Work Text
It is well known that in darkness, the forest comes alive with magic, the saccharine honey scent lingering oppressively in the air with a cloying, intoxicating presence, shimmering golden dust threaded into spells cast only by the witches who possess the gift of a special sight which allows them to harness the abundance of magical energy. Just as everyone with a pulse is aware of the disastrous consequences of pissing off a witch with the skill to make her grievances known, and the ability to force the guilty party to pay for their sins.
Vampires, however, are historically proven to be arrogant creatures, and they never give a damn for order or laws, regarding nothing as sacred and daring to smite even nature itself. The tales of the vampire species' treachery, of course, are greatly exaggerated. Humans often are quick to take advantage of the already poor reputation of the night crawlers, and see fit to blame their cruel, sadistic acts on an easy scapegoat who have no means of denying their bloodthirsty natures.
Of course, no one, magical and human alike, has ever been truly innocent.
"Clovey, I found you one," the strapping young blonde fellow announces gruffly to his companion, his jaw clenched tight in concentration and muscles straining with the effort to keep hold of his struggling captive. In his arms is a hissing, flailing girl with embers of incandescent rage glowing in her earthy brown eyes, her dark braid whipping back and forth as she works to free herself.
The witch Lamina, whom the supernatural community affectionately refers to as The Red Witch, for her fiery tangled halo of hair and easily provoked temper, stares wordlessly into the rippling images reflected in the boiling liquid of her cauldron. Her mouth flattens in a grim, disapproving line, and the bubbles in the cauldron are a result of the intense heat that reflects Lamina's own mood, paralleling the fury that simmers within her.
She honestly holds no contempt for vampires, who are as deeply complex and diverse in moral character as humans, wolves, witches - any creature, really. Even the human boy and his beastly little friend seem to be no more than ordinary, mildly offensive children, whose only faults lie in their egos and the casual cruelty which is unfortunately typical of teenagers, who for the most part eventually grew out of it.
Still, Lamina has a duty to the girl that this Clovey, as the heathen was called, would bleed dry for food and discard - still alive, as Clove hasn't technically killed anyone yet, which implies intention and suggests that she is not so far gone to no longer see the value of life - to the side of the road like a toy outliving its use. The Red Witch owes Katniss Everdeen her protection, seeing as the dear girl is the reincarnated soul of her lost husband, Treech, and Lamina would not see a girl, so inextricably tied to her beloved, victimized by a bloodthirsty huntress with sadistic desires and lacking impulse control.
Even now, this victim shares Treech's countenance, his domineering courage. The brunette stares down her tormentors fearlessly, with a hostile rage blazing in her dark coal eyes, writhing against the loyal boy's grip, which he must be completely impervious to, as he pays her no heed. "She's all yours, Clo," he encourages the vampire. The reverent devotion in his voice, his softness obviously intended for his friend, is at odds with his harsh treatment of their prey. "Was going to get you some pretty boy with a wrestler's body, but his girlfriend got in my way and fucked up my original plan, so I decided that she'd be better instead."
The veins under Clove's eyes become plainly visible against her skin, flushing a deep obsidian color instead of the natural human crimson, further emphasized by her ghostly pallor. Her gratuitous lust for blood is made rather obvious when her gaze falls on Katniss with the savage expression of a predator that has caught sight of a piece of the defenseless meat it would like to devour. This behavior is to be expected of young, inexperienced vampires, who often were wild with their initial hunger, crazed by their need and having no means to control it.
Baby vampires were condemned to an existence where they would be a slave to temptation, and Lamina has heard and seen for herself that for a lot of vampires, it may very well take many decades, and in worst case scenarios sometimes centuries, for a vampire to master their cravings.
"I'm going to enjoy this," Clove declares with a sinister glee, her raspy, textured voice smooth, low and gravelly, taunting her food and eliciting a hateful glare from the girl, who is roughly transferred from the blonde's cage-like embrace to Clove's. In different circumstances, the fact that her companion appears to be enchanted by (or, as the kids these days were calling it, in their barely decipherable, maddening slang: turned on) by his vampire friend's behavior, as well as how he takes great pains to hide his stuttered breathing and dry throat behind a mask of unaffected neutrality and apathetic eyes, would be a source of amusement.
