The firelight still burned behind his eyes as Darrel walked home that night.
Each step down the darkened path was heavy, as though the earth itself wanted to drag him under. His hood hung low, covering him from the cool night wind, but nothing could shield him from the echoing laughter that followed him like a ghost.
It wasn't Marcus' laughter that hurt most.
It was theirs—his family's.
He tried to convince himself they hadn't meant it. That they were simply swept up in the scene. That they didn't understand.
But no matter how many excuses he gave to himself, the sound of their laughter wouldn't leave. It kept replaying, twisting deeper into his mind like thorns.
The small house sat at the edge of Birmingham, lit faintly by a dying lantern. Darrel hesitated at the door, listening. Voices murmured inside—his father's deep rumble, his brother's lighter tone, and his mother's soft hum as she tidied up after the vigil.
He took a slow breath and pushed the door wide open.
Warm light spilled across the room. His father sat at the table, boots off, cup of mead in hand. His brother, Jareth, lounged near the hearth. His mother hummed as she folded a cloth.
They all looked up as he entered.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then Jareth snorted with laughter.
"Well, if it isn't our little performer," he said, mock bowing.
Darrel froze in the doorway.
"Jareth," their mother scolded half-heartedly, though there was a trace of amusement in her eyes.
"What? Everyone saw it!" Jareth laughed. "You should've seen the look on old Bran's face when he started spinning like a top. Priceless."
His father chuckled, shaking his head. "You certainly gave them something to talk about, boy."
Darrel's hands clenched at his sides. "You were laughing too," he said quietly.
His father raised an eyebrow. "What was that?"
"I saw you," Darrel said, louder now. "All of you. You were laughing with them."
His mother straightened, sensing the sharp edge in his tone. "Darrel, it was just harmless fun—"
"It wasn't harmless!" His voice cracked. "You think I wanted to dance like that? To be a joke?"
Jareth rolled his eyes. "You could've said no, you know."
That broke something inside him.
"I couldn't!" Darrel shouted, stepping forward. "He made me! Marcus—he—"
But the words couldn't come out. How could he explain it? The invisible chains. The way his mind fogged. The crushing control that left his body no longer his own.
They wouldn't understand.
They never did.
His father set his cup down with a thud. "Marcus made you dance? Don't be ridiculous. You're not a child, Darrel. Take responsibility for yourself."
Darrel stared at him, disbelief swirling with hurt. "You don't believe me?"
"Why should I?" his father shot back. "I saw a boy who decided to play along and now regrets it because people laughed. You embarrassed yourself, not us."
The words struck harder than any physical blow.
Jareth snickered. "Face it, little brother. Marcus has always been sharper than you. You're just making excuses because he's in your head."
Darrel turned on him. "He is in my head! You don't get it—he can control me!"
"Control you?" Jareth laughed outright now. "What is he, some kind of sorcerer/magician?"
His mother frowned, stepping between them. "Enough. All of you. Darrel, you're exhausted. Sit down. Eat something. We can talk about this in the morning."
"I'm not hungry," Darrel muttered, backing toward the door.
"Darrel," his father said sharply. "Don't storm off like a sulking child."
He froze, rage and despair colliding inside him. A sulking child. That's what they saw. Not the pain. Not the humiliation. Not the terror of being controlled like a puppet.
Just weakness.
He turned slowly, eyes burning. "Do you even care what it felt like? Being laughed at by everyone? Being treated like a joke? And then coming home and hearing the same thing from my own family?"
His mother's expression softened. "Darrel, of course we care. But—"
"No," he cut in. "You don't. None of you do."
Jareth raised his hands in mock surrender. "Oh, here we go. The tragedy of poor Darrel. Always the victim."
"Shut up!" Darrel snapped.
Jareth laughed again. "Make me."
The room tensed.
Something inside Darrel flared—a spark of the shadow that had taken root that night at the vigil.
For the briefest moment, he imagined lunging at his brother, imagined wiping the smirk from his face, imagined showing them all what it felt like to lose control.
He didn't move. But the thought lingered, dark and sharp.
His father sighed heavily. "Enough of this nonsense. You're tired and making fools of us all. Go to bed. Maybe tomorrow you'll stop blaming everyone else for your mistakes."
Darrel stared at him, stunned. "Mistakes?"
"Yes," his father said firmly. "You've embarrassed yourself and this family enough lately. Start acting like a man."
The words hit like a hammer.
Embarrassed the family.
Not once had his father said, We're with you.
Not once had anyone said, We believe you.
Darrel's voice dropped to a whisper. "You sound just like them."
His father frowned. "What was that?"
"You're supposed to be my family," Darrel said, louder now. "But you're no different. You mock me, you don't believe me… you're just like everyone else."
His father's eyes hardened. "Watch your tongue, boy."
Darrel's chest rose and fell rapidly. The room suddenly felt suffocating. His mother reached out a hand. "Darrel, please—"
But he stepped back, shaking his head. "Don't. Just… don't."
And before any of them could stop him, he turned and walked out the door into the cold night.
The wind whipped against his face as he stumbled down the path. He didn't know where he was going—only that he couldn't stay there any longer.
His family's laughter echoed in his head, merging with the villagers', merging with Marcus'.
Mockery. From blood.
The one place that should have been safe heaven was now poisoned.
Darrel stopped at the edge of the woods, breathing hard. The moon hung pale and distant above him.
His hands trembled, but not from fear anymore. From anger. From something heavier.
He whispered into the darkness, "I'll show them. All of them."
And for the first time, the whisper didn't sound hollow.
It sounded like a promise.