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Son of Oz [DISCONTINUED]

Summary:

Summary: Ozma, injured and on the verge of death, miraculously makes his escape from The Witch and the terrifying Grimm under her command. He now spends his life on the run, forever hunted by The Witch and her beasts, alongside his best friends, Ironwood and Glynda, and a baby boy named Oscar. Watch the slow build of humanity from the ground up at the hands of Oz, future Keeper of the Relics, King of Remnant, and Headmaster at Beacon.

Note: This is an AU that takes place during the times of ancient Remnant, where there is no technology (yet), no Huntsman Academies (yet), no semblances (yet), no Kingdoms (yet), and Ozma is still on his first reincarnation (here named Ozmund). The rest of the cast exists; they’re just tweaked to be a little more intertwined with the setting! I find Remnant’s “ye olden times” to be a pretty cool set piece, in which Dust, the Faunus, semblances, and Huntsman are all completely new concepts.

Chapter 1: Escape from the Wicked Witch

Summary:

Ozmund escapes the Witch, and gains some companions.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Ozmund manages to flee, having stooped down to something desperate and violent. Something of which bastardized his honor as a warrior and shook him down to his core—something having to do with ice shards and Salem’s eyes. He struck her, in tears, with fury, with hate, with terror, and he did it without mercy or pity.

Killed them, both of his souls screamed with betrayal, their hearts broken, sobbing as they sent icicle after icicle plunging into her body, You killed them! You killed them! We hate you, we hate you, we hate you—WE HATE YOU!

He heard her scream bloody murder as she receded under his vicious attacks. It wouldn’t kill her; Salem was an immortal being, same as he was. But it hurt her, and he wanted it to hurt. But even as he struck, his fingers burning with the output of his magic, he didn’t look. He didn’t want to look. Half of him still loved her. Half of him still felt sorry for her.

Her cries bit down into him, until he could no longer find the rage to keep attacking, sent down into a spiral of horror as the world caught up with him.

He didn’t look back.

He took to his feet and ran, ran, ran, and then kept running.

He heard her shrieks behind him, and he felt the heat of her attacks as they shot past him, failing again and again to hit their mark. When the blasts faded and her cries became too distant to hear, he still kept on pushing and running, until he became physically unable to go any further.

He fell into a walk, then a stumble. Without his staff—discarded somewhere during the scuffle—he fell to his knees. All he could do was go into a pathetic crawl, and hope to reach some inkling of safety.

Ozmund finally looks back. Though the grandiose castle they’d called a home was far out of sight, he swore he could still hear Salem’s shrieking. He waits for her to burst out of the shadows and come clawing after him. He waits for her to suddenly appear before him and rip his heart out. But she doesn’t.

He presses a hand to the deep wound in his side, of which still gushes blood. It’s warm and makes his clothes feel sticky. It rolls down his side and seeps into the dirt as he struggles to keep crawling, one agonizing shove at a time.

Ozmund has no magic in him to mend his wounds, drained completely dry after his attacks on Salem.

We’re not going to make it, the voice at the back of his head tells him.

Shut up! Ozmund shouts back at the voice. We’re going to make it, Oz! We have to! For them! For the girls!

The voice of Ozma is quiet for a moment, then he chokes free, They are dead, Ozmund. They are dead; she killed them… We were… We were too slow—I was too slow—

I know! Ozmund bends over, coughing blood, gulping down large gasps of air, trying to keep his vision from blurring. I’m trying to stay alive, so we can find a way to… We have to stop her, Oz! She wants all of humanity to fall—wants to kill even more innocent children. We can’t let her! So… So I have to keep going! I have to make it! For their sakes!

Ozma once again goes quiet as Ozmund crawls on, continuously glancing over his shoulder in fear of Salem’s appearance.

Finally, Ozma says, I’m sorry.

“What?” Ozmund asks aloud.

I froze. I left you back there to fend for both of us—

He coughs on more blood, rasping. “You wouldn’t have done what needed to be done.”

At that, Ozma goes silent. Through their connection, Ozmund can feel him agreeing with that fact. Ozma, the great warrior Ozma, had choked. He could only stare on in shock, and Ozmund couldn’t accept death. He simply couldn’t. So he took over when Ozma succumbed to their fate.

