Chapter Text
Mike wakes up choking on pine needles and dirt - and pain.
Sharp, immediate, blooming across his mouth like someone’s pressed a live wire against his skin. He hisses and instinctively curls inward, tongue catching on split flesh as a fresh sting tears through his lip.
“Ah, fuck,” he croaks.
Okay. So. Not dead. Dead people don’t feel pain. At least he doesn’t think they do.
He rolls onto his side with a groan, spitting grit from his mouth and wincing when the movement pulls at the swollen skin again. The ground is cold and uneven beneath him, digging into his shoulder, the smell of damp earth and sap filling his nose.
His lip throbs in time with his pulse. A steady, miserable reminder of Troy’s fist and everything that came after.
Above him, trees stretch impossibly high, their branches knitting together so tightly that the sky is reduced to fractured shards of light.
Mike squints up at it, blinking hard.
“Okay,” he mutters hoarsely. “What the actual fuck?”
This is not his basement.
He sits up too fast and immediately regrets it. His head throbs, sharp and insistent, and there is a consistent buzzing noise, that’s disorienting to say the least. The last thing he remembers is the mage figurine in his hand, and then a pull in his gut, the world folding in on itself, his basement dissolving right in front of his eyes.
Mike presses his palms into the dirt and laughs, breathless and a little hysterical.
“This has to be a dream,” he tells himself. “It has to be.”
Or maybe he’s having a mental breakdown?
A sound cuts through the forest.
Not wind. Not birds.
It’s laughter, low and wet, a guttural sound dragged up from deep in the stomach and all Mike can think is that it sounds wrong. Mike has never heard a human laugh like that before.
Mike freezes, every muscle in his body locking at once. His pulse spikes, loud enough that for a split second he’s convinced it might give him away. He strains to listen, breath shallow, lip throbbing viciously where the skin is split open.
The sound comes again, closer this time, followed by a sharp cry that twists something hot and ugly in his chest.
Someone’s in trouble.
The realisation hits fast, and for a second Mike is paralysed in fear. He has no idea what could be waiting for him out there, has no idea when he will wake up from this hyper realistic dream, what if he dies? He’s died in dreams before but this doesn’t feel like a normal dream-
“Stop!”
The sudden shout makes all his thoughts crash into each other at once. This could be dangerous. This feels dangerous. For all he knows, whatever’s making that sound could tear him apart before he even gets close. Rationally, he knows that running headfirst toward unknown creepy laughter in an unknown forest with a busted lip and no weapon is a spectacularly bad idea.
Lucas would tell him to wait.
Dustin would tell him to think.
Max would call him a coward.
Will would already be looking at him like he knows what Mike’s about to do and hates it.
Mike exhales through his nose, sharp and frustrated.
I can’t just leave them, they sound like they need help.
The cry comes again, more panicked this time, and that’s it. The argument in his head collapses under the weight of it. Whatever the smart choice is, whatever the safe choice is, it doesn’t matter. Someone needs help now.
“Shit,” he mutters, already moving.
He creeps forward, careful at first, every step deliberate as his eyes scan the forest floor desperately for something, anything, that might give him even a fighting chance. His fingers close around a fallen branch, thick and solid, bark rough against his palms.
He lifts it, tests the weight.
Better than nothing, and time feels like it’s running out.
“Okay,” he whispers to it, adjusting his grip, heart hammering hard enough that he can feel it in his throat. “Don’t let me down.”
Mike creeps closer to the sound and where he assumes someone needs help. And there she is.
Surrounded.
Three creatures circle her, squat and sharp-toothed, their skin an unhealthy green, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. Goblins. Mike has seen enough pictures of them in his D&D books to know that that was what they were. That, however, did not prepare him for seeing them right in front of his eyes like this.
And the girl, she was just standing there. It made him wonder if he had made up the cries of distress he had heard before.
She was perfectly still, chin lifted, hands curled tight at her sides. There’s fear in her eyes but it’s buried under something harder. Calculation. Restraint.