Lamina instead observes the scene with a morbid stillness, calling on her magic to return to her body where it belongs rather than lying in wait in the atmosphere. Liquid starlight gathers in pools of ephemeral glitter on her skin until it infiltrates deep. It then flows into her veins, rushing in like an unbound river following its course, functioning as a resource to be prepared for use. She has forgotten, until this moment, the addictive, enriching force of raw power.
Her intentions are purely restricted to Katniss's safety, and she is not one to succumb to the corruption of greed. Even as her magic begs her to use it for more, and her darkest impulses urge her to put down this insolent vampire girl for good, Lamina fights against it, both because of the goodness reserved in her own heart and with the patient guidance of her husband. She can feel him standing beside her in his silent, supportive way even as the thin fog of death - not accessible to mere mortals, but little more than an inconvenient grey filmy patch of air for the witches - separates them. His hand is, even now, after all these years, a solid, dependable weight on her shoulder, steadying her mind and spirit, calming her in a way that no other has ever been able to.
For all of this girl's faults and relentless bullying, Clove clearly is the prisoner of a ravenous hunger that she has no way to subdue, and Lamina could sympathize, perhaps understand why this might be how she chooses to manage her predicament. How it very well could be her only choice, especially with her limited resources and lack of a mentor. It would not be right to condemn her to death for crimes that ultimately were not severe, only a result of circumstance.
The old witch, in her long life, has seen truly horrendous acts from vampires who did not hunt out of necessity but instead to fulfill their own depraved impulses. This teenage girl is nowhere near the monster that Coriolanus Snow had been during his reign of terror, a tyrant who slaughtered his way through villages, whole cities, indiscriminately, until the world over shuddered at the mere mention of his name. In fact, she reminds Lamina of a similarly aggressive character that had made the mistake of attempting to harass Treech in their youth, only to incur Lamina's enraged - but never vindictive or spiteful - wrath. Coral had been swiftly dealt with back then, defeated but no harm having come to her, and Clove would be extended the same mercy.
Knowing what must be done, Lamina dutifully begins her chanting, voice confident and strong and, despite what the mythical televised supernatural soap operas would have the humans believe, not needing to increase in volume dramatically to have the desired effect. With the witch's eyes closed in order to allow her full focus to remain on her task, she does not see Clove's expression guiltily cloud over with something resembling regret, or the vampire's hand grabbing the back of Katniss Everdeen's neck.
Before Clove's sharpened fangs can find a home into the bare flesh of Katniss's throat, Lamina successfully completes the spell, her husband at her side, gracing her with his watery, shy smile as he allows her to channel him. Suddenly, a mewling kitten with soft, downy fur the color of a midnight sky appears in the place where a vicious, maniacal creature once stood, rendered harmless in her current state even as she still sought to inflict damage.
The girl who held the responsibility of safeguarding Treech's fragile, delicate soul is spirited away to safety, inexplicably finding herself back in the derelict bar - known to the humans as The Hob - where Clove's brawny young henchman had found her.
Meanwhile, the eager young boy only stares ahead in disbelief, his human eyes failing to adjust to the darkness of nighttime. With a simple wave of her hand, the Red Witch forces Clove's friend to the ground, leaving him unconscious on the forest floor.
He wakes to the sound of distraught meowing.
Weird way to start the day, but alright.
Cato rises with a groan, leaning back on his elbows and assessing his surroundings. He's in a random clearing surrounded by walls of large, imposing trees. Hours must have passed, as the night sky has been replaced with daylight, early morning sunshine assaulting his sensitive eyes. It certainly is worse for Clove, whose senses have heightened with her vampirism.
He was there for the transition, and had watched her curl up on the floor in the fetal position, eyes squeezed shut and hands clamped over her ears, unable to bear the pain of the new sights and sounds she experienced at an intensity he couldn't possibly imagine. It had been a horrific experience for both of them, and even now, he bristles at the thought of her in pain.
When he'd first heard what had happened to her, Cato had honestly been a little excited. Vampirism sounded like such a freeing existence, gratifying even, and although he couldn't admit it to himself just yet, Cato's thoughts kept wandering to how pretty - otherwordly, gorgeous, mesmerizing - she would look with someone else's blood slathered across her chin. Now, he understands why it could be a torturous lifestyle, being a slave to uncontrollable impulses, losing humanity.