You didn’t have to hurt her so terribly. Maybe we could have talked to her—maybe—!

“Oz. She stabbed us—stabbed you…” Ozmund glances down at the gash in his side, watching blood pool beneath him. “She wasn’t going to listen to reason… You saw what she did… What she did to the girls—”

He can feel the electricity of Ozma’s anxiety at the back of his head. If it were possible for a disembodied voice to hyperventilate, he was. Ozmund had to steady his own breath and push Ozma back down, for his fears were starting to leak through to both of them.

“Stop it, Oz! Calm down!” he wheezes. “Our lungs are barely holding up as it is—!” He chokes and coughs on more blood.

Ozma squeezes himself into a darker corner of Ozmund’s mind. This is my fault—it’s all mine! The girls are dead, and it’s all my fault—I couldn’t protect them—I couldn’t…!

While the ancient Wizard spirals, Ozmund bows his head, tears gathering in his eyes.

Ozma was supposed to be the strong one; he was supposed to be the hero, the God of Remnant. Ozmund, on the other hand, was weak and pathetic, a nobody farrier born in a town of thieves and liars. But it was the Wizard going through a panic attack, not the Nobody.

He’d allowed Ozma to do what he wanted with his body. It didn’t really matter. Ozmund had nothing going for himself, and Ozma had been the one with the plans and the magic and the ideas. He just never let the Wizard completely merge with him, out of fear of what they would become, something of which even Ozma himself didn’t know.

But right now, Ozmund was the one in charge. And while he very well might be just a socially inept fool—a silent participant lingering in the background of his own life—he’d loved those girls. They were as much his as they’d been Ozma’s. He’d say that he even came to love Salem, before she…

He grits his teeth, the tears spilling over. “Oz,” he chokes, “please. I need to live. I need to live and avenge them. And stop her. I loved them so dearly, and she took them away from me! She—she took them away! S-so please! Shut up and help me—help me, please!”

Ozma finally seemed to settle a little. I… I don’t know how—

“You must be able to do something!” Ozmund begs, his head swirling from both his and Ozma’s tangled thoughts, the pain finally catching up to them.

I… might be able to do one thing…

“Then do it. I don’t care what it is—just do it!”

Suddenly, Ozmund feels a surge of heat go through his body. His breath hitches at the sensation. It isn’t painful. It’s just… shockingly warm. Natural.

Thoughts and emotions he hadn’t been fully aware of pull to the front of his brain. Memories of times he’d never lived flash across the backs of his eyes. Or… no. He had lived them. These were both of their memories now. Ozmund was Ozma, and Ozma was Ozmund.

Ozmund blinks. He thought the world would feel different. Would look different. That he would be different. Yet the only thing of difference was the amount of pain in his heart. It weighed more heavily, for Ozmund had been angry, but Ozma had been lost in despair. Now they were equal parts enraged and sorrowful, a combination of wanting to rip Salem’s throat out and wanting to curl into a ball and never get up again.

Ozmund places a hand to his side, summoning a portion of magic that had once only belonged to the Wizard. The gash in his side lessons to a slightly smaller cut. The worst of the bleeding stops. Though he doesn’t have enough magic to tend to his other wounds—the busted leg, the burns, the claw marks, the broken ribs—this, for now, is enough.

Ozmund struggles to get back up onto his feet, turning to look back at the castle one last time. Still no Salem. Was she in too much pain over what he had done to her to come after him? Or was she perhaps mourning, filled with regret at having killed their daughters in cold blood? Could she even feel regret and loss anymore?

“O-Ozma? Are you still there?”

For a second, there’s a beat of silence, and Ozmund fears the worst, then—

I’m here, Ozmund.

Ozmund scrunches up his face, gritting his teeth. Then hear this. And take note of it.

He can feel Ozma’s mind sharpen into focus.

To Salem, and to the parts of us that still love her: you may be immortal, but we will find a way.

A sob catches in Ozmund’s throat. He hates that they still feel sorry for her. He hates that they still feel for her at all.

