Chapter Text
Run.
It was a voice felt, rather than heard.
Run, faster.
It was too far away to rightfully hear, but so close Lucian Vega swore it was coming from him.
Run, until your legs give out.
With a blink and a sharp gasp, Lucian stumbled over his own feet. As he scrambled to catch himself, a strong set of teeth nipped at the back hem of his shirt, steadying him before his gravity could completely tip towards the ground. It was a miracle the homespun fabric didn’t rip under the strain, or that his assistant hadn’t taken a bite of the garment as payment. After blinking again in the fading afternoon light to find his bearings, Lucian looked over his shoulder and smiled at his companion.
“Thanks for the save, Atticus.”
The goat turned up his nose and gave a gruff ‘baa’ in return. The empty cart rattled as Atticus shuffled his hooves to the side, attempting to give Lucian a wide berth. It wasn’t wide enough, however, as his ear was still in scratching range of Lucian’s hand.
“Come on,” he started, aiming right for the spot he knew his furry friend liked best, “don’t be like that, boy.”
“Yeah, you saved my skin just then, but don’t act like pulling the cart is doing me a favour.” Beady eye brimming with reproach, Atticus loosed another sour bleat in Lucian’s direction and butted the boy’s hand away.
“Hey!” Lucian continued, biting back a laugh, “I pulled it while it was full!”
It had been a sight much to the amusement of the villagers: a boy pulling a cart laden with produce while the beast of burden trotted beside him with its head held high.
It was only fair that when the goods had been offloaded that Lucian had swapped his hands for a harness and buckled Atticus in.
Sure, the trip back always felt longer, even with an empty cart but…wait.
How long had they been walking, again? Lucian couldn’t remember when they had started. It had to have been when the sun was high in the sky, tempting though it was to linger in town. The innkeep always asked him to stay for a drink. Wisps gossip on the breeze nipped at his ears, beckoning him back to the market. Most tempting of all were the parties of adventurers passing through the small settlement. They drew Lucian’s eye and captured his attention every time. But there was too much waiting for him back at the farm. All he could spare was a chat and not a drink, a half-dropped eave, and a longing, lingering glance.
Around them the light of day was fading into twilight. The birds which usually dotted the sky and filled the air with their song were already abed. Flanked by oceans of wheat which stretched the horizon, Lucian and Atticus could have been the only beings alive in the world.
Pausing, Lucian looked out across the unending field and his brows knit together. By this time of year the waving stalks of grain should have long been harvested. Even in the last embers of sunlight, the Tully farmhands should have been swinging their scythes and bundling up their grown gold. Yet not a single hatted head bobbed to that familiar rhythm in the sea of wheat.
Turning to look back down the long road home, Lucian’s feet forced him faster. The whispered words which had roused him from his walking daydream echoed in his ears.
Run.
“Come on, Atticus,” he urged, eyes fixed on the short stretch of road leading to the farm, “we’re close.”
Just over the berm – much closer than it had been a moment ago – was a warm meal, a lit hearth, and the bright smile of the only other person in the world who mattered.
As the grind of wooden wheels and cloven hooves against gravel fell silent, the smack of feet against dirt picked up pace. Soon Lucian’s lungs burned as he ran up the hill, the growing desperation to lay eyes on home overcoming the pain.
Each time he neared the top, the hill stretched a little taller. He ran until it felt as though he had run the whole way from town to the farm, and then ran more. The unerringly straight path continued to pull towards the sky its growth matching Lucian’s strides. This time when his feet caught upon flat ground, there was no Atticus to prop him up. The strength in his legs was gone and he hit the dirt like a sack of meat and bones. Pushing himself to his knees, Lucian crawled over the lip of the hill.
His heart flopped limp in his chest from what he saw.
The farm was still there, just as it had been whenever he had set out. Had it been that morning? It felt as though he’d been running for weeks.
The longer Lucian looked, however, the faster his relief bled away to leave empty dread behind.
A thin layer of mist had sunk over the homestead like a grey miasma. Silence had settled in a thick blanket on top of that. This place, where he had spent every day of his life, that he could navigate with his eyes closed, was not his farm. That was a home which pulsed with warmth and light in time to his heartbeat.
This was a lifeless husk.
It was the silence, he realised, that was the worst.
Lucian liked the quiet.
Quiet, however, was not silence.
Quiet was still and calm. It had a way of peeling back the shroud of louder noise to reveal a multitude of subtle ones. He could lie in his bed in the dark and the quiet and listen to the signs of life all around him even as the world slept.
