Chapter Text
“You know I can’t take care of you, moose. Not… not now. It’s not safe here, you know that. I’m… so sorry.”
Clémente couldn’t find Kingsley.
Sure, that wasn’t exactly the most comforting news, especially in such a troubling time, but the child had to accept their loss at some point in time. Realistically, if you walk into an open playground with a clear line of vision of every sort of hiding spot, vantage point, sulking area, or anything under the definition of where Kingsley should be, standing dead in the middle of the quiet, eeire, field of tall grass and structures, the soft breeze tickling your ears and cleansing your lungs with a cool, lightening chill, and see absolutely and utterly nothing, with not so much as a clue to the other’s whereabouts, whether that be a note, doodle in the sandbox, or a handful of some disgusting bug larvae—crickets would have made sense, it’s Kingsley, after all. Still, the kid had been a bit… squeamish towards them, and usually Clémente was the one to handle the more disturbing factors of extermination involving animal carcasses, worms, and vermin, unsightly and spine-itching to anyone that hadn’t been as oddly, and admittedly sickly curious about insects as Clémente. Anything that squirmed, wriggled, and made a sort of squeaking noise that only bugs could master the art of catching their silver eyes and spread a smile up their face, showing a gap in their front teeth otherwise seldom seen. (Though for crickets, it was regularly a frown, or grimace, and even their curls seemed to droop in disappointment.)
It set off the Playwright, who immediately expressed their concern about the quirk to Cooper and, uncharacteristically, to Bin. Both said that if the child wasn’t chopping them into pieces and enjoying the poor creatures’ suffering and imminent death out in the heat of the sun at the time, then it would be fine, and Clémente wouldn’t turn out to be a maniac who fed off the pain of others.
Rather obviously, the kid couldn’t see the issue with their curiosity. Bugs were adorable; however, one in particular wasn’t where it should have been.
So, wooden sword in hand, purely for childish fun, though the end of it did have a sharp point that could likely injure one who was far too careless—the Playwright had warned them of the consequences of doing so—they started on to the only other place Kingsley would ever choose to go. The woods with the eccentric elk and animals that tasted of blue colored chalk and… well, other animals. East, was it? They thought, digging their sword into the earth with both hands, and using it to rise from their gracefully knelt position on the soil and dewy grass, the hints, the whispers of night cooling the air around them. They wanted to breathe it in, to smell the scent of the horizon, of the setting sun in the distance, warm and icy against their face, the perfect contrast that prodded thought and proclaimed to make you whole with peaceful emptiness.
But alas, another Lark was missing. And if the three of them were to ever have a fourth again, they would need to find that missing sparrow together. Other nights would come, and hopefully in peace.
“I wish Kingsley had stayed longer,” they muttered with a tinge of annoyance, justified, in their view, as they treaded the entrance of the forest, “They would’ve enjoyed the dew on the grass. It attracts crickets—nasty… buggers. Heh.”
The chuckle was dry, and strangely enough, the melting, honeyed golden hues of the setting sun in the dappled sky of clouds, thin enough to see through, reminded them of Cole. And gooseberry tarts, the ones Kingsley couldn’t seem to finish the day before.
Kingsley decided not to talk anymore. Not solely because they couldn’t so much as bear the very thought of using their now hoarse, bleeding vocal cords, as the pain would be near sob-inducing, and the child was already on the verge of angry, bitter tears, ones they knew would only sting their face and ache their lungs more. Constricting what was already tight with anxiety forced down into the deepest well of other nonsensical fears in their gut, other little hints of madness, Kingsley simply refused to acknowledge. It’d kill them to do so, and either way, it didn’t help find them.
So the child sat on yet another log that almost took both their life and their ankle mobility, trying to tumble over it and failing in the process so badly it burned their ears and knit their brows to think about, and pondered the absolute and utter beating they’d taken from the woodland itself. Not mentioning the fox, who tried to chase them out of a burrow that didn’t even belong to the vixen in the first place! It was a grizzly’s den, a decent size for a person to fit through with little trouble, despite the risk of its owner returning to its abode to see what Kingsley hoped at the moment was a moose-child with an attitude issue, but was met with a mother, some kits, and a good scratch on their right calf that would indefinitely hurt for a few days after the fact.