It really does seem like both parts of them had loved her. And now, together, that love grows far more intense, and this becomes far more of a treacherous deed to swear to themselves. Yet they must. They have to. For the both of them. For their daughters. For the whole world. So they swear it, even though it breaks their heart:

We will find a way to save humanity. And kill you, Salem.

---

 

It was another boring day at the shop. It was simply another day he spent swiping the dust off the counter and trying to busy himself with another design.

James Ironwood lived a calm life. He didn’t mind it. Most of the time, he even quite liked it. He liked metalsmithing. The work was calming, and the complexity and intricacy of it at least kept his mind busy. But in between hammering and twisting precious metals, setting gems, and selling his specialty made necklaces, rings, brooches, and other jewelries, it got a bit too quiet at times. And a little lonely.

James finishes stretching, greasing, and loosening up a chain for a necklace he’d been working on for the past few days. He locks the two clasps into place and starts the final polishing process when a commotion comes from outside.

His grandfather would have scolded him for leaving a work lying around unfinished, and for abandoning the shop. Ironwood glances outside the window, resolute in staying. If he leaves, someone might break in and steal something.

He sighs and returns to his work. At his feet, a large dog lifts its head from its slumber and jerks it toward the shop door, growling quietly.

“Easy, Toto.” Ironwood reaches down and strokes one of the hound’s ears. “Probably just another Grimm,” he sighs. “Let the town guards handle this one. They can’t have us doing all of the work for them…”

Ironwood finishes polishing and clasps the two ends of the necklace together, surveying his craftsmanship.

The commotion outside gets a little louder.

Ironwood glances back up at the door again.

Toto gets onto all fours, growling louder.

“Oh, alright.” Ironwood gets up from his chair. “We can at least take a peek, right?”

Toto tails him to the door and they both stick their heads out. A blast of cool, fresh autumn air hits their faces.

There’s a mob in the center of town, screaming and yelling.

“A Grimm, see? Gotta be.” Ironwood shares a glance with Toto. If it weren’t for the hound, he’d probably just stand around talking to himself. At least with Toto there, he felt a little, tiny bit saner. Sometimes he had to question himself on it.

They both study the crowd, watching them continue kicking and screaming at whatever is sitting in the center of all of them. It’s a Grimm, James. Now that you’ve seen what’s up, get back inside. Ironwood almost closes the door again before he hears the shout of—

“BURN HIM! BURN HIM AT THE STAKE!”

He stops mid-stride.

Another shout, “THE GRIMM ARE YOU AND THAT DAMN WITCH’S FAULT!”

“DEATH!” cries a woman. “DEATH TO THE WARLOCK!”

Ironwood finally manages to catch a glimpse of the form they’re huddled around. His heart leaps in his chest.

Shop be damned! Ironwood rushes out towards the crowd of people, Toto following at his heals.

“HEY!” he shouts, pushing through the hailstorm of flailing bodies, all trying to rip the person in the center apart. “BACK UP! EVERYONE BACK UP!”

Ironwood is a big man, tall and muscular. He towers over most of the people in the crowd and is able to easily catch their attentions. The crowd dissolves a little.

“IRONWOOD!” a man calls over everyone else. “IRONWOOD, IT’S HIM! IT’S THE WITCH’S HUSBAND!”

 The crowd has already tied the man to a post, over a large stack of wood and hay. They likely would have set him on fire if Ironwood hadn’t intervened.

The man looks at Ironwood with frightened, teary brown eyes. His tan face stands out against his shock-white hair. His fanciful clothes are caked in muck and old blood. His wounds look severe, and very fresh. Had the townspeople done this to him?

No. Ironwood rejects that idea. Though the fire hadn't yet been lit, the man was already covered in burns. It was more likely that he came into town already injured. And whatever had done this to him, it had been mean and vicious.

Ironwood reaches up and pulls the gag out of his mouth. “Are you alright?”

The man nearly opens his mouth to answer, but he’s cut off.

“Ironwood! That man belongs to the Witch!” One of the townspeople comes up and puts a hand on Ironwood’s shoulder, pulling him away. “He’s dangerous! He can likely summon Grimm, too, like the wicked woman he belongs to!”

“I don’t not belong to Salem!” rasps the man in a sharp voice. The crowd gasps, reeling back in fear at having heard the Witch’s real name spoken aloud. The man’s face falls from anger to grief. He stares down at the wood and hay at his feet. “Not anymore—”

“LIAR!” someone screams.

