Welcome Home, Little Thief (Dark SBI)

Chapter Seven- Rises The Moon

A/N

Ayyyyyyyyyyyyyy i return! My flight is just about to leave for home from vacation so im speedrunning the editing cause i want this chapter out

This chapter is mainly just setting up some shit for the sbi 4/4 coming next chapter, so thats why its shorter than usual. Regardless, i feel like it addresses some important stuff with tommy coming out of The Room™

as I'm writing this there's a stupid fly circling me like a vulture and I fear for my life

but anyways, Enjoy! Tws are as usual in this fic (please let me know if i forget any!)

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Exiting the room felt like freedom.

Or, at the very least, the closest feeling to freedom he knew, somehow similar to the day he ran. With rain dripping from hanging strands of hair, sharp, violent breezes making him fold into himself for a semblance of warmth, and shocks of grounding pain shooting through every gasped sob.

That was when he'd first been able to truly start to feel without fear of oncoming punishment, harsh words thrown at him like a tornado. And that was the same bizarre sensation he felt now, even with the imposing walls around him and his very captor beside him.

Except this was far less violent and more...shocking than before.

Tommy could barely comprehend it when the door slammed shut behind them, sealing him away from the single room he had spent the past weeks–maybe even a month– of his life in. Just one panel of richly crafted wood to separate what seemed like a different lifetime; or maybe that was the mental barricade he had set, defending his plan to play along until he was free. But, regardless, it was almost hilariously simple how easy it was to leave it all behind in the dust with the uttering of two simple words:

I'll stay.

He didn't know if he'd just verbally signed his death sentence or begun a new chapter in his capture, all to inevitably lead to him escaping.

After all, gone was the incomprehensible agony, the taunting words dripping with mockery, sentences tinged with spells he couldn't begin to comprehend. All he had was the promise that it was natural, that it was part of who he was. That Wilbur would teach him how to harness and use it. The vanished brutality seemed to only prove that further–much to Tommy's mixed surprise and disappointment– and was replaced by a warm hand helping him walk over creaking floorboards. The sudden change in composure leaft him empty. The feeling matched the missing spot in his hand where his finger should be; another result of Wilbur's "teaching."

But Wilbur, as always, seemed unphased. Perfectly suited towards guiding him forward through hallways lined with paintings and fake plants on either side, passing by doors all locked tightly with silver doorknobs like an endless mirrored maze. The witch barely sent a glance behind him to ensure Tommy was following along. He had no need to; they both knew that the witchling had nowhere to go and no other guidance to follow, both physically and mentally. The man was sure of his ability to get his way.

But still, his hand remained cemented on the boy's shoulder as they stepped past framed works of art and lined wooden walls, candle holders lighting the way. Oddly, their light didn't flicker the slightest. All the flames remained perfectly upright, as though they were spelled to be frozen in time, forever trapped within an invisible case. It was the complete opposite of the witches' auras; where they bended and folded to every whim, these elements were forced to bow to magic, forever unchanged and untouched by anything else.