Nonetheless, he would have been damned if he'd simply let Clove die, which was why Cato had given her his blood without hesitation, allowed her to take what she needed from a self inflicted, superficial scratch in his hand. Tension and hunger had left her trembling in his arms, and he could tell she wanted more than the small cut could offer, was prepared to let her have it all regardless of the fact it was common knowledge that baby vampires couldn't tell when to stop.
Rather than risking his life in the process of her transition, she'd ran off with newfound speed that even he couldn't match. By the time he found her, she was gorging herself on a rabbit she'd found by the creek. Her sense of self control was remarkable, because he'd had every reason to expect that she would leave a trail of human bodies behind her in her maddened haze. Lyme, an Elder of the faction, had told him as much when he'd stumbled into her den and begged her for help, ignoring the intrigued and downright ravenous looks her faction of vampires sent him. Whether it was arrogance or confidence, Cato was secure in the knowledge that they couldn't hurt him, because Lyme wouldn't let it happen.
The maternal woman had gently informed him that the only person who could truly help Clove was her sire, the vampire who'd turned her. Enobaria was nowhere to be seen, so the only solution Cato had been able to come up with was choosing random strangers to victimize and hoping that Clove wouldn't kill anyone to sate her appetite.
Not that Cato cared if she did, he'd still follow her anywhere, but he didn't see the point in senselessly ending lives without purpose.
As he scans the forest around him, searching for a small, freckled brunette with stunningly angry eyes, dread swoops through his stomach when he comes up empty. The same fear he had felt the day she vamp-sped away from him to god-knows-where freezes the blood in his veins to ice once more. By now, Clove could have slaughtered dozens, and received a stake in her heart delivered by some vigilante vampire hunter as punishment. She may have murdered her way through The Hob and earned herself hundreds of enemies in the form of grieving loved ones. That, at least, he could handle, as long as she was alive - or, well, undead - and not reduced to a pile of dusky grey ashes.
No, that would not be her fate, because Cato could never allow it. Familiar volcanic anger lights his body on fire, only fitting since he will burn down this forest if he doesn't find her soon.
The incessant meowing that had ripped him from his slumber begins again, insistent, demanding his attention. His eyes dart around in an attempt to locate the source, and land on a small black cat sitting at the base of a tree, her tail casually flicking left and right. She's bite sized, no more than a kitten, really, and his arsonist fantasies are put on pause if only so he can admire this random lost pet whose narrowed green eyes pierce through his heart and spark an affectionate warmth in his chest that he's only ever felt for one person -
Wait, no, he can't be distracted. "Scram," he commands it with little conviction. Cato must stay on task, find his deranged bloodthirsty best friend before she commits mass homicide, and he'll need some treats for her too, because she still stubbornly denies his blood no matter how many times he's offered it to her.
Oddly familiar mossy green eyes stare back at him, unaffected by his order. Ignoring the tingling feeling that propagates through his body the more he looks at the creature, Cato allows his voice to deepen with warning. "Go away, and stop staring at me, mongrel. I swear I will snap your tiny neck." It was a half-hearted threat - and a complete bluff, since he had no interest in hurting a defenseless animal.
Once it becomes clear that the kitten would not run off no matter what Cato says or does, he stomps off with a huff of irritation. Clove is the only priority right now, and if only he could just find her -
The cat interrupts his frenzied search, her sounds becoming more frantic, a desperate need for his attention. First of all, where the hell did this thing even come from, and second, why was it so far away from its human owners? A twinge of empathy for the concerned pet owners who must be worried sick pinches at him, but he has bigger things to worry about. Finding Clove is his only priority, the only thing that matters to him. Still, that kitten looks so lost and pitiful -
Fine, he can make it his second mission to return the cat home after he gets Clove. With a suffering sigh, he approaches the cat purposefully, gathering the animal in his arms. It is almost comical how small she is compared to his toned, muscular limbs. Her fur has an exquisitely soft texture too, and he is tempted to nuzzle his face in it.
