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Birds chirp softly in his ear, an early light illuminating the field.
Foggy is bent down in the garden. His nails are embedded with dirt. There’s a basket full of eggs, still warm and speckled, slowly cooling in the morning air. He’s supposed to be tending to the animals.
Instead, he’s caressing new flowers, petals licking his fingers like soft lace.
New England rises early and today is no exception.
Dark wooden slats of burnt pine tower above him, like every house in the village. Some of the iron nails are starting to rust. His clothes, cotton and snug, have dull colors and straight stitching. Smoke billows from their stone chimney, the first of many to be rekindled. Of course Rosalind made him get up early. She’s always the first awake, takes pride in it. Why the Lord praises those with dark circles under their eyes is beyond him.
Foggy tries not to sigh, bringing a flower to his nose.
He’s not supposed to be doing this.
He knows flowers are vain and all, but how could he not notice them? The roses and the day lilies and the hollyhocks, all growing in the ivy slowly making its way to the roof? Their colors are as vibrant as a summer day. A rare, fleeting connection with the beauty of God, to something softer than freshly chopped wood. If only the others saw it so.
Sneakily, he picks a few and places them in his pockets, careful not to damage the petals. There must be some way to press or hang them to dry. Maybe make them last a little longer.
Wonders how he might look with vain colors woven into his hair, the texture of dry straw. It sends butterflies into his stomach.
“Franklin, pray what takes thee so long?”
Foggy jumps, whipping around to see his mother sticking her head out their window, staring at him down in the garden. Her dark eyes glow with something fierce.
Scrambling to grab the basket, his voice shakes. “I was just fetching eggs, Rosalind.”
She glares down suspiciously. His heart flutters in his chest, like a traitor.
“Well then. Get on with it.”
Foggy nods, keeping his head down and rushing back inside.
Their home is modest. Dark, even in the day time, lit only by a few windows and the fire blazing in the hearth. It smells of smoke and porridge. The basket of eggs is taken to the cup board, and set aside. Foggy gives a glance over to their wooden table, where his mother has sprawled out her prayer sheets and bible, transferring verses for the sermon. It’s painstaking work. As one of the only women to receive clergy duties, she takes her job seriously. Very seriously.
The bedroom door creaks open and he sneaks inside.
His brother and sister are sleeping soundly in their own beds, his lying empty. Foggy walks to his night table, pulling the flowers from his breeches, and hiding them within.
“Foggy?” A tired voice asks.
He turns around, noticing Candice’s eyes peaking open.
“Mother wants you to wake.” He replies smoothly. The drawer closes quietly behind him. “It’s well past dawn, and you know how she gets.”
“Don’t I ever.” She whispers defiantly.
Foggy shakes his head.
“It’s blasphemous to speak ill of your parents.” He reminds her as much as himself.
She rolls her eyes. “Thine art is not persuasion, Franklin.”
“No?”
“Certainly not when you try to convince Rosalind you didn’t eat a second supper.” She crosses her arms, blond hair falling over them “Or when she wonders where the apples and grapes went.”
A blush rises to Foggy’s face, and his nose wrinkles from holding in a retort.
Theo stirs, and Candice throws the sheets off, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She wakes her younger brother, nightgown barely coming up to below her shins. Foggy sighs to himself. His sister is many things. Smart, cunning, annoyingly stubborn, but pious is not one of them. It’s only a matter of time before their mother marries her off, just to get rid of her. Something aches inside him at the thought.
Grabbing his coat, Foggy begins to lace his shoes. His oration lesson begins soon. He’ll have to walk briskly across town just to make it in time.
Candice helps Theo pull on his breeches as the eldest son opens their bedroom door.
Rosalind is sitting at the kitchen table now, quill and ink in hand as she scribbles something onto the parchments. His eyes watch her warily, like a rabbit might watch a sleeping dog. Foggy walks as lightly as he can past the hearth glowing and spitting embers into the air.
The front door creaks open loudly. Suddenly, all three siblings freeze in place, hearts stopping in unison.
Their father is finally home.
Inside the house, it’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop. A sickening dread has settled into the air like a lead curtain. Rosalind stops writing, hand pausing, but still not looking up.
No one dares to move, to make a single noise, waiting for her to speak.