Cruel, they thought with a grimace that felt uncomfortable to form, so they shifted their features back to their neutral expression, which was currently a softer, though more pathetic, frown of acceptance. But fair. Somewhat—I’m the size of a toadstool compared to a tree, what could I even do to harm something??
The accusation did, however, leave an already sore spot in the middle of their chest, spreading, a wildfire of shame, cold as the blade of a spear in the frigid chill of winter, as it struck your neck faster than you could beg for forgiveness of such a thing, let alone defend your innocence against that which practiced the art of cruelty, of hatred. After all, they were just a creature, made to be hunted, and not for the hunt. A thing of prey, though the child couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be a wolf, or something of the like. Or just to bear the sharp, glinting teeth of one. At least fangs would be useful, but…
“Would you ever stay around something with canines?” they absentmindedly muttered, the action drawing a cough that felt like gravel being pressed on their tonsils and larynx, the stones digging deeper into the torn, bleeding flesh, only worsening the agony that threatened to draw another trembling, violent hack to the surface.
Anger. Blinding rage flooded their vision with a color reminiscent of fresh blood, as their eyes frantically searched their surroundings, desperate and flinty, looking for something—anything—that wouldn’t hurt to punch into, to toss across the crowded landscape, to take the irritant that was their inability to scream, to shout, to verbalize the thoughts that dare enter the hellfire that was their mind, and stab it into the recipient.
They found nothing of the sort. Nothing at all. And with a single string of regret wrapped around their throat and temples, they quickly raised a fist and slammed it on the very log they sat on—
CR-R-UCK.
Kingsley snatched their knuckles back the second they hit the bark, clutching their hand for dear life, physically fighting the urge to scream, clenching their jaw so hard it made their teeth creak, and their tongue scrape the roof of their mouth. They squeezed their eyes shut, somewhat grateful for the darkness behind their eyes no longer tinged crimson and scarlet. Yet it didn’t dull the sharp, vindictive ache in their fingers, knuckles, and the side of their wrist—the impact seemed to have… sprained it somehow?? That didn’t make sense, but it sure did feel like it. Their entire hand would be bruised in seconds, as if they punched into bare, boiling pavement, and not the stump of a tree the child happened to grow more and more displeased with by the hour.
“KINGSLEYYYY!!!” A relievingly familiar voice echoed through the trees and hills, somewhere below Kingsley, given the sloping landscape, and the first thing the child thought was how, on the face of the earth, Clémente managed to get there. If they happened to be going on the same path as the other had before, there were some spaces only Kingsley, and just possibly Cole, could fit through, with their height. And unless they could normally and casually dislocate their neck and reattach it at will, Clémente was not getting through a hefty thorn bush solely by crawling on the ground like a cat, not without a few nicks, at least.
The second was how they were going to explain their injured hand to Clémente in the first place.
The creature themselves were undoubtedly the embodiment of care, gentleness, the benevolent warmth of a home in a world full of despair and anguish. Safety. Though oftentimes such security couldn’t be told from distance; at first, Kingsley couldn’t so much as look at the other, not without feeling an odd sense of disturbance, peering into those silver, uncannily gleaming eyes, a mirror into one’s soul, spilling like the edges of a glass once tipped, horrors seen and stories untold, buried for reason and purpose, seldom passing the gates of the mind, and the guard that was the tongue.
And what a foolish guard it had been, for Kingsley had mentioned this to Clémente. And the older couldn’t so much as look them in their eyes of periwinkle blue without avoidance.
“Kingsley,” Clémente had arrived, it seemed, and as quickly as they appeared beside the child, wooden sword in hand and… missing a chip near the base of its handle, their locks of gold spilling into the front of their face, tousled and messed with an air of determination that retained their glow just the same, Kingsley hid their hand behind their back, just enough to barely hide it. They didn’t need to know. Not now, when so much was at stake, “Are you…” Clémente paused, scanning the younger with their gaze, possibly for injuries, or dirt where it shouldn’t have been (though that wasn’t as likely, after all, it was Clémente), mainly for any signs of something being out of the ordinary, taken that usually happens when a child has been missing for—
“D’you notice it’s dark out??” And there was the scolding. Deserved, and far too soft-spoken for the situation, Kingsley supposed. But they were surely in for it the moment the Playwright locked their hawk-like spectacles on their footsteps through the door, the way the sky shone obsidian, warm purple hues melding with the blackness, chilling the air.