This was different. It was blood rushing away from your head so fast your ears stopped working. The birds hadn’t gone to their nests, they were just gone. The livestock, too. No leaf rustled or branch creaked as the air hung dead around the farm.
Scrambling to his feet, small chips of stone still embedded in his palms, Lucian hurtled towards the farmhouse. He yelled his sister’s name, but the cry was swallowed by the silence. The splintering of wood as he rammed the door open with his shoulder was also consumed by the void where sound should have been. As it continued to feed on Lucian’s shouts, his breath, the clattering of objects that fell in his search of the house, it manifested a sound. A dense, low buzz which overwhelmed Lucian’s senses. It filled his lungs and nostrils, and sank into his skin, before the static overtook his vision. When he was completely consumed, Lucian opened his eyes.
“JESSIKA”
Lucian woke in a battle with his sheets. Losing the fight to untangle himself, he rolled from his bed heedless of the linen still clinging to his legs. Momentum carried him forward, down the hatch leading to the main part of the house, but it did not translate into descending the ladder in a traditional fashion. Hollering his sister’s name again, Lucian made impact with the floor. Dazed and winded, he blinked up at the perplexed, freckled face staring down at him.
“Good Gods, Luce, are you trying to wake the Tullies?”
“Jessika,” he wheezed out, followed by a heavy sigh of relief and the prickle of tears in the corner of his eyes. With more dexterity than the descent which had landed him on the floor, he hopped to his feet and pulled his sister into a firm hug. Not missing a beat of her brother’s rhythm, Jessika returned the embrace and patted down his sleep-ruffled hair, the blond curls tame under her touch.
“Another nightmare?” she asked gently. Obviously it had been, but Lucian always responded better to a gentle invitation.
“It—” he started, giving Jessika a squeeze to confirm that she was there, and real, and not some new layer of his hideous premonition.
Wait, premonition? No. It wasn’t…wasn’t going to be…
It was not real. It wasn’t going to be real. He wasn’t a child anymore, and there wasn’t time for nonsense like this. With the barest hint of hesitation, Lucian pulled himself from his sister’s embrace.
“It was just a weird dream,” he mumbled, pushing at the strands of hair that had been stuck to his forehead with cold sweat.
Jessika raised an eyebrow and shook her head but held her tongue. Maybe some scrambled eggs would help loosen his, she figured, as she headed back to the kitchen.
“Come get some breakfast.”
When she couldn’t hear the footsteps of her brother behind her, Jessika poked her head back through the doorway.
“Don’t think of even looking at your beloved woodpile!”
Caught halfway through his turn towards the front door, Lucian grimaced. With heavy feet he spun to face the kitchen and trudged to his place at the table. Jessika was ready, placing a plate piled high with eggs, hashed potatoes, and fried tomatoes. Performing her own more agile twirl, she deftly plucked an assortment of herbs from their hanging bunches around the room. Lucian did his best to look sullen as she sprinkled them over their breakfasts with a flourish, but Jessika could see the tiny smile he hid behind his hand.
“Made with love,” she said, tamping a dried thyme leaf onto the tip of Lucian’s nose. She laughed as he grunted in response, ducking out of the way and slapping at her hand.
The siblings ate in silence, the only dialogue the offset clinks of cutlery against plate. Lucian glowered at his eggs, as if they had foisted the dream upon him while they fried in the pan. Every few bites he would snatch a glance up at Jessika, only to snap his gaze back to his plate when she caught him and sent a warm smile his way. As he turned the events of the dream over and over in his head – like kneading dough – he spent more time shoving the food around on his plate than into his mouth. When it was well and truly kneaded, Lucian moved on to knocking back the nightmare, slapping the back of his fork into his eggs as he attempted to mentally punch his dread away.
He was going to market today so…maybe he didn’t have to go. And then…well, then not only would they be without coin but the inn would be without supplies. The coin didn’t matter that much, but letting down the people who depended on him…
Lucian stole another glance at Jessika, who had cleared her plate and started fussing over something else at the kitchen bench. A packed lunch and some snacks for Atticus, probably. The breakfast he had eaten was a cold, hard lump in the base of his chest, but Lucian resumed stabbing and shovelling the remainder of his meal into his mouth. It would be a long, lonely walk to town, but the company of a rumbling stomach wouldn’t be welcome.
One of his mental punches clocked him right between the eyes.
There was an obvious yet benign reason the farm might be empty on his arrival home.
“You should come with me today.”
It made perfect sense! It shouldn’t have taken him all of breakfast to think of it.
Lucian slapped his fork down onto the table and grinned up at Jessika. The quizzical look on her face killed his smile.