Mike’s heart slams against his ribs.
“Hey, shitheads!” he yells, before he can talk himself out of it. “Leave her alone!”
The goblins turn slowly. Mike can see the girl’s eyes jump to him but he pays her no mind for now. He needs the goblins to focus on him only.
They look at him. Still dressed in his ratty old hoodie and jeans dirty from where he had rolled around in the grass. Mike can see them taking in his appearance, no doubt noting that he looks like one big blast from the wind could knock him off his feet.
They share a look of amusement before they laugh.
Mike charges anyway.
He gets one good swing in.
The branch cracks hard against the goblin’s shoulder, the impact jarring all the way up Mike’s arms. The creature screeches, the sound high and sharp, before it stumbles back a step, more startled than hurt.
For a brief, glorious second, Mike’s heart leaps.
I did it.
The thought is ridiculous and triumphant and lasts exactly as long as it takes for something to slam into his ribs from the side.
The air punches out of his lungs in a sharp, choking gasp. His grip loosens. The branch drops from his hands as the world lurches violently sideways. Pain blooms hot and blinding across his flank, his shoulder, his head, entirely too many places at once for his brain to keep track of.
The forest tilts, trees smearing into green and brown streaks as his feet tangle beneath him. The ground rushes up fast and unforgiving, knocking the rest of the breath from his chest as his body hits dirt and roots and stone.
Darkness envelops him.
Shit not again.
--..--
He comes back to himself slowly, pain announcing itself in waves.
First his head, a dull, pounding ache that makes him groan as soon as he tries to move. Then his ribs, sore and tight, each breath pulling uncomfortably. And then his lip, split and swollen, stinging viciously when his tongue brushes against it.
“Shit,” he mutters, the word coming out slurred.
He rolls onto his back with a hiss and immediately regrets it.
A shadow falls across his face.
“Well,” a voice says dryly, “you sure know how to make an entrance.”
Something nudges his boot.
Mike squints up through the blur of trees and pain and sunlight, blinking until the shape above him sharpens into a person, a girl standing with her arms crossed, weight settled easily on one hip, looking down at him with an expression that’s equal parts unimpressed and… curious.
“My hero,” she adds.
Mike exhales a weak, breathless laugh. “Okay,” he says hoarsely. “So, either I’m having a psychotic break… or this is not my basement.”
Her mouth twitches, like she’s fighting a smile.
He props himself up on his elbows, wincing as his ribs protest, and that’s when he really looks at her.
She’s dirt-smudged and rumpled, brown hair slightly tangled from movement or struggle, but there’s nothing fragile about the way she holds herself. She stands like someone used to being watched, like someone who has learned how to take up exactly as much space as she’s allowed and not an inch more. There’s a tautness to her posture that makes Mike think of a drawn bowstring. Quiet but ready.
Her eyes meet his.
They’re brown. Warm, dark, and impossibly intent. Sharp in a way that makes Mike feel suddenly, acutely seen. Not glanced at. Not assessed. Seen. Like she’s cataloguing him even as he’s still trying to get his bearings, like she’s already noticed the way he’s favouring his side, the split lip, the confusion he hasn’t managed to hide yet.
Sunlight filters through the trees and catches on the thin chain at her throat, a purple stone resting just beneath her collarbone. It looks almost out of place against her skin, too snug, too restrictive. Mike has the strange, fleeting thought that it doesn’t belong there at all.
Something in his chest tightens.
Not fear. Not exactly.
It’s like the moment just before a memory surfaces, that odd, breathless sensation of knowing without knowing why. His heart stutters, skipping awkwardly against his ribs, and he has to swallow hard, suddenly aware of how close she is.
The realisation knocks the air out of him just as surely as the goblin did. He’s felt attraction before, the awkward, flustering kind. This is different. Sharper. Deeper. Like his body has recognised something important before his mind can make sense of it.
Oh.
