Or, rather . . . what was left of it.
Takako was right behind her, skidding to a stop just inside the door frame before walking up to Jo’s right side. “Damn it,” she hissed, and when Jo spared a glance at her out of the corner of her eye, it was to find the woman in full attack mode, ready and waiting for another attack. “Is the bow—?” She started to ask, eyes scanning the room, but Jo cut her off with a firm shake of her head.
“It’s gone.”
Takako’s gun lowered a fraction from where it had been raised to her shoulder, head bowing just slightly in pained frustration.
Jo shared her sentiment, her own rage near to boiling over at the sight of the wreckage before her. Samson’s workshop had been completely ransacked, tables overturned and half-done projects destroyed, some nearly unrecognizable. Whoever had been given the task of demolishing Samson’s work had not been picky, executing a full-scale obliteration instead of focusing on specificity.
Though it was obvious their objective had not been destruction, but theft.
Jo felt her blood run cold at the sight at the center of the room, a broken pile of all of Samson’s other bows surrounded by a literal circle of debris that was obviously meant to draw their focus. The only solace was that fragments of the bow made from the Life Tree were nowhere to be found—it was the only thing that managed to escape the destruction. Jo could have laughed at the sick and twisted irony, but she was instantly distracted by the feel of a hand at her hip, her arm, the sensation of being shoved frantically aside.
Samson’s momentum didn’t stop in the doorway, his feet stumbling forward beneath him as he took in the state of his workshop, the littered remains of his work.
“N-No. . .” He gasped, face deathly pale and legs wobbling beneath him. Still, he dragged himself around the perimeter of the room, shaky hands picking up pieces of shredded material and broken tools. “No, no, no!” There was an aura of devastation around him, as if his magic were grieving just like he was, and it kept Jo rooted firmly in place—no matter how much she wanted to comfort him.
By the time Wayne and Eslar and a compliment of guards finally snuck in behind them, Samson was as much a wreck as the room. His whole body went slack the moment he saw the pile of broken bows, the most important part of their plan now missing—a literal circle of destruction left in its place.
It was no surprise that Samson collapsed then, falling hard enough to his knees that Jo winced in sympathy. Though Samson showed no physical pain, only the mental anguish of a promise of hope laid waste.
The moment Samson’s knees hit the floor, Eslar was in the room and at his side, wrapping an arm around the crafter’s shoulders. His grip on Samson’s upper arm was tight enough that tips of his fingernails had gone light green, his hair falling into his face as he bowed his head.
Samson barely seemed to notice, clutching the remnants of the bows in both hands hard enough that Jo was certain he was giving himself splinters. “I sh-should. . . I should have b-been here, I. . . I could have s-saved it, I would’ve never let—”
“If you’d been here when they attacked, you would have been killed for defending it,” Eslar tried to reason, but Samson just jerked against his hold, looking at Eslar with wet, frantic eyes.
“I could have fought them off! I could have saved the bow! I could have. . . I c-could have—”
“We thought they were going after Jo,” Takako said softly, her voice the only counterpart to the sound of Samson’s labored breathing. “We had no way of knowing she knew about the bow.”
“We sh-should have,” Samson hiccupped as he clutched the broken bow to his chest. When he bowed his head, tears fell, soaking into the wood and feathers and painting them in splotches of darkened wet. “We should have assumed. Pan, she. . . Pan knows e-everything.”
For some reason, Jo’s magic recoiled at that, writhing somewhere deep at the back of her mind in rebellion. Pan had been one step ahead; she had foreseen the beginnings of their plan and cut them off at the pass. But she refused to believe the evil, candy-haired demigod kneweverything. They couldn’t afford to think that way.
“Can you make another one?” Wayne risked asking, a clear reluctance in his voice, as though he were afraid of interjecting. And rightfully so.
Samson’s head shot up at the words, face stricken with guilt and fear. “I. . .” He started, but Jo could practically see the words lodging in his throat. “I don’t. . . I. . .” Slowly, Samson held the pieces of various mismatched bows out in front of his chest, panicked eyes skating over every surface. Jo could feel tiny spurts of magic, but it was dim and withered; not even Samson’s magic knew how to make this right. But as if he was too strangled by guilt to admit it, Samson just shook his head, eyes stuck wide. “I can. . . I could maybe. . . I don’t know, I—” He swallowed, once, twice, before looking up at the elf all but cradling him in his arms. “E-Eslar, I—”
“It’s okay, Sam,” Jo said, taking a step forward only to be frozen still by the seething rasp of Eslar’s voice.
“Another?” he bit out, pulling Samson in closer at the same time that he glared up at Wayne, a look so vicious it caused Wayne to physically startle backwards a step. “Of course not, you imbecile. There is only one. There could only everbeone, unless you want to wait another century and hope the elves will give us that bough too.” Samson had bowed his head once more, though he rested further into Eslar’s arms this time, wood and twine hanging loosely in his limp fingers. “Samson cannot make another,” he added, and Jo almost scolded him when she noticed Samson tense. But Eslar pulled back then, just enough for Samson to look him in the eyes. “And we shouldn’t expect him to.”
It was surprise that flitted across Samson’s features first, then relief. Eslar’s eyes softened as they watched some of the panic ease out of his shoulders.
The relief was short lived, however.
“The bow wasn’t the only thing Pan left behind,” Takako interrupted, and Jo followed the sound of her voice to the far wall of the workshop, a piece of parchment literally stabbed into the table where the bow had been with an ornate, obsidian dagger. Because even Pan wasn’t above the occasional cliché, apparently. Takako had chosen not to touch it, which was wise, but Jo held no qualms. If it was in some way warded or maybe even set to explode, Jo would be safe. Pan might have been overdramatic with the display, but she wasn’t sloppy.
“Everyone take a step back,” she said as she approached, just in case. Takako hesitated, but everyone else did as told. Jo smiled at her friend with as much confidence as she could muster. “It’s just paper. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Takako nodded, but she still kept her gun drawn, standing a bit closer than the rest of them.
Without wasting time, she reached out and ripped the parchment free.
When nothing happened, Jo turned back to face the group. She didn’t have to tell them it was a letter from Pan, but she knew it was only fair to read it aloud; they all deserved to know what was about to happen next.
“‘To my darling other half—’” Jo started, not even bothering to hide her cringe. “‘As well as to all those who travel with you. Though I admire your resilience, I hope you can see now that your efforts are futile. As is your escape from any and all inevitable consequence. On this, I speak directly to King Silvus, to the elves of High Luana, and more specifically, to Grand Healer Eslar Greentouch.’”
Jo raised her eyes from the paper, first to spare a quick glance at Eslar, who was looking at where Samson had fiercely intertwined their fingers together, and then to the elvish guards by the door. They looked unsettled, though they did not make to leave. Jo cleared her throat before going on.