“But it’s true,” the man replies with a shockingly calm tone to his voice. “How else do you think I sustained these injuries—?”

“LIES!” More people shout.

“She’s going to kill all of you,” the man tries, sounding a little more desperate. “She’s going to—!”

“KILL THE WARLOCK!”

“PLEASE, LISTEN TO ME!” He begs, straining against the ropes tying him to the post. “YOU’RE ALL IN DANGER—!”

“HE ADMITS IT! HE THREATENS US!”

“JUST LISTEN—!”

Someone ignites the hay and wood at his feet and the man strains harder against the ropes, pleading and begging. The people howl and cry, demanding for his painful demise by righteous flame.

Ironwood shoves a nearby town guard over and steals a sword from their hilt, cutting the ropes holding the supposed “Warlock” to the post. The man falls and Ironwood pulls him away from the fire, jerking the sword in the direction of the nearest guard, who had moved forward to try to stop him.

“ENOUGH!” Ironwood demands. “ANYONE WHO WANTS TO HARM THIS MAN WILL HAVE TO GO THROUGH ME!”

Though he’d never gotten the proper training with a sword—on account of his grandfather wanting him to learn the ways of the family business instead—Ironwood was still an intimidating figure, and one with a weapon, even if he didn’t know how to use it. He uses that to his advantage, squaring his shoulders and standing in a spread-out, defensive pose that makes him seem bigger than he really is. He stares coldly at the guards, daring them to approach.

Quietly, the guards and the townspeople back down, not calling Ironwood out on his bluff. As if he could really take down seven guards and an army of townspeople all at once. He’d damn well try, but it wouldn’t be pretty for either party.

Sword still in hand, he dares to tear his gaze away from the townspeople, instead looking down at the man kneeling in pain at his feet. Ironwood silently extends a hand to him. The man studies it uncertainly for a moment before taking it.

Ironwood helps him up, pulling one of his arms over his shoulders and pushing through the crowd. He sends one last warning glance back as he and the man slowly make their way back to his shop, Toto following behind.

He makes sure to drop the sword back on the ground. It’s not like it belongs to him.

They shuffle inside and Ironwood pulls the man into the back, over to the staircase tucked away out of sight. The man strains against him a little.

“Sorry,” he mutters incoherently, “my leg…”

Ironwood quickly understands. He readjusts the man so that he can hold him up in his arms, as if he were a bride, and makes his way up one step at a time. Ironwood slips into the small room at the top of the stairs and sets him down on the bed.

The man grits his teeth, holding his ribs. “Th-thank you,” he wheezes.

Ironwood pulls the first aid kit out from under the bed. “Is it true?” he asks. “Are you the Witch’s husband?”

The man is silent for a little too long and Ironwood glances up at him again, watching as tears slip down his dirt-stained face.

“No,” the man finally says, “no, not anymore.”

“Ozma.”

The man looks at him sharply.

“That’s your name, isn’t it?” Ironwood asks. “Ozma?”

“No,” the man says once again, though looking a little less certain. He hesitates. “Well… partly.” He weakly holds out a hand to Ironwood. “It’s Ozmund.”

Ironwood glances at the gloved hand for a second, wondering what he’s gotten himself into. Is he really about to harbor the husband of the Witch? The man who had posed as a God several years before, claiming, alongside his wife, that the Grimm would trouble humanity no more. Yet despite that claim, the Grimm still raged, ripping apart families and plunging the world into chaos and darkness. Hopelessness.

Ozmund finally lowers his hand, realizing that Ironwood wasn’t going to take it. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I… should have realized… By the Brothers,” he swears, “did she ever really love ‘im? I should have stopped her… Before she…” He shakes his head, tears slipping down his face. “Maybe you should have let them burn me. It would have been just.”

“Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t have done,” Ironwood snaps, a bit too forceful. “It was my choice to make. Just don’t do anything to make me regret it. Alright?”

Yet Ozmund doesn’t seem to hear him. He closes his eyes, slurring, “He should have never accepted that deal… Now we’ll never get to see them… Never… Never…”

Ozmund’s breath steadies as he passes out.