“Uh-huh,” they sighed, not bothering to meet the other’s eye, or face the figure now resting about an inch beside them on the tree log, not bothered for the lack of personal space, unlike Kinglsy, but fixing their soiled clothes in vain, and humming under their breath, a few notes of a low tune that rippled through the masses of leaves around them. A rake of claws against a mirror… Oh. It caught the child’s ear, raising their brows in what should have been shock, given the irony, but flickered between annoyance and fondness.
“Don’t sing that now,” Kingsley groaned, shoulders practically drooping like the leaves of a wilted peace lily in disappointment, shaking their head a bit too slowly.
“And why not?” Clémente jokingly asked, lightly pushing the other’s shoulder in jest, since they were going to try to tousle their hair, but thought better of it when they finally got a good look at Kingsley’s current, beaten state. “Knells, Kingsley, you’re… you look awful—how long were you even out here??” They whispered, breathed, reached to inspect Kingsley’s face, taking their chin in their gentle grasp, eyes—silver eyes, glowing under the dimness of moonlight—flicking between what had to have been small wounds scattered like stars across their face. Kingsley didn’t really notice them, nor did they remember exactly how they’d gotten so many; it must have been the thorns, but Clémente’s expression seemed to soften from its furrowed focus in absolute horror at the sight.
And suddenly, Kingsley didn’t want to see their reflection.
The scent of yarrow and German chamomile, as well as freshly washed wool, flooded their nostrils, slightly overwhelming, though Kingsley couldn’t care less, since the two had now made eye contact for the first time in what felt like years. Clémente had long finished their worried staring at just how tossed and tumbled the child had become, and simply resorted to sitting with their hands folded in their lap like someone of royalty, even in their also dusty, messy state, waiting with a countenance as blank as a sunless sky in autumn’s dusk for the other to say something, to explain themselves, to request, to allow some sort of care. And while Kingsley would eventually say something, plain, empty silence felt too bruising to leave it be; they didn’t fully realize that the other had forgotten their habit of avoiding their vision and turning away. Clémente didn’t turn away. And would they if I mention it??
“Did you see Cole?” Kingsley murmured, nothing genuinely behind the question, just to fill the silence, really. “I haven’t seen them since this morning.”
“No,” the kid sighed, gaze flitting to the ground beneath their soiled shoes, as they reached a hand up to fidget with their hair as if having a normal conversation, it’s golden color catching the light from above that left spots from the leaves onto the ground, as if the thicket floor had freckles, still not turning, no… still not, “I haven’t either. I’m sure they’re fine, and the Playwright. Actually, now that I think about it, they’re probably looking for us now…”
“Don’t we have a signal?” Kingsley asked, not bluntly, but so directly in their tone, Clémente instantly locked eyes yet again, a bit shocked at the near sharpness of nine-year-olds, “So we don’t have to do that??”
A pause that echoed in the wood, “I suppose so. We’ve only used it once, though. And I’m not sure if the two will, er, remember right away.” They slightly chortled, more of a scoff, but who was Kingsley to judge? Fighting off the urge to cackle at the statement, they showed their amusement through a grin reaching their ears, almost hurting their cheeks with the strange form of joy, “Really,” they continued, “Smart as a lark oftentimes, both of them.”
“Are you sure??” Kingsley raised a brow, a few giggles here and there slipping through an already cracked mask of the nonchalant, eyes narrowed with fondness from their cheeks from smiling so much, “It was Cole who used it the first time, right?”
“Yes, it was! Saved all of us that day. Peregrine would have been mincemeat then, even… for a hunter…” their silver eyes suddenly widened with a realization, as the kid stood from their spot on the log next to the other, as a breeze rustled through the trees, lightly brushing with cool, icy air the injured hand that was now resting at the side of the child, stinging their bruised knuckles tucked at their side, just out of sight. Oh. They’d almost forgotten about that. Even if the scolding probably would have been worth it, could they really ask the other for any bandages??
“Hey… Clémente, what… are you…??” The moment the child looked up from their thoughtless pondering, they saw the other standing in the middle of the small bit of space that wasn’t surrounded by trees and firs, and other bushes that really shouldn’t have been there, trying to cup their hands together and blow into them as if playing an instrument.