"Hey, kitten," he murmurs affectionately, completely abandoning the tough mean act he'd put on literally seconds before while petting its back with careful hands. "I'll get you home to your owners, okay? We just have to find my best friend, first, I'm worried about her. You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you? Of course you don't, you're literally an animal, that would be silly."
Wait. Did - did the cat just roll its eyes at him?
"That's the most attitude I've ever gotten from a cat," he mutters contemplatively. She lightly scratches at his arms with her miniature nails, not seeming to want to hurt him but instead desperate to communicate something. Except that's not possible, because she's literally a cat. Cats don't talk to humans, or have anything to say to them. That's not natural, so he must be imagining it.
If Clove were here, she'd viciously snap at him to not be an idiot, help him keep his head on straight. That had always been one of her greatest talents, something Cato had adored most about her, respected enough to allow (generous use of the word, since no one allows Clove to do anything) her to keep him in line. Now, she needs him to be able to do so on his own, and stay on track to find her.
Rarely does Clove ever depend on him, and Cato knows she fares quite well on her own, but she could very well be in trouble right now, and he would not rest until he knows she is safe.
"We're on a rescue mission," he informs the cat, cooing at it in a way that would be humiliating if the forest wasn't thankfully empty. Uselessly prattling always pisses Clove off, but it helps him calm down instead of worrying about her, and if an animal was to be his only conversation companion until he has her back, then so be it. "Isn't that right, furball?"
Her meowing had quieted down once he'd started carrying her, as if annoyed into submission - he is familiar with that effect he has, typically on Clove. Now, the creature in his arms begins yowling even louder, shattering the peace it had briefly given him with its silence.
"Okay, okay, what, are you hungry or something?" Cato has no idea how to placate animals. He was briefly considering keeping the animal after he found Clove if it wasn't already spoken for, and maybe adding a third member to their small two-person crew. Now, he has major second thoughts, because this thing, adorable as it is, won't shut the hell up.
His attempts at subduing the cat with a tender voice quickly devolve into harsh, screaming curses when the kitten decides it has had enough of playing harmless and leaps upwards, aiming for his eyes. Neutralizing the threat without actually hurting it presents a major challenge, and he does not escape the encounter unscathed. By the time he captures the treacherous kitten's paws - so impossibly tiny, yet inflicting a disproportionate amount of damage - he's out of breath and pissed off.
"What the hell?" he roars at the sadistic little thing. She has the nerve to seem slightly smug, even proud. Which is ridiculous, since cats don't have the power to make those kinds of facial expressions. This is insanity, and he has half a mind to throw the violent kitten like a damn football. He won't do that, because he can't stand to hurt something that small, but this soulless demonic feline is testing his patience, not dissimilar from how Clove always likes to push his buttons...
Recognition dawns on him once the pieces of the puzzle fully click, locking into place as the threads of logic seamlessly stitch together. By now, the supernatural presence in the world is obvious. Vampires exist, likely brought to life by magic that defies the laws of science, so why not witches as well, or some other creature with the power to transform people into kittens.
That entire statement sounds extremely ridiculous to say the least, but no more so than the fact that vampires are real.
The cat must realizs that he finally knows who she is. Clove, it's Clove, which means he can stop calling it the cat. Hysteria threatens to bubble up into uncontrolled laughter, his heartbeat kicking into overdrive, because it is the stupidest scenario ever, one he'd never have thought in his wildest imaginations they would experience. Coming to terms with it brings him back down to Earth, calms his racing heart, as he accepts the fact that Clove is inexplicably a cat now.
No longer overcome by paralyzing fear, Cato chuckles delightedly. As seen by what had just happened with her trying to claw his face off, she is not necessarily harmless. One of the great advantages of the situation, however, is that... well, not only does he have the superior height and strength to prevent her from hurting him too much, but she's extremely cute in this state anyhow, so he can forgive just about anything she does to him.
(Of course, if he was prepared to be honest with himself, that last thing was equally as true when she was talking and walking on two legs, such was the extent of his devotion to her.)
"You know, Clove, even though you were turned into a cat, that was a real bitch move." She responds with the kitten equivalent of an unamused scoff, which is basically a disapproving mewl, a sound so pitiful it inspires his adoration, manifesting into soft little butterfly wings caressing the insides of his stomach.