Ironwood watches him for a second before continuing to rummage through the medical kit. It might be easier to do this while he’s asleep anyway.

---

Ironwood, though kind and gentle in his own ways, appears to intimidate most of the townspeople. When prompted to explain, he tells of the story of how, when his parents died, he went to live here with his grandfather. He was sixteen at the time, already grown tall and muscular.

As soon as he arrived, many of the townspeople began gossiping that he had probably been the one to kill his parents. Even now, roughly some eight years later, the rumor still stuck around. After his grandfather died, leaving the business to him alone, there came the rumor that Ironwood had killed him, too.

Ironwood promises the rumors aren’t true-of which Ozmund reluctantly believes. The man states that even though most of the townspeople fear him, he still has a handful of customers who trust him and go to him whenever they’re seeking specialty jewelries. Those faithful customers are what keep his business afloat, along with the occasional outsider who goes to him out of curiosity, hearing of a “scary man who crafts the finest trinkets the land has ever seen.”

 From what Ozmund can deduce, Ironwood was a reserved soul, protective and strong-willed. Any time one of the town guards or townspeople arrive, demanding the death of Ozma the Warlock, Ironwood always drives them off. He doesn’t need to do much. Just puff out his chest and glare a little. Then off the townsfolk go, scrambling away in fear.

“What did you see in the Witch, anyway?” Ironwood mutters, rebandaging the burns on Ozmund’s forearm. It was sure to scar, the flesh melted and twisted, red and angry.

Ozmund looks up at him tiredly.

Though most of his strength had returned, he still felt drained, likely from all the days he spent wondering about Salem and whispering prayers to the Brothers to protect his little girls. Wherever they may rest now. He spends his nights unable to sleep, waking from the same nightmare over and over again.

Then he sobs until morning, pretending Ironwood can’t possibly hear him, despite his makeshift mattress sitting on the floor, only a few feet away. Ozmund still feels guilty about taking up the bed, despite Ironwood’s constant insistence that it was alright.

Ozmund isn’t entirely sure how to answer Ironwood's question. Everything he’d used to like about Salem felt warped and twisted now. Besides. She wasn’t really his love to begin with. “She was… Determined. Calculated. She was… at the time, gentle and kind… Or perhaps… She was only gentle and kind to us—me, I suppose, and our daughters. I don’t… I don’t know, really. She must have lied a million times, and I had never realized it.”

Ironwood stares at Ozmund for a moment. “D… Daughters…? You have daughters?”

Ozmund realizes he hadn’t mentioned them until now. He looks away. “Had daughters…”

Apparently, Ironwood focuses on the other implication of that news. His face turns sour. “You slept with the Witch?” His voice goes flat with disbelief. “The Witch?

Ozmund blinks rapidly at that. “I’m sorry. Is there some other route to procreation that I am simply oblivious to, Mr. Ironwood?”

Ironwood stares at him, his mouth agape, saying again, “You slept with The Witch?”

“I—yes! I slept with The Witch!”

“And that was… pleasant for you?” Ironwood asks seriously, squinting incredulously at him.

Ozmund makes a face, which has gone hot with embarrassment. Was it? Had it been?  He didn’t know. He’d locked himself in the prison of Ozma’s head for those parts. Gross. And with my body, too…

“M-maybe! I don’t know. Why?!”

Ironwood puffs his cheeks and blows air out of his mouth with a pffft! “Ozmund! It’s…! That’s…! With The Witch?! Were you… intoxicated? Or perhaps there’s some magical spell that makes her appear not so… downright terrifying?”

Ozmund finds himself surprised by Ironwood’s laughter. It’s the first time he’s heard it during these few weeks of knowing him. “I… well… at the time—! Well, actually…” He shakes his head. “Can you keep a secret, Mr. Ironwood?”

Ironwood clears his throat, his laughter dissolving. “Uh… sure?”

Ozmund leans forward, shaking his head and saying a little too quietly, “Truthfully, I’m not the kind of man who partakes in such things.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well… It’s…” Ozmund struggles for the right words. “N-not my cup of coco, per se. Never has been.”