It looked ridiculous, but when Clémente managed to make a sound that could’ve reached the entire forest with how loud it was in its clarity, a low sort of whistle that sounded like birdsong, an owl, maybe, Kingsley could only exhale in awe and impression.
“There,” they said contentedly, glancing at the child from behind them with a look that searched for confirmation or consolation, “That should do it. About, hm… four miles, right?”
“…”
“Maybe three?? Or… should it have been louder… I could try again—”
“They’d be proud of you,” Kingsley stated without fully thinking of it. Who exactly would have been proud of the other, the child didn’t know for sure. It had just been a feeling, a hope far too confident that their words were the truth, and not half-hearted comfort spoken just for the sake of the recipient. Words such as those were the cruelest of all, something meant to hold meaning, to hold care, yet forced through thin lips of disdain and teeth gritted with old, rotten hatred.
Kingsley would never grow to be such. Their bark would never rot, their wood would never mold, never wither, their leaves wouldn’t so much as rot so long as they lived. Never. Kingsley would never hate them, hate Clémente. Hate someone they truly cared for, and who, in turn, cared for them.
“Do you really think so??” asked Clémente, softly, as if saying something sacred to the very ground below or sky above, as if the words shouldn’t have been spoken in Kingsley’s direction alone, but alas, they peered into their eyes, searching gently for a sign of falsity, trickery, something that was never truly there, and hadn’t been for ages. Kingsley was honest: they genuinely would have been proud of the kid, even for something as little as remembering to look for and after Kingsley. Heck, even Kingsley themselves had been rendered a little… speechless, to say the least.
The child nodded, a small gesture through their weariness, as they’d been growing tired by the minute, likely due to their mass of microinjuries no one actually had the resources to treat, curse them for going out into a thicket in solely a t-shirt and shorts, “Worthy of a knight, I say.”
That earned them what could only be described as a bashful giggle that sounded oddly like the warble of a meadowlark, piercing the otherwise muffled atmosphere, a light, cheery noise that warmed the heart of whoever had the blessing of causing it.
Yet that warmth didn’t last very long, as within seconds after the startling noise of three short whistles akin to chirps sounded through the air, coming from the south, as the two children nearly jumped out of their skin, and a slight yelp came from Kingsley that, in any other situation, would have been hilarious.
Kingsley was the first to speak, “Was that—”
“No,” Clémente cut them off, not entirely meaning to, as they quickly apologised once out of their initial shock, “Sorry, Kings. Er… that’s the signal.”
“What?!” They stood on their feet the moment they heard the words, pitch quite a bit higher than usual, “You mean the Playwright—what???”
“I mean, we have to go,” The other reached over to grab their wrist, the one that was bruised, of course, though their grip immensely loosened once Clémente heard the stifled wince that weasled its way out of the child despite themselves, as one could almost tell that both Kingsley and Clémente mentally swore, the manner of which both faces soured for the slightest of a second, as the older fixed their silver gaze on the injury, a mixure of emotions bubbling to the surface of those eyes like a boiling spring in the chill of snow. Mainly fear, stirred in with some worry, and oddly enough…
Anger. But at what, they couldn’t tell.
Silence. Dense as fog, blinding, and bars caging, entrapment in the stillness, nothing but the wind whispering secrets in their ears.
Then Clémente took their other hand, stating with a near-unnatural sternness, sending a decent shudder down the child’s spine, “And let’s hope we arrive home first.”
That made some sense, seeing as if Kingsley were to be caught in a state like this, limping and bruised, like someone took a hammer to their body and decided to test their strength, it would only stir more chaos, frustration, and fear.
And not a single soul wanted that to happen, did they?
Unfortunate for our other Lark, they did not arrive first. In fact, only halfway to their cabin did the Playwright and Cole remember to send the signal for the other two to return home, trusting they wouldn’t run into anything that could cause them harm on their way.
And, also unfortunately for Cole, the Playwright did not waste a single moment to take action the moment they set foot through the door, not bothering to turn on a light or instruct the confused, and rather frightened child standing a good distance beside them on what to do other than stare in distraught at the adult now pacing and rummaging around their kitchen drawers for something unnamed and likely important, muttering under their breath in thought, and rather surprisingly, absentmidedly snatching the specticles off of their face, and placing them on the speckled counter besides a bag of flour, the glasses catching the smallest glimmer of the warm, gentle lamplight from the table, dimming, yet enough to iluminate what could be looked through.
