Osmond wishes that he could have told Edith about the dark, unnatural fear eating him alive. Maybe she wouldn’t have gone, maybe his sister would still live, able to become the merchant she always dreamed of, selling apples or anything else she wanted. Maybe, if he had been less of a coward, he would have told her that he really did want to come with her, that even then, he knew deep down he would never become a real feyer. ‘That all I ever wanted was to just be someone worth something.’

But that day is far gone now. Edith had died only a few days later, suffering wounds from her Joining that she was never able to recover from. Osmond doesn’t even remember exactly how it happened, knows he was there, but… the memories are lost to him now.

He had woken up a week after her death in his bed, being carefully watched by Dr. Seymour and all of his assistants. The trauma of her death was too much for his ill body, and he collapsed right after receiving the news. Stuck in bed, fighting for his own life right after his sister had just lost hers.

After being bedridden for over a month, the restrictions on him only grew tighter. Rarely did he see his younger siblings anymore, even after they were made feyers. Edward had attempted to break in a few times for a chat but was quickly caught before he could even get a hello out.

Today was supposed to be different. Osmond is briefly allowed out for celebrations, and finally, after almost nine years, he would have gotten to actually hold a conversation with his youngest sister. He knows that he was sheltered out of fear for his own well-being. Everyone around him worried that should he lose another sibling to the Joining, he would fall deathly ill again.

But Osmond doesn’t want to live his life in fear. He is sick and useless. Any day could be his last, and most days, he wonders why he keeps fighting at all, especially now, trapped among a Wild Hunt. Osmond’s remaining days are numbered. Why would he waste the time worrying about what is to come?

If he is to die, why not drown himself in memories of happier times? Of childhood promises and impossible dreams? Why not appreciate the scenery around him? If only so that if he ever meets Edith on the other side, he will be able to tell her how beautiful the outside world she had always dreamed of is.

The sun has long since set, a low-hanging storm blocking out any light that would be coming from the sea of stars or the glittering moon. Osmond knows the stories about the Wild Hunt being accompanied by ghosts are just tall tales, but he never imagined that the Hunt rides in complete darkness, not a single light source among any of the fairies.

It’s more unsettling than he wants to admit, the unnatural black, the stillness that hangs so heavy and almost tangible in the air. Lost and adrift in a sea of nothing, the oppressive darkness is the only thing he knows. The silence is so all-encompassing that the only sound is his own thundering heart. As if Ragnarök has already come and the universe has collapsed all around him, leaving only poor, useless Osmond, all alone once more—

The hand on the back of his neck gently flexes, just the softest brush of fingers skating overheated skin.

The darkness grows a fraction less imposing, and Osmond heaves a breath, gasping for air he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

‘What in Odin’s name?!’ he thinks, heart still pounding too loudly in his ears. ‘Why was I thinking about that?!’ He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the horrifying thoughts poisoning his brain.

“Easy there, Dandelion,” the fey prince soothes, tightening his grip on Osmond’s neck, causing a shudder to race down Osmond’s spine at the cold touch. “A night like tonight belongs to the Helborne; do not forget yourself to their twisted horrors.”

“Helborne?” Osmond questions as the pieces finally fall into place.

‘By Thor’s ale, there are Helborne here?’

Osmond had honestly forgotten. Feyers only deal with fey after all, but the fey are not the only threat in Midgard. And just as feyers hunt the trickster fey, it is the templars from god blessed churches that handle the undead Helborne.

But just because feyers weren’t called to handle Helborne didn’t mean Osmond knew nothing about them, even with feyers and templars being on… rocky terms at best. The stories often speak of the strange, oppressive nature of their presence. How in areas with large amounts of Helborne, the very fabric of Midgard will bend, letting the living glimpse flashes of not only Helheim but of the dark torments born from their worst nightmares.

The prince sighs, eerily similar to how his teachers used to when Osmond would forget something important. “Dreadful things,” he explains in a clearly condescending tone.

And okay, fine. Osmond was raised to be a feyer, not a templar, but he has still studied every creature known to walk Midgard, from dragons to giants and fey to Asgardians.

“Humans are already a plague among the realms,” the prince complains, and Osmond can feel more than see how he casts his hand through the air in a sweeping motion. The pitch dark is far less upsetting now, but it is still annoying. "Now these mortals won’t even do us the courtesy of staying dead. Terribly rude.”

Osmond shifts back so he can send a glare over his shoulder. He can’t see anything, so he just focuses on an area of darkness he thinks is close to the prince’s head.

“As long as we don’t stop or light a fire, they will pay us no mind.”

Osmond does remember that much from his lessons. Feyers are obviously taught to fight the fey, but it is best to still have a base level of information on other types of possible threats, like Helbornes and witches. The advice he recalls from class is pretty much the same.

Helbornes seek the living, so they are attracted by fires and heat but are relatively slow-moving—at least the lower-ranked Helborne—making them enemies that are easy to avoid if one is careful not to get cornered.

Much like the fey, there are dozens of different Helborne, varying in shape, abilities, and intelligence. But Helbornes pose such a large threat because they don't stay dead for very long, and the dark magics of Hel herself force the corpses to keep reanimating. The templars are also in charge of making sure the dead are properly buried to prevent anyone from rising once more. Methods much like the feyer ones, which are trade secrets.

“Why are they out?” Osmond asks, because it is fairly rare to run into rogue Helborne and nearly impossible to just stumble into a group big enough to inflect the Hel Madness.

“It’s close to a new moon, and we are approaching a place of great death,” the prince explains casually. “It's like a breeding ground for the nuisances.”

Wait. ‘A place of great death?’

‘How far have we traveled? Are we still in the Duchy of Dale? In Woedan?’ Osmond thinks, trying to peer out in the dark, ‘Or, are we already in the Forest of Ruin, and I just can’t fucking see the towering trees surrounding us?’

“What place?” Osmond slowly asks.

Some of his startled panic must leak into his tone because the Unseelie huffs a laugh, and Osmond can almost see his stupid smug grin in his mind. “Worry not, little Dale,” he coos, and Osmond really wishes it wasn’t a terrible idea for him to just punch the stupid fey prince.

“We are still in your duchy,” the prince helpfully informs, and the only reason Osmond believes him is because he knows the fey cannot lie. “I know not what disaster occurred here, but there is a foul, rotting scent buried deep in the ground. Old death.”

Osmond puzzles over that. He didn’t know fey had such a good sense of smell, but he refocuses his attention on the bigger problem and casts his mind back to see if he can recall anything helpful.

Geography has always been his worst subject, but he does recall something about a terrible plague that ravaged most of northern Midgard a few hundred years ago. It was so devastating that hundreds were dying by the day, and in a futile attempt to stop the spread of the disease, they set the bodies ablaze. Their remains were dumped in a forgotten corner of Woedan long before the kingdom was established, located in a valley to the northeast of the Dale Castle.

Over the years, resentment and tragedy grew, and the land became infested with Helborne, continuing to claim lives long after the last body had been put to its uneasy rest. These days, the tainted land is known as the Plague Fields.

“Wait!" Osmond protests, tugging at the reins above his head, all of his senses kicking into overdrive, "If we are in the Plague Fields, then—”

“Halt!” echoes a voice from the dark gloom, and suddenly there is light all around them, flickering torch fires breaking the bubble of darkness that had imprisoned them.