He clears his throat quickly, the movement tugging painfully at his lip, grateful for the excuse to look away before she notices the way his pulse has spiked. Whatever this feeling is, it’s too much, too sudden and he has no idea what to do with it.
“Are you okay?” he asks, because it’s the only safe thing left to say.
She studies him for a long moment, gaze flicking over him to his lip, his ribs, the way he’s still favouring one side. Whatever she sees there seems to satisfy her, because she nods once.
“Yes,” she says. Then, after a pause, adds, “Thanks to you.”
Mike frowns. “Me?”
She gestures vaguely toward the clearing. “You came in swinging like that. Scared them off.”
It’s said smoothly. Almost too smoothly.
Mike opens his mouth to argue, then thinks better of it. His head is still spinning, his mouth hurts, and the last thing he remembers is getting absolutely flattened. If she says that’s what happened, then… okay. Sure.
“Right,” he says, nodding slowly. “Yeah. Totally meant to do that.”
She snorts.
She steps closer and holds out her hand. “Can you stand?”
He hesitates, then takes it.
The contact is brief, but a sharp jolt hits them both as they touch. Not painful. Just sudden. Like static snapping under his skin.
El jerks her hand back instantly, eyes widening just a fraction before she schools her expression again.
Mike blinks, startled, his fingers curling reflexively around nothing. “Sorry, I-”
“It’s fine,” she says quickly. Too quickly. She turns away a step, as if nothing happened. “You should be careful. You’re hurt.”
He pushes himself upright on his own this time, swaying slightly before he finds his balance. When he straightens fully, her gaze lifts, and lifts even more, until she has to tilt her head.
She squints up at him.
“You’re very tall,” she says. “Do you have elf blood?”
Elf blood? Is he stuck in a D&D campaign?
Mike snorts, which immediately turns into a wince. “No. I’m… pretty sure I’m as human as they come.”
“Hm.” She doesn’t sound convinced.
An awkward pause settles between them, filled with birdsong and the distant creak of trees. Mike rubs at his lip again, suddenly very aware of how out of place he looks. Her eyes linger on his clothes, the old band hoodie and dirty jeans, a sharp contrast to her fine red robes and cloak.
If this really is a fantasy world, he’s going to stand out like a sore thumb.
“How should I address my hero,” she asks lightly, “who came to my aid so recklessly?”
Mike flushes faintly. “I’m Michael.” He says, offering a small, crooked smile. “But you can call me Mike, since I threw myself into danger for you, I think I’ve earned nickname privileges.”
She nods, thoughtful, her hand lifting toward the necklace at her throat before she stops herself mid-motion.
“I’m Elev-” She takes a quick breath. “Eleanor.”
Mike furrows his brow at the slip, then grins back at her, ignoring the fresh sting it brings to his lip. “Hey, no worries. Considering everything that just happened, I’m pretty sure my brain’s still catching up too.”
“But great,” he adds, seizing the moment. “Then if we’re doing nicknames, how about El? Short for Eleanor.”
She blinks at him, surprise flickering across her face. For a moment she just looks at him, silent, and Mike feels an embarrassed flush creep up his neck.
He opens his mouth to backtrack, but before he can utter a word, she smiles back at him.
It’s small and unsteady, like she’s not used to the motion, and the sight of it knocks the breath clean out of him.
“I would like that,” she says.
Relief loosens something tight in Mike’s chest, and for the first time since he woke up here, the forest doesn’t feel quite so empty.
El looks him up and down once more. “And you,” she adds, “look like you could use a healing.”
With that, she turns and starts forward, her cloak billowing behind her in time with her steps.
Mike stands there for a second, gaping after her, feeling more like a fish out of water than ever.
She glances back over her shoulder, a teasing glint in her eyes. “What are you waiting for, hero? Those wounds won’t heal themselves.”
Mike jogs to catch up with her, knowing, with a quiet, startling certainty, that he's never letting her out of his sight.