Cole stood near the far corner of the room, wringing their hands close to their chest, wanting to say something, to ask a question that’s been on their mind since the very moment they set off for the cabin about an hour earlier, having to grab their guardian’s hand for dear life with how hastily they hurried along the pathway, anxious, and bewildered, but for the need of a plan, they coudln’t blame the other for having some form of rashness in their action.
After all, it was Peregrine they were saving. Not simply finding anymore; if they were to arrive at that house again, unarmed and unaware (a rare case for Peregrine, but one had to assume the worst, or the best would seem detrimental), who knew what would happen there. Their birth parents lived in that wretched place, and Cole could be sure they wouldn’t let their child go so easily. Not after three years, at least.
Not after what they’ve seen.
“M-Mx. Playwright,” they managed to stammer, growing tired of the endless confusion that was watching the adult tear through the fifth drawer they’d searched about twice now, and to no avail.
“Where is it, where is it—oh,” the Playwright glanced behind them, though Cole still couldn’t see their eyes through their hair, tone a tad softer with what seemed to be regret of their negligence to explain what on earth they happened to be doing while talking to themselves like something had possessed them, “My apologies, Cole, it… seems I was too lost in thought.”
Well, that’s obvious, “It’s… It’s fine, uh… what are you doing, Mx. Playwright??”
“Ah. That.” A pause of minor realization, as they began to rummage through the cupboards above them, beckoning the child with a slight wave of their hand, which they thought to at least be somewhat helpful, “Of course, I’m, um… looking for a phone of mine,” their guardian explained, as Cole tried to open a drawer near the stove, but it seemed it was stuck, giving it a second, much harder tug before a hand was placed on their shoulder, “That one’s locked dear—but I remember leaving the key for it somewhere in my room, you could possibly check there?”
Cole only sighed, shaking their head in frustration, “We don’t have the time. Are… you sure you left it in the drawer?”
“Honestly,” they sighed, gently letting their hand fall from Cole’s shoulder to rest both on their sides in contemplation, utterly exhausted, as both of them were, “I haven’t a clue. I barely use the old thing, anyway, and only to call Cooper when I need to ask them something of importance.”
Oh. That was right, Cooper. “Are you going to call them now?”
A thought slipped by, the passage of time growing ever too weary for the child to notice its leaving, as the Playwright eventually answered the easy, mindlessly responded question, a weight of decision lowering their tone, as they leaned both arms on the counter in front of them, “I’m… not entirely sure if I should.”
Whatever do you mean?? Cole only hummed, prodding, waiting for clarity to show its face in the form of an explanation. Additionally, they noticed that no matter the angle at which you looked, you could never really see the Playwright’s eyes, as if they were hiding themselves from the lamplight under the cold, shadow of hair, lashes, shade, or whatever happened to conceal them.
In the rarest of moments, the other faltered, attempting to say something, but stammering over their words that slowly shifted into a frustrated, meaningless babble, their voice sounding as if something had caught in their throat, and refused to leave for the need of shelter. “I… I’m… so sorry, Cole,” they almost choked on the unnecessary apology. “It’s rather difficult to explain, it…” the Playwright proceeded to drag a hand down their face, another rare behavior for their guardian.
“Why,” they dryly chuckled through gritted teeth, nails sort of digging into the surface of the counter, a subtle anger even the child was impressed they could manage to subdue, to quiet, “can’t I explain it?? It is so, so simple, such a simple thing to elaborate, and here… here I am! Stammering like a child caught up and about past their curfew, and… in a way, I still am, I suppose.”
Cole, despite their nature of shyness, wanted to do something in that moment. Rest a hand on the other’s shoulder, murmur a phrase that would bring some sort of comfort, hum a melody that could return a sense of calm to the atmosphere, to the Playwright, to care in return for all those years of their guardian caring for them, loving them, despite their flaws or habits others would despise, such as shyness, stubborness, a lack of carefullness—really, a lack of carefullness, and fear, yet still have the gall to utter such a falsity as “I love you.” A person who cherished their children as one would their own life, who raised them, not just kept them as one would a collection of trinkets in a box.
