull the bottles of lantern fuel out. Come on. Come on, come on, hurry.
He uncaps the lantern fuel, tipping it over and pouring it across the feed. He repeats it with every bottle; uncap and pour, uncap and pour, uncap and pour, until his gloves’ fingertips are slick with fuel.
He withdraws the matchbox from his pocket, hurrying backwards, away from the fuel-soaked feed. He throws fervent glances towards the hanging platform, the hangee standing stock-still as the crowd jeers, the executioner shouting out, “Does anyone have anything they’d like to say to this man?!”
Dylan strikes the match against the box and tosses it. The shadows engulf him, pulling him away as the feed goes up in flames.
******
The crowd screams as the fire whips through the tall grass, a blazing inferno. They scatter without a thought, now calling for the safety of their own lives.
The lawkeepers jolt, the executioner accidentally tugging at the noose in his shock, prompting a loud choking noise from George.
“Come on!” Jorel shouts to Jordon as they push past the fleeing crowd, their eyes fixed on the man on the platform, the rope still wrapped around his throat.
Dylan slips out from the shadows beneath the hanging platform, a lawkeeper’s stunned face staring back at him as he emerges. He slides the mallet from his hip and swings without hesitation, striking them dead in the chest. They go down with a crack.
Even amidst the flames and heat and the shock, it only takes a second for the other lawkeepers to spot him.
Then hell really breaks loose.
******
By the time Danny arrives, it’s a mass of people and fire, a man still standing on the platform with a noose tied around his neck, shock written clearly on his face even from this distance.
The lawkeepers are swarming on the ground, but not fleeing or fighting the fire. Perplexed, Danny watches for a moment until he spots the forms of three people, fighting the lawkeepers tooth and nail. But there are far more lawkeepers than fighters, and Danny doesn’t think they’ll win like this.
Mind made up before he’s even finished processing the scene, Danny draws the crossbow from his back and takes aim.
He squeezes the trigger.
******
The lawkeeper screams as an arrow cuts clean through her thigh. Jorel looks up from where he’s digging his dagger into her shoulder blade, his eyes wide.
Standing at the edge of the wreckage is a hooded figure, a crossbow gripped in their hands. For a second Jorel thinks they intended to aim for him, but then the figure turns and fires at someone else, and another lawkeeper goes down.
There’s a lash on Jorel’s back. Whirling around, he drives his dagger into the arm of a grimy lawkeeper, taking a sick sort of satisfaction from the lawkeeper’s cry.
“Jorel!” Jordon shouts, and Jorel tears the dagger from the lawkeeper’s arm, pushing them away as he whirls back around. Jordon is attempting to fend off two lawkeepers, hacking at the air with his dagger. Jorel races towards him, flicking another dagger out of his sleeve.
(Keep three daggers on you at all times, Jorel had said. That’s silly, Dylan and Jordon had said.) Surprise surprise, fuckers, Jorel was right after all.
He drives the daggers into the lawkeepers’ backs.
Dylan leaps out of the range of a lawkeeper’s fist, flicks through the shadows to where one is attempting to put out the fire. He reels his arms back. They turn with big eyes, mouth opening as the mallet crashes into their shoulder. They scream as it dislocates.
“Out of the way!” someone shouts, and Dylan rears the mallet back again at the sight of a hooded stranger.
But the stranger barges past him, shooting an arrow into a lawkeeper’s arm before shifting their crossbow to one hand and leaping to grip the edge of the platform, pulling themself up.
Dylan watches, stunned, as the person literally jumps onto the hangee, the stranger bracing themself with one foot on the shocked man’s hip as they pull out a knife and begin to saw at the rope.
Dylan’s own surprise is cut short by a fist to the face.
Dylan snarls and leaps back, swinging his mallet and knocking them to the ground.
It’s then that he catches sight of the barrels.
They’re pressed up against the wall of the jailhouse, and the fire is creeping quickly towards them, and while Dylan doesn’t know what’s in those barrels he’s read enough action-romance to know that it can’t be anything good.
He slips into the shadows, tunneling through until he reaches the others. They don’t notice the absurdity of his appearance.
“RUN!” Dylan shrieks, right as the stranger finishes sawing through the noose, the rope snapping in their grip. They leap off of George, ignoring his stunned face, and turn to the jailhouse with a hiss. They turn back and push George along.
The lawkeepers catch on quickly, breaking the fight to take off running. Cowards, Jorel thinks.
The three of them race together away from the gallows, the hooded stranger pulling the bound, stumbling man along behind them.
The jailhouse explodes.
******
“Mr. -”
“For the last time,” Truth snarls as he turns to face Yuma. “It’s Truth.”
Yuma winces, clutching his clipboard against his chest. “Sorry! Sorry, M - uh, Truth.”
Truth huffs. “What do you want?”
“Right, sir, um - there was a hanging scheduled a few hours ago, in The Ditches. A man performed magic at a girl’s funeral.”
Truth sneers. “Bastard’s dead now?”
Yuma shakes his head. Truth frowns. “No, actually, a fire was set near the jailhouse and a few unknown men attacked the lawkeepers.” He bites his lip. “They freed the magic-haver. They fled the scene right before the jailhouse exploded.”
Truth grits his teeth, rage boiling in his veins. “So the bastard’s alive. And he has accomplices?”
“Yes, sir, it would appear so, sir.”
Truth snarls. “Of course.” He sighs. “Tell Starr we’re putting more security on The Ditches’ gallows.”
Yuma purses his lips. “Right,” he mumbles. “Yes, sir.”
Truth narrows his eyes, bracing his fist on the desk. “Got something to say, Yuma?”
Yuma flinches, looking at him with wide eyes. “Well, I just -” he stutters. He pauses for a moment, rubbing at his face. “Do we need to execute them?” he asks. “Can’t - can’t we just arrest them?”
Truth stares blankly at him. “Really, Yuma? That’s not how this works.” His tone is sharp, condescending.
“It just doesn’t seem ri -”
“Yuma.” Yuma freezes at the threat in Truth’s voice. “I have permission from the government. They know what’s right and what’s not. I listen to them over you.”
Yuma grimaces, but backs down. “Right,” he murmurs, whiteknuckling his clipboard. “Right, I’ll let Starr know.”
“Good. Oh, and Yuma?” Yuma pauses in his attempt to leave, looking back at Truth. “Any word from your old pal Erlichman?”
Yuma blinks. “What? Aron? No.” His brow furrows. “Why?”
“Well, if you ever hear from him,” Truth says slowly, “make sure to let him know we always have positions open.”
Yuma stares back at him. He shakes his head, turning to grip the doorknob. “Right,” he says as he tugs the door open, his voice distant, “I’ll, uh… be sure to do that.”
He leaves.