“What?” Ironwood glances him over. “Are you saying you’d rather have lied with men, Ozmund?" He quirks a brow. "My Gods, is the Witch really that bad?”

Ozmund snorts. “No, it’s not that!"

Lying instead with men was an option he’d seriously considered for a while. Lucky for Ozma, that wasn’t the case, or he would have never agreed they go find Salem in the first place. Though, he’d still been partially been against it. Because Ew. Do I have to do the romance and the sex and all of that gross stuff with your scarily gothic girlfriend?

Ozma had laughed, seemingly bemused, and Ozmund had dropped the subject. Things had unfolded and taken shape from there, and Ozmund simply opted to lock himself away whenever the two engaged in anything remotely romantic or intimate.

“Truthfully, Mr. Ironwood,” he finally says, “I’d rather lie with nobody at all.”

“I see.” Ironwood shrugs. “Still doesn’t mean that it didn’t happen. Multiple times, supposedly, considering you had more than one daughter.”

“Ah, my girls were quadruplets, actually—”

“Bless you.”

“That… That wasn’t a sneeze, Mr. Ironwood.”

“I’m just going to pretend it was. Also. Again. Doesn’t change the fact that you and the Witch did it at least once.”

“So what?”

“My Gods, Oz!” Ironwood exclaims. “You! Had sex! With the Witch! That’s madness—absolute madness! Is everything else about her just as absolutely terrifying as her face is?! Do her nether regions have teeth?! Come on! You’ve got to give me something!”

“You are the worst, Mr. Ironwood! Simply the worst!” And yet, Ozmund also finds himself laughing for the first time in a very long time.

“James, actually,” Ironwood interrupts.

“Pardon?”

Ironwood holds out his hand. “James. You can call me James.”

Ozmund looks at his hand for a moment, then reaches out and clasps it firmly with his. “Well, James. As I said. You are simply the worst.”

---

It’s a few weeks more before Ozmund is back on his feet. Well… actually, not exactly. He’s left with a crippling limp that he can’t seem to shake. His leg aches horribly, the pain coming and going in waves of varying strength.

Plus, there was another problem.

He couldn’t sense Ozma anymore.

At first, he didn’t think anything of it. When he first woke up, he was in so much pain and turmoil, he didn’t even notice. Then the days went by, and then weeks. Now, he was starting to get concerned…

As he’s sitting there in bed, trying to summon the ancient Wizard, James comes to his bedside with something long wrapped up in a cloth. “Here,” he says, handing it to him.

“What is this?” Ozmund asks, surprised.

“My grandfather taught me a few things more than just how to make jewelry.” Ironwood removes the cloth, revealing the beautiful cane underneath. “For your limp.”

Ozmund trails his hands down the cane, then picks it up. There was a good weight to it. “Thank you, James. This… means a lot to me. Though I can see it being used as more than just a walking stick.”

“How do you mean?”

Ozmund sends him a mischievous glance, then points the cane in the direction of a mug sitting halfway across the room. He sends some gravity magic through the cane to float it over to him. Magic was easier to control when the user had something to channel it through, and the cane was certainly strong enough to handle the output.

Ozmund holds up the mug with a grin and Ironwood balks at it. “So it’s true! You are a Warlock!”

If Ozma had been conscience inside of his head, he would have likely scolded him for using magic for no reason. Maybe it was a good thing he wasn’t at the moment.

“I do, but I prefer the term wizard personally. Sounds... kinder. Salem does have magic as well. So did… so did our daughters.”

“I only ever heard the rumors. About Salem and you. About how you promised to keep humanity safe, and about how people worshipped you—still worship you, even…”

“I know. But… I am no God. It was a mistake to have ever dared pose as one. What I have is simply something humanity used to be born with, a long, long time ago… And of which now they are not, all because of both Salem. Because of all of our mistakes…”

Ozmund glances at Ironwood’s face. He’s evidently confused by all of that, but he doesn’t seem to want to pry. He simply nods and pats his shoulder. “Do you want to attempt walking with it? Try it out?”

Ozmund smiles, once again surveying the cane. “That would be—”

BANG!

Ironwood jerks his head around and stands. “Stay here,” he says before rushing out of the room.

Ozmund hears his footsteps recede down the stairs. A bout of angry shouting follows.