But something in the child seemed to freeze, to doubt. What if they couldn’t? What if Cole didn’t care enough? Or at least, not in the way they should. What if they couldn’t love like someone who, even in their times of anger or irritation, often short-lived, would give their life for their fledglings?
`What if Cole couldn’t care as the Playwright did?
So for a few aching seconds that ripped their core into thin, bloody shreds, the child simply stood there, hand half-reached toward the adult, half-drawn back towards them, contemplating, trembling, and afraid of making so much as a mistake, staring and awaiting something, just one sign that would clear the path of what to do, where to go, and how to do so. And goodness, did they hate themselves for it, for feeling useless, when something could be done.
The Playwright sighed once more, likely not noticing the internal and moral conflict swimming around in the child’s head, and swiftly opened the drawer to their lower left, pulling out what seemed to be an older model of a mobile phone, not that Cole had seen much of them to genuinely tell, and firmly shut it, muttering bitterly under their breath, “I could have promised I looked there, that daft drawer—I don’t even use it!”
Still leaning on the counter, this time on their elbows in a far softer train of thought, seemingly over their… Cole didn’t even know what to call such an upset as this; it wasn’t a fit of rage, nor was it a tantrum akin to that of a toddler who, for their sadness, wasn’t able to express their words how they wanted to. But whatever it was that the Playwright couldn’t bring themselves to say…
Did it involve Peregrine, perhaps?
No, that couldn’t be… though, some questions come to mind.
“Cole?” came a voice, and when the child glanced over, the gentle face of their guardian came into view, expression softened, and rather regretful for someone who’d only felt…
What are you thinking when you stare at us?? All of us? “Yes, Mx. Playwright??”
Faster than the child could fully realize when they did, the Playwright pulled the other into a tight, comforting hug, kneeling a little due to the younger’s height, yet all Cole could see from above their shoulder was a single feather earring, swaying from their guardian’s movement to console the now, against their better judgement, misty-eyed leveret.
“You don’t have to ask to hug me, you know,” they whispered, ever knowing with fondness and a smile, fully unwilling to say anything else on the matter, for fear of ruining the quiet moment between the two.
Cole, seeing the opportunity, didn’t hesitate to embrace them back, almost dozing due to the scent of jasmine and roses that always seemed to accompany their guardian, and anyone else who seemed to know them, which, ironically, were the only two smells that managed to calm the otherwise nervous creature that was the child, loosening the tension in their shoulders, letting them breathe for a moment.
And there they remained for what could have been an hour, as time was ultimately lost. Cole didn’t exactly care, but there were other matters a specific adult had to attend to. Unfortunate, since Cole really wanted to just stay there, and never let go.
“I have to call Cooper now,” the other huffed, arms still wrapped around the child, mildly disappointed, “And Bin. Is there anything you’d like to ask them, before I go?”
Yes, I do. A lot of them. “No, I don’t… think so.”
A second more. Perhaps their guardian also needed the hug.
“Alright then,” what could have been a tremble wavered in their voice, squeezing the child one more time, before releasing their hold.
“Let’s find our moose.”
“Hmm…”
Maybe they were right. Who am I kidding—they were. Everyone. And I was foolish enough to plug my ears and run off like a kid. Idiot. Idiot.
“Thoughtful, aren’t you?” A voice clear as daylight shook them from their incessant daydreaming and, though they wouldn’t admit it, sulking, and Peregrine was back in the unfortunate reality of theirs. Not so much as greeted with a “welcome back”, not even at the door, where they’d stood for about ten minutes simply peering into the still familiar gaze of a stranger, their mother, who—
Was sitting right in front of them. Who, for the first time in three long, horrifying years, spoke in their direction, looked into their eyes, no one else's. Watching, eyes as sharp as a rusted dagger of steel, thin fingers tapping the sides of a mug, chipped just enough at the lip to where if you were to so much as take a sip, it would drip a little down the side of the cup, your sleeves, and stain them whatever color of tea you’d decided to drink that morning.
Their mother leaned on her elbow, holding her chin with a small, softened smile of affection, as she set down her mug on the wooden table with an audible clunk. That messy microexpression said words one could never articulate in such a manner, the same motherness Peregrine so often claimed to despise, to recoil in disgust at, to cry themselves to sleep at the lack of. Yet now here they were, their own chestnut and olive eyes widened in what could have been awe, if the moose-child didn’t know themself enough.