Foggy watches his dad walk past him, eyes wide and head bowed. They share a tense glance before passing on Foggy’s way out the door.
He tries not to listen behind him as he locks the metal latch.
Birds chirp loudly, goats bleating and a horse clomping somewhere nearby. Foggy takes a deep breath. His stomach is sour with the fear his mother always seems to bring out in him. The air is clean, and fresh, and the grass is soft beneath his feet as he forces himself to take a step.
A familiar trail outside leads to a rickety old wooden fence, where a woman stands on the border. She squeezes her cotton dress, face red beneath her bonnet. Her eyes are trained on the spot where his father just departed from.
She smiles at Foggy as he draws near. It’s warm, and kind.
“Pray thee well on this fine day, Foggy?”
He summons a lukewarm nod.
The woman scoffs. Before he knows it, he’s being wrapped in a crushing hug, his lungs letting out a little squeak.
It’s like sinking into a warm bath. There’s only a moment of resistance before he melts into it, trying to memorize the feeling of her rough apron, and a wide frame like his dad’s side of the family.
She pats him on the shoulder and pulls back. “Tell your father I said good morrow, you hear? Him and you kids are welcome in my home. And don’t be afraid to come speak to me if your mother says a word about it.”
Foggy nods, wondering why god couldn’t have made him her son. “Thank you, Anna.”
“Fare thee well child.”
His chest feels a bit lighter as he turns and continues walking.
The whole way to the church he day dreams. Wonders about what it would be like to leave Salem, to never again step foot in the bedroom he’s grown up in. There’s a town about a day's walk from here. It’s a city, a real one unlike this collection of wooden houses and barns. He’s heard of a college there called Harvard, that turns uneducated men like himself into judges and barristers. Noble people who fight for the law. Imagining being there always leaves him feeling giddy and light. Like a bird, soaring through the sky and licking the tops of the trees.
The church bell startles him, erasing the smile that had blossomed on his face without knowing. His oration lesson is about to start.
His own footsteps sound like the fall of an axe in his ears.
—--
The sky is dusk, barely hovering above the horizon.
Goats bleat and rush past his leather boots, picking up their pace whenever he draws nearer. Foggy wipes the sweat from his brow. He was the last one to finish his supper, so of course he’s the one who has to put the animals in, it’s not like he has the most chores out of his siblings or anything. Nevermind the fact that Rosalind plates his meal last. Always.
Cursing under his breath, Foggy swings open the fence gate, watching the goats funnel inside. He counts them all as they enter. One, two, three, four. He picks a fingernail, grinding his teeth and anger simmering. Eight, nine, ten…
Eleven and twelve are missing.
Foggy shuts the gate, glancing around for the other two, brows furrowing. They’re nowhere to be seen.
His boots crunch against the soil, inspecting their fencing. Nothing is loose on the side of the house. The fading sunlight illuminates everything in deep yellow, and he finally stops in his tracks.
The lowest board is broken. A trail leads through the grass, extending all the way to the woods behind them.
Foggy’s heart picks up in his chest.
He can’t exactly go back in and explain what happened. His mother will blame him for the goats getting loose, she always blames him. His palms go sweaty just imagining it. He’ll have to work at the butchers until he can pay back the worth of the animals, embarrassing himself when the blood makes him queasy, which isn’t even fair because this isn’t his FAULT–
Taking a long, deep breath, the blond sets off in the direction of the forest.
“Here, Billy Billy.” Foggy calls out quietly, clapping his hands. “Come hither and I swear I’ll give thee a nice bit of pottage.”
There’s no response, of course. He honestly wonders if the goats will be drawn too or put off by his calls. Not really knowing what else to do, he continues, if only for his own entertainment.
The woods swallow him whole.
Trees tower above him, bracketing the fading sky like puzzle pieces. A dull buzz seems to hum around him as the crickets and frogs wake up. Wind gently shakes the foliage, shifting and rustling like something alive. Everything is green and shadowed. A nervous prickle creeps up his spine, but he keeps going.
The forest just gets deeper and deeper. Foggy stops kissing and calling, a cold sweat on the back of his neck.
Sunlight is fading fast and he’s just trying to follow the trail.