Something else breaks, another something falling with a thunderous crash. More voices add on to the shouting. Despite Ironwood’s warning for him to stay put, Ozmund gets out of bed. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to take a few steps, one at a time, until he gets used to the motion of using the cane for balance and stability.

He nearly stumbles all the way down the stairs, but through grit and willpower, he manages to keep himself upright. When he reaches the bottom, he finds Ironwood being detained by two guards, his shop in ruins, and people screaming outside.

“YOU CAN’T GET AWAY WITH THIS ANY LONGER, IRONWOOD!”

“TRAITOR! HE WORKS FOR THE WICKED WITCH! TRAITOR!”

“BURN THEM! BURN THEM BOTH! MAY THE GODS HAVE AT THEM!”

The guards start to pull Ironwood outside. He sees Ozmund as he struggles against the guards, trying to bat at them, kicking and clawing. He screams, “OZ! GET BACK! DON’T LET THEM—!”

CRASH!

The window of the shop breaks and people start clamoring inside, trying to get at Ozmund.

“THERE HE IS!”

“GRAB HIM! GRAB THE WARLOCK!”

Ozmund grits his teeth and forces them back with a green blast of gravity magic from his cane, sending them sprawling onto the floor. He hurries after Ironwood, stepping into the chaos outside. The man’s nose is bloody, claw marks on his forearms from where the people had grasped at him. Someone punches him square in the jaw and Ironwood spits blood from his mouth.

Ozmund raises his cane and slams it back onto the dirt with a rush of wind magic, causing the air to burst with an ear-splitting BOOM!

The blast of air causes the crowd to fall to their knees and cover their ears. Shocked into silence, they turn to Ozmund.

“RELEASE HIM!” he demands in a resounding voice, using the wind to make it stronger and louder. He’d seen Ozma use this trick once. The Wizard’s magic was a lot easier to conjure than he thought it would be, though physically draining, in the same way running for miles and miles without stopping or working all day in the fields during summer was draining.

Slowly, the people begin to move, pushing Ironwood back towards Ozmund. The man falls into place at his side, looking at him with wide eyes. Don’t hurt them the look seems to read.

Ozmund feels a little hurt. He wouldn’t dare hurt any of these people; it was all just for show. He wasn’t even sure he had enough magic gathered in him to do anything beyond simple spectacles. He places a hand on Ironwood’s back, trying to nonverbally reassure him of this, when—

SHREEEE!

A shriek pierces the air. Everyone looks up. 

A Nevermore, an enormous, Grimm of black feathers and fury, circles the air above them. The ground begins to shake under their feet.

“No,” Ozmund breathes in horror, feeling their presence before he actually sees them.

A pack of Beowolves burst out from the trees surrounding the town, howling, barking, their teeth glinting in the sunlight—

“RUN, JAMES, RUN!” He grabs Ironwood’s wrist, pulling him in the direction with the least Grimm in the way.

Ironwood bursts into a run but quickly skids to a halt, looking back to find Ozmund limping slowly after him with his cane.

“I’LL BE FINE!” Ozmund screams, waving for him to keep running. “JUST GO!”

“I’M NOT LEAVING YOU!” Ironwood yells, coming back to pick Ozmund up and toss him over his shoulder.

A Beowolf leaps at them from the side but Ozmund catches it just in time. He sends a weak blast of fire at it and it yelps, falling back to shake the flames from its fur.

From above, the Evermore swoops down low with a blood-chilling screech, its wings ripping apart buildings as it passes. Debris starts to fall around them, Ironwood using his arm to protect his face, squinting through a curtain of dust, cascading splinters, and raining nails.

SHREEE!

The Evermore turns back around in the air.

That’s when Ozmund catches a glint of something—no, someone—crouching low on its back. The pale figure of Salem, riding atop the beast with her teeth bared.

OZMA!” she screams, high and piercing, louder than the Evermore, louder than the howls of the Beowolves and the resounding destruction of the town. “WHERE ARE YOU?!”

Ozmund has never felt more terror in his life. He hisses a curse word repeatedly under his breath.

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR CRAZY EX WIFE TO MAKE HER SO MAD AT YOU?!” Ironwood screams.