"Honestly, now that I think about it, I'm not sure what my incentive to help turn you back into a person is. Maybe you're better off like this. Certainly cuter, if anything," he jokes, winking at Clove despite knowing how it would vex her. The unimpressed mewls quickly escalate into downright hissing, outraged at his impertinent behavior. It would do him well to remember she was not weak and lacking bloodthirst in her kitten state, but still Clove, as mean and prone to vicious attacks as ever. Yet her soft fur and sweet little sounds make it all too easy to forget.
When she crouches down slightly, readying to launch herself at him again with a renewed aggression, Cato hastily raises both his hands in surrender, fighting off his embarrassment at the fact that a small cat could overpower him so effortlessly. "Yes, yes, fine," he has to fight off his laughter in the hopes of avoiding his best friend's wrath, "we'll get this fixed up for you, just... let me pet you for a couple more minutes?" Pleading with a cat hadn't been how he saw himself spending the day, yet here he is.
Cato can visibly tell, even with her in a different form, how she draws back slightly, considering her options and choosing whether to follow her craving for violence or give her assent. Eventually, she chooses the latter, although appearing reluctant to not have her nails embedded in his skin right now. Even if it isn't bleeding, he knows she's left quite a few marks on his face, and Cato can't bring himself to retaliate. The fact is that with anyone else, he would be absolutely furious.
Clove has never been just anyone else. Neither of them will acknowledge that, no matter how obvious it is in the exceedingly cautious way he holds her writhing kitten form close to his body, fascinated by the contrast between the size of her as opposed to his larger arms. Incensed and exasperated, he still pets her midnight-colored coat delicately with a feather-light, ginger touch.
Bracing himself with one last pat and burying his nose into the soft pillow of her fur, Cato sets off to find the culprit responsible for this egregious crime.
The distinctively irritated meow emerging from her little kitten throat tells him he is going the wrong way. Cato swivels back to the other direction, unsurprised by his feline friend nodding her approval. Stranger things have happened than a cat being able to communicate when she was formerly an undead human, or having some kind of psychic sense for who their problem was with, but he'll leave it to the experts on this sort of magic to try their luck at the futile task of figuring out the nonexistent logic behind that.
Cato had never planned to pursue a career path in detective work, but the ancient-looking old lady with vibrant, fiery red hair standing in front of a creepy little shack was as good a guess as any. She also is positioned in front of an actual cauldron, so he can assume he's basically caught her red-handed. Unless, of course, there is more than one witch making her residence in this forest.
Might as well start with the suspect in front of him. "Good morning, ma'am," he greets her politely, rather chipper. The words are unnatural on his tongue. He prefers crisp, direct statements over pleasantries. Instinct, however, tells him to respect his elders, and besides, he doesn't want to also get turned into a cat. Or worse, a dog - he shudders at the thought of being forced to exist as one of those horrid, malevolent beasts.
Maybe this woman isn't at all a witch, and just some random old lady that likes cauldrons. Doubtful, but possible. His hopes are immediately crushed when, with a snap of the woman's brittle, wrinkled fingers, they are whisked into the walls of her humble home.
Cato clutches his best friend tighter, protective and far more afraid than he'd been before. He knows better than to let his fear be too obvious. His brows raise in a blatant show of arrogance. "Neat party trick. Miss, are you the witch who did this to my friend here?" The kitten in his embrace hisses reproachfully at the woman, as if confronting an enemy. This is confirmation enough for Cato, and he doesn't wait for an answer. "I need you to turn her back. This is me politely asking." Pretending he has any authority in the dynamic soothes him only slightly.
The woman surveys him silently, conducting a once-over before she speaks. "This is hardly a high stakes situation, young man. I haven't harmed your friend, and she is in no pain, nor will she ever bring it upon others. Tell me, are you so eager to have her return to her true form, and be forced to hunt down her victims for her again? After all, I believe I heard you say she is... better off like this. 'Certainly cuter?'" The old witch grins at him, proving she does have a sense of humor. Her weary, aged eyes fall on Clove, who yowls at the unwanted eye contact, but the witch only smiles passively. "I definitely agree with that sentiment."