He wonders how bad it will really be if he goes in to tell his mother what happened. Maybe she won’t blame him this time. Perhaps he’ll get in before the stars are fully out, and be forgiven.
He shakes his head. Yeah, and while she's at that, maybe she’ll bake him a cake and actually call him her son, too.
An owl hoots somewhere in the distance. Frogs croak and squeak, evening air damp on his skin. This is farther than he’s ever ventured in thickets before, and his father always did warn him about getting lost.
Foggy stops walking, looking down at the ground in front of him.
The trail is gone.
A cold wave of terror grips his chest.
His brown eyes flicker up at the sky, where the sun is nearly completely set over the horizon, the moon taking its place. His lungs burn as he whips around and jogs in the direction he came.
None of the trees look familiar. Shouldn’t they, if he just came from there? He starts panting, tears welling up.
Backtracking is only making it worse.
Foggy stops altogether, breath shallow and lips trembling. The night is dark now, only lit by the moon, shining down on him like a pale eye. He can barely see his hands in front of his face. Chill air seeps into his linens, and the forest sounds like it’s alive.
A branch snaps behind him.
The blond jumps, twisting around, heart beating out of his chest.
The forest in front of him is empty.
He takes a deep breath, willing himself to stop trembling. The woods are home to many harmless creatures as well as dangerous ones. He mutters a prayer under his breath. It was probably just a rabbit, or a deer, walking in the dark. There’s nothing to be afraid of. He will fear no evil.
“Art thou lost?”
Foggy shrieks, flinching away from the whisper in his ear.
The deep, rumbly voice must belong to this man who decided to sneak up behind him. The stranger wears a long red cloak, shimmering velvet brushing against the fallen leaves, hood covering his face with shadows. Not that he’d be able to see much anyways in the dark.
Foggy swallows his nerves. “Who are you?”
A grumbly chuckle matches the voice's whisper. Whoever this person is tilts his head, like he’s impressed by the show of bravery. Foggy feels lucky the man can’t hear his heart pounding.
The stranger doesn’t answer.
“Do you live in the town of Salem?” He asks instead.
Foggy furrows his brows, not following.
“...Yes?”
The red cloak begins to move as the man takes a step, then another, slowly circling him. It’s unnervingly silent. The blond keeps his eyes trained on the shadow where a face should be.
“Please, don’t rob me.” Foggy implores. He just manages to keep a tremble out of his words. “I have no goods on me, besides the cotton I wear. And I’d rather not meet the heavenly father tonight.”
“I’m not here to rob you.”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Pray tell, what other reason does one stalk in the dark, sneaking up on people?”
That earns him a small, deep chuckle.
His stomach flutters with very unhelpful butterflies.
The man stops, tilting his head again. It’s quiet, too quiet, like the forest has decided to hold its breath for this stranger.
“What is your name?”
The churning in his gut compels him to answer. “Franklin Nelson. Though, friends call me Foggy.”
“Foggy.” The man mumbles, like he’s testing it out. “Huh. Well then, it’s only fair if you have mine as well. It’s Matthew. Matthew Murdock.”
The blond squints through the dark.
“Matthew feels too normal of a name for you”
“Maybe that’s true. It doesn’t belong to me anymore, anyways. It belongs to my master.”
“Your master? Who–”
“Don’t ask.” Matthew cuts him off, pulling the crimson velvet hood from his face, illuminated in the pale moonlight.
Brown hair frames wide set eyes, or at least they would. There’s a red ribbon tied around his head and obscuring them. The stranger is young, probably the same age, all sharp angles and smooth skin, mouth red and plump like roses. He’s more beautiful than spring flowers could ever be. Foggy’s lips part, words drying up in his throat.
He’s speechless.
“Pray pardon me, such few words for a man who aspires to be a barrister.” Matt whispers, giving a small smirk.
Foggy blinks, shaking his head to clear the daze.
“How did you know I wished to study law?”
Matthew walks closer, crowding the blond towards a tree, breath almost close enough to taste.
Something dangerous glints in his smile.
“I know a great many things, Franklin.”
Foggy swallows.
Matt peaks a hand out from under his cloak, brushing the fabric of his cotton shirt. “You seem like someone who likes to live… deliciously.”
The blond flushes, looking away and sucking in his stomach.