“Luce,” she started, voice full of tender affection which covered the sharp edge of reality.
He knew what she was going to say. It was a long trip. She would slow him down. She might not even be able to make the full distance at all, or before nightfall, or heavens forbid back on the same day!
Lucian’s brain did not make him work as hard for the follow-up as it did the original idea.
“There’s enough room in the cart for you and the produce.”
Slim to the point of scrawny, a stiff wind could blow Jessika off her feet. She could perch at the front of the cart and it wouldn’t be any extra trouble for him or Atticus. And while the goat was good company, he wasn’t much for conversation. Lucian couldn’t remember the last time Jessika had come with him to town, too – there was so much he could tell and show her.
This time it was his sister’s laughter bouncing between the beams that brought Lucian’s rising mood down.
“What does that make me? A sack of potatoes?”
Snatching his plate and fork from the table, Lucian trudged to the basin.
“We don’t grow potatoes,” he replied with a sniff.
Jessika’s response was tinted with smug amusement.
“Cabbages, then.”
“I don’t put cabbages in a sack.”
Water sloshed over the edge of the basin as he dropped his dish in with too much force.
“Luce,” Jessika repeated, this time more edge than affection.
“Jess,” he shot back, staring hard down at her as he attempted to drown his plate under the dishwater.
“If you don’t want to ride on the cart I can carry you.”
He could carry her and pull the cart – or just maybe for once Atticus could do his damn job.
“It wouldn’t be hard.”
Reaching into the water, Jessika eased Lucian’s hands away from the plate. Miraculously, it hadn’t cracked.
“It would be hard for me.”
Nudging him out of the way, she slowly cleaned away the breakfast debris. Even through the turbid water Lucian could see how red and swollen her knuckles were.
“Today is a bad day.”
Chest bursting with frustration and unfounded anguish, Lucian held back a shout. It would be a worse day – the worst day – if she did not come with him. But he couldn’t explain it. He couldn’t find the words. Or the ones he could string together would sound far too selfish.
‘I know your joints are on fire with pain I can only imagine, but can you come on a several hour trek to make me feel better about a bad dream?’
He knew he was stupid, but he wasn’t dumb enough to push the issue.
“I’m going outside.”
Lucian stomped out before he could scoop Jessika up and carry her away whether she liked it or not.
“No wood chopping!” she called over her shoulder.
“No promises,” he grumbled under his breath as he slammed the front door behind him.
There was, in fact, no time to add to his precious woodpile.
On slamming the door, the chickens swarmed him, demanding to be fed. Gone were the days when Lucian could easily duck in the coop – his shoulders too broad to fit front on through the door – but the eggs needed collecting. Hearing the chickens carrying on, the goats joined the chorus, baying for fresh water in their trough. Finally, though they couldn’t cry out, the vegetables in their modest patch couldn’t be ignored when Lucian saw how parched they were.
It didn’t matter that these were Jessika’s chores. With how stiff her fingers were, it would have taken her until he got home from town to complete. Sure, the morning was slipping away, but it wouldn’t take him that long to load the cart. Cabbages were not the most delicate of cargo. Lucian hucked the green orbs in haphazardly and topped them with a dusty deluge of yams (‘totally different from potatoes,’ he groused to himself) and turnips. It was only the tomatoes which got their own basket, wedged in the front where he could easily swat away a certain goat should he try to snack on them. And, of course, the eggs, which were even more tenderly packed in fresh hay.
There was just one more piece to assemble.
Arguably the most important and most difficult to set into place.
Lucian sucked in a deep breath, cupped his hands around his mouth, and hollered.
“ATTICUS!”
The three syllables stretched out across the farm, lasting longer than they had right to. Lucian’s breath, thankfully, soon ran out – though he had been trying his hardest to be heard all the way at the Tully farm, this time.
At first the only response was the comfortable quiet of morning. There was the low clucking of hens busy with scraping up every skerrick of feed overlaid by a breeze skittering through the trees, carrying birdsong with it. Lucian readied another breath but paused mid-inhale. A rhythmic pounding had joined the morning chorus. Its crescendo was punctuated with a collective squawk from the chickens as a grey streak tore across the yard.
The speeding goat skidded to a stop when he saw the loaded cart.
Lucian swallowed a laugh and bent over, beckoning to Atticus like one might a cat.
“Come on, Atticus, don’t be like that.”
He’d been ready for this, though. The hand beckoning his four-legged friend was not empty.
