Archive of Our Own

“Wow! Cool! What’s that?!”

Knives looks up from where he’s gently holding a leaf. It seems he’s been caught, but at least it’s just the child. Knives pauses, considers, then waves him closer.

“This will help give you a little more food,” he explains softly. He’s hoping not to be overheard. That point is quickly rendered moot when Carlito exclaims in awe.

“Wow! Apples! Is this where they come from?”

Knives sighs through his nose, letting the child inspect the tree. His chest feels tight with something unfamiliar, something warm. Not an emotion, but a physical sensation. He frowns and turns serious eyes on Carlito. The boy notices his change and quiets down.

“Please,” he continues softly, “take good care of it.”

“Huh? Um…” The boy shifts nervously, eyes darting between him and the tree. “Where are you going?”

Knives doesn’t answer. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. All these years, all he’s done, and he’s never quite settled on a satisfactory answer of what comes after. His silence must bother Carlito, or something in his expression does, because he presses on with another question.

“Um… have you told Vash?”

The boy’s voice is wary. He’s already retreating, off to go tattle no doubt. Knives bites back a smile. Children always did love his brother. Good. He deserves it, after all he’s sacrificed to save them. So, Carlito won’t listen to him, not really, but still. Still, Knives at least makes an effort, speaking past the cloying heat in his chest that’s starting to spread.

“Let’s keep it a secret.”

His request goes unheeded. If anything, it alarms the boy further. Carlito spins on his heel, darting back to the little Pueblo that’s been their refuge for the past few weeks. Hopefully, it’ll house Vash for as long as he needs. These people are kind; Knives can’t deny truths anymore.

“Vash! Vash!”

Knives closes his eyes and actually smiles. It’s a small, sad thing. So many regrets, so many hurts, but still he hopes that this might be enough. That this small gift to this small family can repay their grand kindness of saving the only thing he’s ever held dear.

The warmth that started in his chest spreads over his whole body. It is time. He breathes in the arid air of Noman’s Land one final time. That acrid, bloodstained stench he’s so familiar with gives way to something fresh, something cleaner. The scent of fresh apples, hanging laundry, of incense burning in the small chapel out front.

Knives would laugh if he had any control of his being anymore. Of course, in the end, Vash would be right. He’s just sorry he won’t be around to see it.

A hot wind blows, rustling an old tattered scarf. Carlito turns around with wide eyes, but Vash’s weird brother is nowhere to be seen. Just a scarf, and just an apple tree, all alone in their empty courtyard. He fights not to cry as he runs inside to find someone. Vash is gonna be so upset with him, he just knows it.

Knives is drifting for a long time.

Flashes of his life playback on loop, some lingering more than others. It's interesting, watching the same story play out over and over. Knives can so clearly see everything now.

The choices he made, the choices Vash made, the choices they made in regards to each other. But it all goes back to the Fall, to Tesla. The point of no return had been so early, what was he to do? Perhaps he should have… followed Vash. His memories grew distorted after so many decades of chasing and running and fighting, but now they playback clear as ever. Vash had never scorned his outstretched hand; he’d always offered his own in return. It was Knives who could never meet him, Knives who wouldn’t let go.

And what's that human saying? Hindsight is 20/20? Yes, he’d really been too naive.

The replays eventually begin to fade, interspersed with new, confusing images. A myriad of black and white, blurry scenes he can never quite register or remember. The sound of a woman’s voice, muffled and distant.

And then there are the sensations.

Overwhelming hunger and hot and cold. The urge to cry and scream. Knives fights it when he can, and gives in when he can’t.

He doesn't understand what’s happening.

Perhaps this is what the afterlife really is. A complete loss of control, an outpouring of the most base emotions. Knives hates it. Knives supposes that’s fair. For all he’s done, he doubts the powers that be would let him rest.

He’s not sure when he becomes fully cognizant of the fact, but it becomes clear to him one day: he’s alive. He’s alive and he’s been completely reborn. It’s his hands that convince him.

Knives can’t remember his hands ever being so small. He stares at them for long stretches of time, trying to clench his fists but never quite managing the same intensity.

The days become clearer after that.

Infants, he remembers, develop in stages. The days pass and his eyesight improves. He perceives more colors by the day, distinguishes more shapes at greater distances. He’s able to retain daily memories for longer.

The first time Knives sees him, he cries. Cries in the way only an infant can, with uncontrollable wailing screams. He feels himself lifted up and away and cries louder. That woman’s voice coos and shushes him, but he cannot be consoled.

Because lying next to him had been Vash.

There’s a gap of time where Knives goes blank. He recalls very little, both of his new daily life, and his tumultuous past one. The next time he feels any sort of awareness, he’s able to walk and has much improved motor skills.

And, he soon learns, he can speak.

When he wakes for the first time in who knows how long and actually feels in control of his body, he cries again. It’s not the horrible wail of an infant. It’s a steady stream of tears and the shaking of a small chest. Knives rolls over in what must be his bed and cries anew.

Vash. Vash is here, sleeping next to him, looking small and peaceful like he did centuries ago. He studies his twin through his tears, tracing every familiar line and curve of his face. And then, he traces the unfamiliar things.