“Don’t.” The stranger commands. “Don’t be ashamed of it.”
Foggy squeezes his hands into fists. “I’m weak. I can’t control my wickedness.”
Air hangs for a moment in perfect stillness, a silence deafening as the man brings rough hands up to his shoulders, brushing the hair off from where it cascades. It makes him shiver.
“Sins of the flesh are thrilling though, aren’t they?” Matt asks.
It’s enough to send a bolt of fear through him, glancing around and wondering who might hear. They’re completely alone.
“The clergy, the church, say thou art born a sinner. That thine soul is damned, and repenting is the only way to meet the heavenly father. If thine soul is already damned, why not live a little?” The stranger continues, leaning in closer. “You know you want to, Foggy. Don’t tell me you haven’t committed sin. That you desire lavish wickedness. Admit it.”
Foggy’s eyes dart around. He doesn’t want to, but he has a feeling the man will know if he lies.
“...Yes.” He whispers.
Matt scoffs.
“What was that, Franklin? I couldn’t hear you.”
“Yes, fine!” Foggy shouts with a red face. “I’ll never be righteous enough, or pious enough for the lord! Or for anyone!”
Matt smirks widely, like a cat that just caught a nice bird. He looks like the devil.
His hands go into the pockets of his cloak, fishing something out. He produces a wooden cup, stained from many uses, and a vial of liquid that glimmers darkly in the moonlight.
The drink, or whatever it is, gets poured into the vessel.
“Here.” Matt commands, holding it out for him. “Drink. Once the cup is empty, I’ll show you the way out of these woods.”
Foggy blanches.
“No way. What is that?”
“Either drink this, or spend the night alone out here.”
Almost as if on cue, a wolf howls far off into the distance, making the blond jump.
Foggy takes a deep breath. Willing his hands to stop shaking, he reaches out and snatches the wooden cup, liquid sloshing inside.
“Huzzah.” Matt mutters plainly under his breath.
Bringing the drink to his lips, Foggy tips it back and pinches his eyes shut.
It’s revolting. The darkish liquid is thick in his mouth, like spoiled jam, and tastes like blood. He gags a few times and nearly vomits, but still gets it down. He hands back the cup with a sour face.
“So.” He asks, wiping his mouth. “What happens now?”
Matthew smiles. He drops the velvet cloak, revealing a body perfectly proportioned and muscled, with scars crisscrossing his chest. Foggy barely has a moment to drool before the brunette comes over and claps him on the shoulder. Firmly.
Suddenly, his knees turn into jello.
Foggy feels himself falling for a long time. It’s an eternity before he hits the ground, his head feeling fuzzy. His throat is full of cotton. Something was in that drink.
He’s drowning in the dark.
Brown eyes roll into the back of his head, eyelids fluttering. Things keep cutting in and out, he can see the night sky, stars becoming eyes staring down at him. He vaguely thinks he’s being carried somewhere. He’s scared, heart pounding, but he can’t focus.
Warm, rough hands set his body down on a bed of stone.
Something unties his linen shirt. It’s pulled over his head, leaving him bare. His skin is exposed to the cool night air, and he shivers. Next come his shoes. Then his socks, and breeches, he hardly understands what’s happening around him.
“Wh…wha…” Is all of the question he’s able to slur out.
His entire body is prickly, and floating somewhere above him. He can barely remember who he is anymore.
An involuntary gasp escapes him as he feels something rub his shoulder.
There’s…. something slick being applied to him. It smells like olives, honey, and warm cinnamon. Oil anointing him like a holy candle. Or a roast pig above the fire, he can smell the smoke. His mouth waters involuntarily, his fear having been left behind where he came from.
The oil goes down his chest. A man hovers above him, massaging and chanting under his breath. Foggy finds himself letting out a small moan. It feels so good, rough hands cleansing, and a fire starts to burn low in his loins.
He’s bathed in lavish wickedness.
Those same large hands work their way up to his neck, sliding past his chin. Foggy’s eyes roll and he finds his mouth opening without his permission. Fingers slide inside his mouth. He sucks on them, tasting like honey.
They’re so sweet.
Foggy groans around them. Something is hard between his legs, painful.
He wants to beg, but he’s not sure what for.