“Grine,” their mother prodded gently, tone smooth enough to coax even the toughest of beasts, clear, yet mumbly and softened, as if she were trying to conceal the power those vocals could bear, storing all of the pent-up, smothered blessing in the very irises now staring at her child, who flinched at the sudden snap-back into the real world, shaking their head and burying it into their hands with a subtle groan.
“Sorry, sorry,” they muttered, utterly exhausted. Peregrine hadn’t a wink of sleep whilst running a day’s worth of distance on foot, not bothered to pack any sort of rations or so much as extra clothing in their mad dash to somewhere they barely remembered the path of, having wanted to forget. To abandon this horrid sanctuary of hell that wrapped itself around their mind, and squeezed so tightly it threatened to burst if not cared for, tended to, the food of impulse being idiocy, of course.
“All will be alright, dear,” their mother consoled, placing a light but firm hand on their shoulder from the other side of the table, as Peregrine writhed at the touch, flinching as if it scaled the skin off their bones, but their mother would not let go. Not until Peregrine believed with every bone in their body that they would be alright, not until that which was false became true to the blinded, gouged eyes of the elderly and youth. This whole city is blind. Deaf. Dead.
“I know,” they still proceeded to enunciate through gritted teeth and a barely there tone of voice, trying to disappear, to escape, to flee back into the backgrounds of their thoughts, where nothing could reach them but silence, where nothing could bring the child any harm, malice, or trickery. Where nothing could touch them when the very thought of it ached and stung like a blade against their skin, not even…
Focus, focus, focus calf, they chanted in their headspace, looking from behind their hands at the table they now sat, awaiting another figure for about two hours: it was a juniper wood the color of a dark, yet golden amber rich enough to catch your eye from an acre, messily cut and polished into the shape of a lopsided oval likewise to its gemstone appearance, large enough to fit about four people on either side with some elbow room. A decent chunk seemingly bitten out of near the base of its four legs, gnawed and chewed on with a hunger that left fang marks on the rest of the legs otherwise unharmed—but besides that disturbing factor, it was almost as if nothing had changed about the house or the table since they left it. Scratched and clawed, yes, but not by the wrathful paws of some rogue animal, no… those were human nails, thin, brittle, desperate.
And still, here she remained, their mother, now resting both her hands and arms on the juniper, shifting her piercing look onward and around the space. The color of those darkened windows to the soul, a striking, stunning gray reminiscent of the sky above during a house-crumbling hurricane, her dark, thin lashes the winds wailing, and weeds trampled by shrapnel raining from the heavens upon the innocent things.
Yet amidst all this noise, there was silence, heavy, stilling in the fog of the unclear. Despite all of this knowledge, as one would have with those familial, closer than most, Peregrine couldn’t read a single thing about their mother. Yet some actions didn’t so much as come as a shock, not anymore, not after all of those endless nights, trapped in a space that didn’t want them there, not really, many of which came as a spring rain in the center of sizzling dunes against the sun. Whether a miracle or a curse, it was never to be hoped for, unless one was truly desperate, dying under the rays of the sun and the seas of sand, your last breath a murmur of remembrance, a prayer of keepsake, a hope for survival when there is none. And oh, so many times had Peregrine been that lost traveler among the dunes, though their desert was stifling, suffocation, and more and more silence. Their throat might as well have been forcefully ripped out, as the child would have let them. Let her.
Their mother was their muffler, after all.
But no longer will she be.
“I joined a band.”
“What was that??” their mother asked, as the child rested their elbows on the table, trying to calm down, if only a little. They weren’t going to be here for long; they just had some questions that needed answers, and then the moose was on their way. It would help a bit to make some sort of conversation, let the other know of their defenses, that they weren’t alone, and couldn’t simply return to the ruins of their home, and abandon all else. Not willfully, at least. There would be resistance on their mother’s part, no doubt.
“I said I joined a band, mama,” they repeated, dragging their conscience by the nape of its neck to look their mother in the eye, those icy, gray eyes, “I’m living elsewhere.”
“Is… that so?” She let her hand fall off their shoulder, the gesture light as a feather, but she kept it near their arm, to make her presence known, to allow another.