The tomato was a little bruised and bug bitten, but Atticus charged forward again when he caught sight of the treat. Lucian kept his palm flat, avoiding the gnashing teeth as tomato juice spilled over his hand.
“I can’t believe I’m bribing a goat,” he lamented, even as he patted Atticus’ head with his free hand.
Atticus gave a wet bleat in response as he licked up every drop of juice tracking down Lucian’s fingers.
“You are hopeless…” he mumbled, although whether he was talking about Atticus or himself was yet to be seen.
Lucian was reaching for another tomato when the chickens made their third uproar for the morning. Jessika, arms laden with a bulging pack, had been swarmed by the feathery devils as soon as she had opened the door. Giving Atticus one final pat (and no second treat) Lucian trotted over.
“Don’t believe them,” he said as he eased the bag from Jessika’s arms. “They’ve been fed.”
Jessika just smiled as she threw a handful of sunflower seeds across the yard. In a flurry of feathers the chickens retreated, scrambling for their second breakfast. Lucian sighed heavily, and shook his head, but Jessika’s smile persisted.
“Nothing wrong with a treat every now and then.”
Or every day, as they both knew the case was.
“Speaking of!” she continued, patting the backpack, “I made a lunch for each of my favourite boys.”
As she chittered about the contents of each lunch, Lucian searched every feature of her face. Her smile never faltered and it even reached her eyes. The gestures as she spoke were fluid, but slow. Measured might be the better word.
Even as she wrapped up her spiel, he stared at her, and then through her, the weight of forboding still heavy from his dream.
“Don’t get them mixed up, okay?” Jessika finished, reaching up to ruffle Lucian’s hair.
“Hey, don’t!” he snapped, brooding reverie broken as he scooted back from her touch.
“I’m not a kid.”
“Maybe not,” – her tone suggested she disagreed, “but you are my cute little brother.”
As she reached up to boop his nose, Lucian skipped back another step.
“Jessika,” he whined, as he did his best to flatten out the haystack of curls.
“Lucian,” she returned, mimicking his tone with a pouting lip. It pulled back to a small smile as she watched him stomp over to the cart, arms poised to spike the lunchbag into the back, before he lost heart and gently placed it between the tomatoes and the eggs. It was then that a detail caught her notice.
The posts of the cart were bare.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” she asked, one hand on her hip while the other pointed at the lack of harness.
“I—” started Lucian, before faltering. He looked to Atticus – as though the goat would help him! – and then sheepishly back to Jessika, hand rubbing at the back of his head.
“I’m going to pull the cart on the way there.”
Jessika shook her head but couldn’t shake off her smile. Her poor, soft-hearted brother. What was she going to do with him?
She started out by walking over and putting a hand on his face, following up with a kiss on the cheek and a hug.
“Be careful.”
“I’ll be fine,” he replied, returning her embrace. Just like in the kitchen, the temptation to haul her off her feet and throw her onto the back of the cart was strong.
“I’ll be back before sundown.”
Come with me.
The words burned in the back of his mouth, like the lingering acid after throwing up. He held onto Jessika just as tightly as he held in the unspoken request. Even when she tried to pull away, he tugged her back in.
Finally, Jessika broke the silence to end the interminable hug.
“You can’t get back if you don’t leave, dingus.”
After another long pause, Lucian pulled back. Jessika’s brows knit together at the look on his face.
“I’ll be here when you get home.”
She reached out to give his hand a squeeze.
“And I’ll make your favourite for dinner.”
Lucian gave her another long look, though once again Jessika couldn’t tell if he was looking at her or past her. His reply didn’t help.
“You hate leeks.”
“But I love you.”
“Jessika,” he whined, pulling his shoulders up around his ears as though they could hide the flush. Turning around was a much more effective strategy which came all too late.
“What?” she replied through a laugh.
“I love my big, stupid, sullen little brother. Even if it means I have to eat leeks.”
She laughed again as Lucian snatched the cart’s posts up from the ground. After squaring his shoulders, he took two strides and then stopped.
“I love you, too.”
Jessika couldn’t see his face, but she was sure he was so red with embarrassment his freckles would have been glowing.
“Stay safe!” she called again, waving high over her head, even though Lucian still hadn’t looked back.
“And make sure that old goat at least pulls the cart home!”
“No promises!” hollered Lucian, voice matched by a mighty bleat from Atticus.
Jessika laughed at her brother one last time as he visibly quickened his pace. She watched his back until he had disappeared over the hill. When he was well and truly gone, so too was the light in her face. Flexing her fingers with a wince, she retreated to the house – alas, those leeks weren’t going to cook themselves.