A heavy weight is laid across his neck, like a chain pinning him down. His body seems to be getting weaker. Blinking, mind fading, the last thing he remembers is tender fingers roaming his face, and a soft voice whispering in his ear.
—--
Foggy snaps up in his bed, gasping for breath.
Birds chirp loudly through the warped glass window. His room is exactly the way he left it, siblings still dead asleep, the sun barely risen over the horizon. How did he get here? The house smells of a freshly kindled hearth. Even his shirt, newly laundered pale cotton. He’s dressed only in undergarments.
Hands finding his hair, he runs through the golden strands, woven like silk. It’s soft and kept. Not dry and brittle like hay.
Foggy’s eyebrows furrow.
Last night, he ate dinner, went outside to check on the goats, but one of them was missing. The events replay in his mind. Stumbling through the woods, getting lost. A pale moon shining down.
A stranger finding him.
Must have been some strange, sinful dream. Best not dwell on it. He shifts, suddenly feels something hard through the thin shirt. It’s cold against the skin of his chest.
He looks down, hand snaking into the unlaced top to grab whatever’s dangling from his neck.
It’s a heavy iron necklace. Thin, delicate silver links, ending in an ornate jewel with symbols he’s never seen before etched into the casing. The stone glimmers a deep red.
Foggy swallows, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. The bed shifts as he hastily climbs out of it.
A small gasp escapes him as he notices his night stand.
It’s no longer empty, instead a fine glass plate sits untouched. There’s a rose water currant pound cake resting on top. It’s still slightly steaming, looking buttery and rich, with a sugar crusted top.
It’s like the sin of gluttony in physical form.
Wide brown eyes dart towards his siblings, praying they haven’t noticed it. Foggy sighs in relief. They’re both still dead to the world this early.
His mouth waters as he scarfs it down as fast as possible.
He tells himself it’s just to avoid suspicion, to conceal whatever… evidence this is of wrongdoing. A stab of guilt courses through him, imagining the hellfire that awaits him at the end of this meal.
It still doesn’t stop the blond from moaning as he eats, though.
It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.
Just as he licks the last crumb off the plate, he hears his mother’s footsteps outside the bedroom door.
It creaks open to reveal Rosalind standing in the entry way. She’s staring at her son's red face, his clothes on the floor, and the hastily made bed. He prays and prays she doesn’t notice the bone china poking out from under the covers.
“Franklin.” She begins, voice colder than the room. “Pray tell, what did thee do with the goats last night?”
Foggy chokes.
“Uh–um. Whatever do you mean, mother?”
She glares at him. “The goats. You were supposed to bed them down last night after supper. When I went outside this morning, I saw a few were missing, and the fence was broken.”
The blond blinks a few times.
“Yes, I… I noticed there were a few missing.” His voice wobbles. He tucks the necklace deeper into his shirt, heart fluttering, wondering if it’s visible. “I went out and called for them, but. Nary a goat came.”
Rosalind glances him up and down, like she’s measuring her disappointment using him as a ruler.
“Franklin, why does thee smell so… fragrant?”
Foggy’s hands shake so he squeezes them.
“Um. Anna washed my clothes in her bath, since ours was dirty.” He bites his tongue for the lie.
The mention of the other woman makes Rosalind scowl.
“Lord give me strength.” She turns back around, muttering under her breath.
Foggy’s shoulders seem to slump in exhaustion as she walks away.
His heart hasn’t stopped pounding since he woke up. None of it was a dream. He met a stranger in the woods, someone performed some… sinful ritual on him, the necklace proof. Matthew must have bewitched him. The panic wells in his chest at the thought.
He met a witch, a real one, in the forest of Salem. His soul now forever bears that mark.
Foggy takes a deep breath, nearly stumbling on his way to the breakfast table.
The pottage in the wooden bowl is still a little warm. He scoops up a mouthful, grimacing. It’s like ash in his mouth. It’s gritty, and runny, and tastes like old dishwater in comparison to what he ate earlier. He never remembers his mothers pottage tasting so foul. Foggy sighs wearily, wondering how he’ll get through the rest of his day on slimy pottage alone.
His brown eyes linger on his mothers bible, sitting next to him on the table. He can’t help the glare he throws its way.