Peregrine nodded, careful to swallow their pride, so as not to reveal too much information—such a thing would be detrimental to not only the Lark, but the Playwright also, and some things just didn’t need to be spoken. “Yeah, I… We’re pretty big, you could say,” they continued, figuring that was vague enough, “I’ve… we’ve been everywhere.” Was that too much?
“Really?” their mother mildly drawled, only slowing her speech, raising an eyebrow, her gray eyes reading, looking, questioning everything. “What role do you play, Grine?”
“Oh—backing vocalist,” they answered dismissively, with a wave of their hand and a thoughtless expression, “I do have a song of my own, though. And I’ve sung in almost every other one, I guess.”
Very soon, that one raised brow of suspicion turned into two of surprise, and their mother leaned a bit more forward, rather intrigued, hand on her chin, tangled in her thick, messy hair, “Oh. That’s unusual, Grine—you’re normally a quiet little critter?”
They almost laughed at that. It sounded ridiculous, now. Peregrine August? Quiet?? “No, that’s changed. I’m the loudest in my group, actually. My voice can reach across a room with no trouble, I sound…”
Go on. Say it. “I sound wonderful, you know. You should come see me.”
“...huh.” She only hummed, tutting under her breath with contemplation, eyes once boring now affixed to the left of the room, somewhere.
“What is it??” they immediately questioned, furrowing their brows, as their hand subconsciously rose to gently squeeze and tug the fabric of their shirt collar, in case they couldn’t breathe. One misstep would be disastrous, would it not? Leaving them stuck here for eternity if they didn’t keep their temper and their tone, mind their manners, and also the space. Heaven knows what would happen when the time came for them to leave. Which it would. It had to, fortunately.
Peregrine decided that it was going to be a long, lengthy night. And preferably, they wanted to be done with it as soon as possible. Go home, drink something light yet comforting, and forget about this nonsense for an hour or two.
“N-Nothing… nothing at all, Peregrine,” she murmured, and glanced at the mug in front of her with disdain, disgust, even. Like the very chip in the lip of the cup had offended her, maybe said something crass and foolish.
“S’pose I make more tea, hm?”
BANG!!!!
The door slammed open, nearly taking it off its hinges, as the breeze from that wailed against the windows outside of the house wafted in with an audible whoosh, startling the two out of their skins, and a gruff voice began to shout from the entrance, not entering the space yet, no, just lingering by the door, all too familiar, as many things had been that day.
“Merlin,” the voice snapped the name of their mother as she groaned in irritation at the reprimand, seemingly unjustified from what Peregrine caught of the figure’s incessant rambling, “You left the rifle right OUTSIDE of the door, and while it was loaded—what do you think would happen if someone were to just walk in here with our own gun—”
“Well, I’m so sorry, Osprey,” their mother scoffed, the sarcasm dripping from her tone, causing the child to wince in near fear of the events to come. Seems she grew braver over time as well, “But I don’t think the rifle exactly matters with our guest sitting at our table for the first time in three years.”
“What in fiery hell are you talking…” The person who walked through the door, bearing the rifle that their mother had neglected to bring inside, perfectly holding the weapon like it was another limb, was none other than their father. Not exactly the embodiment of joy, the man bore a face of stoicism, uncharming and unshaven—though that was for the best, considering how awful he would’ve looked without something covering those cruel, hardened features, solid as stone, with a voice that sounded of hooves against gravel and pavement so rough it would cut one’s foot clean open upon stepping on the surface, unfortunately where Peregrine got their taste in insulated flannel from, considering that was all he ever wore, even after all of those years, and his eyes…
A reflection of Peregrine’s own. Chesnut and olive, though they grew duller over time, sharper, and died a lonesome death. If not looked at with enough care, they’d think their father’s eyes were an uneven hazel. But still, they were there, staring at the child in confusion.
And never in their years of living would Peregrine expect to hear the words that soon left his mouth in a short, breath of both horror and suspicion, callused hands gripping the gun he held so hard his knuckles turned a deep, bruising red, “You shouldn’t be alive.”
“What?” The word could’ve shot a window into smithereens if it had been a pistol, how fast it left their tongue.
“I said,” he reiterated, and to the absolute horror of the child, “You shouldn’t be alive. I shot you down in that field, and your mother saw me—saw you die.”
Oh.
That’s why they couldn’t remember it.