“I MAY HAVE IMPALED HER A FEW TIMES AND BLINDED HER WITH ICE! JUST A TYPICAL DIVORCE!”

“IF SHE CAN CONTROL THE GRIMM, CAN’T YOU?!”

“NO! I DON’T KNOW HOW SHE GAINED CONTROL OF THE GRIMM! SHE NEVER MENTIONED IT!”

“AND YOU MARRIED THIS WOMAN?!”

“WELL, IT SEEMED LIKE IT WOULD BE A LOT NICER AT THE TIME, JAMES! DON’T CRITICIZE MY LIFE CHOICES—!”

YOUR LIFE CHOICES ARE ABOUT TO GET US BOTH KILLED!”

Ozmund goes back to cursing repeatedly. Technically, Ozma’s life choices were about to get them both killed-the bastard, wherever he was right now.

The Evermore sweeps down again, Salem igniting buildings with her magic as they fly past.

One of the Evermore’s wings knocks down the building standing right over them. The entire thing collapses, burying them underneath.

---

Ozmund breaks free of the rubble with his magic, coughing on dust and smoke. Ironwood crawls out of the wreckage after him.

Out before them, the town lies silent and ruined.

“O-Oz?” Ironwood coughs. “Are you alright?”

“I should be asking you.”

Ironwood places a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I’m fine, thanks to you.” He glances around the open sky. “Do you think she’s gone?”

“She looks to be.” Ozmund stands with the help of his cane and dares to venture further out into the open. Ironwood follows him.

They make it back to what used to be his jewelry store. Ironwood stops at the furry body lying on the ground, leaning down to stroke the fur of the dead hound. A sad look crosses his face, but he somehow manages to smile. “Good boy, Toto. Bet you defended it until the end, right?”

“I’m… I’m sorry, James.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ironwood says, his voice tight. “Toto was a fighter.” He stands up slowly, staring at poor Toto for a second longer before turning back to Ozmund. “We should look around. There may be some people who got trapped under the rubble like we did.”

Under a fiery autumn sky, they start their search.

“HELLO!” Ozmund calls, glancing around. “IS ANYONE HERE?!”

Nothing.

Ironwood yells beside him, “IF YOU’RE OUT THERE, PLEASE RESPOND!”

More nothing.

Maybe everyone made it out—maybe everything is fine.

Ironwood calls out a little more desperately, “SOMEONE! ANYONE?!”

They fled. They had to. They had to.

Ozmund closes his eyes. “This is my fault. She wouldn’t have come here if…! This is my fault—this is all my fault—!”

“Hey! Oz.” Ironwood turns him around to face him. “Don’t.”

“But—but what if everyone is… I-I shouldn’t have stayed here so long! I should’ve—!”

“Blaming yourself isn’t going to help anybody, least of all you. Maybe we should—”

“Wait…” Ozmund hushes him. He strains his ears over the whistling wind, swearing he heard the sound of a wail. Was the Evermore back? Was Salem—?

The cry comes again, small and weak.

Ozmund runs towards the source of it. He uses his magic to lift some beams, planks, and a cracked windowpane out of the way, out of fear that removing everything piece by piece might cause it all to collapse upon the poor soul trapped underneath. The magical effort causes a sudden dizziness, but as he looks upon what had been hidden under the wreckage, he believes it to be worth the expense.

Ozmund reaches out and holds the bundle carefully in his arms. Another cry pierces the air.

“Oh, shh, shh, you’re okay, little one,” Ozmund whispers. He wipes a smudge off the baby’s cheek with a handkerchief from his pocket. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. Ozzie’s here, Ozzie has you.” The baby’s crying settles a little. Ozmund finds a name sewn into the blanket. “Oscar,” he says.

The baby looks up at him with big, round eyes.

Ozmund smiles, bouncing the baby in his arms. He turns to look at Ironwood, who holds a sad light in his eyes.

“Well, Oscar… I do believe it’s just us now.”

---

Notes:

Hello! Thank you for reading! This is the first fanfiction I've ever done, as well as my first time using AO3. Even so, I hope you enjoyed! Feel free to tell me if there are any typos or something wrong with the format, or just anything weird or confusing in general! <3