"Well, I was wrong," he replies bluntly, not wavering in his certainty. "I prefer her as she is. As she truly is, bloodlust and all." He can't say it aloud with Clove being able to hear and understand - she'd never let him live it down after - but he misses her. Cato has never felt more desperate to hear her voice, to be subjected to her despicable taunts, her mean insults, to be victimized by the girl he cared for more than anything. She is in fact sweet like this, endearing as a kitten - even with the scratch marks on his face clear evidence how he would never be safe from her in this state - but he just wants her back.
"And if I were to have her be a vampire once more? She obviously has no control over her urges, and I do not fault her for it. This is how I protect both her and her future victims." The woman's voice has a peaceful, measured cadence that would be comforting and a satisfactory appeasement if she weren't talking about, well, letting his best friend, his person, be trapped in an animal's body forever.
"There is also the concern of my late husband." A small crack in her armor. The righteous expression on her face disintegrates with her grief, and Cato finds himself unable to meet her eyes. He doesn't want to bully a widow, but he'll need to do something soon to force her to change Clove back. "His soul has found a home in a girl, one whom you and your friend here attacked. I cannot let that go unpunished."
Cato blinks at her uncomprehendingly. "I'm... That could literally be anyone. Clove hasn't killed yet so whoever you're talking about is perfectly fine."
The red-haired witch examines him for a moment, a searching quality to her gaze, before releasing a long exhale and reaching for a worn leather journal - likely her spellbook. Clove wriggles around in his arms, excited to be so close to freedom. He'd been wondering why she was so docile for the past few minutes. Best friends/partners were fine to scratch up, but not witches who placed a curse on her against her will. Annoyance fades as quickly as it arrives, but when she's in her vampire form, she owes him payback in the form of a fight. The odds were more than in her favor with her vampiric strengths and inability to be fatally injured. She would definitely win, and that would be okay, because -
The witch's voice breaks through his fantasies of Clove besting him in a physical fight (more specifically how it would end with her on top of him again, which always seems to be the outcome of their matches these days), enough so that he startles. Thankfully, the witch either fails to notice or refuses to comment. "If you will give me your word that Clove will no longer be a threat to Katniss Everdeen - that is the girl I told you of, the one whom you attempted to have her feed on last night - then I would take no issue with her being released from this form."
"You have my word. Now turn her back. Please." The crack in his voice with the last word is enough to invite the elderly woman's sympathy, as far as he can see from the slight softening of her expression. He was never truly terrified that Clove would stay a cat forever, since that was a ridiculous enough punishment to impose on a murderous vampire, but it will be a relief when she's herself again and in his arms as a person. His person.
A few spooky chants and minutes of strange arm waving gestures later, a small brunette appears out of thin air and takes off into a run, straight into the hug that awaits her. Cato's grasp is tight but utterly careful not to crush her with his strong grip - even if she was now more powerful than he'd ever be, he couldn't shake the habit.
In place of downy fur, his hand cradles the back of Clove's head and finds silken strands of human hair underneath his touch. When she peels herself away from him - held in place by Cato keeping her close with a firm pressure on her shoulders - her face is covered in those freckles he liked to count that had unfortunately not been present in her cat form.
"My hero," she drawls sarcastically, but her eyes glow with sincere gratitude. Her thumb traces over the marks she'd left behind on his jaw and cheeks, and he places his hand over hers, anything to have her keep touching his face like that. "Sorry about these, I just had to get your attention."
Cato's gaze darkens mockingly, squeezing her wrist in a poor attempt to scare her. He's rewarded with the sight of her mouth tilting up at the corners even as she desperately bites back the temptation to smile. "Yeah, well, you can make it up to me later."
Before he can inform her of just how exactly he plans to make her pay for what she did, the witch interrupts their reunion. To Cato's dismay, that means being whacked with the wooden handle of a broom. Disregarding him cussing her out, the witch points to the door of her lair. "Out the way you came. I don't want teenagers flirting in my shack. It's your turn to scram. Little girl, don't flash those fangs at me, I will not hesitate to have you on four legs again."
They scramble to leave the witch's house, stumbling across the threshold into the forest and leaning on each other for balance. Because she never learns her lesson, once they're out of earshot of the vengeful old woman, Clove spins to Cato with a devilish grin that tells him what she is about to ask before she even speaks. "I'm hungry, let's find some people to snack on."