Vash doesn’t have just one single beauty mark, but also a face of freckles. If Knives had to guess, Vash looks around 3 or 4 years old, but his body looks too small. Thin, as if he’s not eating enough. Knives only remembers that happening once in their childhood, when Vash had starved himself after…

He reaches out a hand—still so small—and touches Vash’s face. Warm. Still so warm. Knives has long given up controlling the tears pouring down his face. Then it occurs to him: if they’re both here, does that mean Vash also—Knives gasps.

“Vash…”

The bedding rustles behind him. Knives tenses, heart racing. There’s someone else here, someone in the same bed as them. Someone so close, and Knives didn’t even realize. He reluctantly withdraws his hand and turns over.

A woman gazes back at him with bright green eyes. Blonde hair spills over her shoulders in gentle waves. Her smile is gentle and, somehow, familiar, framed with a delicate beauty mark on the right. Knives stares at her, perplexed. What is it about her? Why does she look so familiar? It’s almost like… His eyes widen.

“Tesla?”

The name is out of his mouth before he can stop it. What a stupid thing to say. But the woman doesn’t shy away. Her face stays serene and a bit of humor lights those hauntingly green eyes.

“Good morning, little one. It’s nice of you to finally join me.”

Knives continues to just stare, not sure where to begin. The woman doesn’t seem fazed by this. Instead, she gets this dreamy look about her.

“Tesla… I like the way you say my name. You know me.” Her eyes turn sad. “But I don’t know you. What’s your name?”

“Knives…” He pauses, second guessing himself, “ Or…”

“Knives.” Knives pauses as Tesla tries out his name. She quirks a smile and strokes his hair. It’s familiar. Motherly. It makes his chest ache. “Hello, Knives. I’m sorry, but I really don’t know you. I never got the chance to meet other Plants during my past life.”

Static fills Knives’ mind.

Other plants? Past lives? Was he just dreaming, twisting things to make sense in his convoluted mind? It had to be that. Perhaps this is purgatory, and he’s forced to live out a sick fantasy, only to have it snatched away in the end.

Tesla must notice his turmoil, for she runs a soothing hand through his hair and continues speaking.

“You have questions. I’m sorry, but I don’t have many answers. All I know is that, yes, we were all Plants before. Yes, we all ran out of energy and died. And somehow, we all end up here…”

Knives sits up, looking at their surroundings with a purpose. Their living space can be described as ramshackle, to say the least. Wooden walls, wooden flooring. Plain. No paint or cement, or seemingly any electricity for that matter. The only source of light is what must be early dawn seeping through a curtained window.

“Where is here?”

“Earth.” Tesla laughs when Knives whips around, giving her an incredulous look. “I can’t explain it, Knives, but it’s true. We’re on Earth. Not only that, but it’s the year…” she purses her lips in thought, “1858? Somewhere around there. Do you know anything about this time period?”

Knives digs through his memories, through the records and histories he obsessively read in his youth. But it was all so long ago, and there was so much history he read. Then, he remembers, little tidbits that made him scowl and, later, scoff as he scorned human folly.

“Industrialization? Everyone is using coal, but oil will come soon. Humans continue to spread and colonize.” Knives frowns, leaning against the bed frame. “The environmental damage done during and after this period is what eventually led to the planet’s death.”

“The beginning of the end.” Tesla smiles. “But that’s centuries away. They don’t know any better.”

Tesla’s voice is gentle but sad. Resigned. They don’t know any better. Maybe not, but Knives does. Tesla does. And if there’s other Plants around—if Vash…

“Hindsight is 20/20…” Knives murmurs to himself, too quiet for Tesla to catch. She continues combing through his hair as she gazes at the ceiling, seeing something far away. Finally, she looks back down at him, smile lighting up again.

“For now, colonization is expanding across North America. That’s where we are. Far west, in the New Mexico territories. I joined a caravan while pregnant with you two.”

Her words trigger another memory, something buried deep in his consciousness. Knives perks up and the question leaves him before his mind fully catches up.

“The Western Frontier?”

“Exactly,” Tesla giggles. “You remember?”

He remembers… Outlaws and cowboys. Saving friends and stopping bad guys. I don’t like that kind of thing. The onslaught of memories sting at his eyes. He blinks them away stubbornly and brings himself back to the present. Finally, he glances at Vash, still sleeping soundly next to him.

“My brother… is he…?” He trails off, not trusting his voice to stay steady.

Tesla hums and scoots closer. She strokes gently over Vash’s hair, in much the same way she did with Knives. She must do that often, like a real mother.

“He’s not here yet.”

Knives looks up at her, confusion clear as day on his face. She looks back at him and shrugs.

“Don’t ask me how I know. Maybe it’s because I gave birth to you, but I know his soul isn’t here, not like yours is. You were born complete, but he… He’s empty.”

Knives doesn’t even realize he’s crying again until Tesla pulls him into a hug, shushing him and wiping his tears. He fights them, but this body is still that of a child, and children can’t control their emotions. Even in his first life, Knives had always been the one more prone to crying, hadn’t he? How easily he forgets; now, how easily he remembers.

“It’s okay darling. Listen to me. He won’t be like that forever.”

Knives draws back from her arms, regarding her warily. Tesla chases a few more of his tears and hums thoughtfully.

“This is just a theory, but hear me out. When we die, we end up in this new place. You were twins, right?” Tesla waits for him to nod and then smiles. “Funny, how life works. You must’ve passed first. But the laws of the universe that tie you together made it so the vessel for your brother would be ready. He’s not here yet because he’s still living his first life.”

Tesla watches him closely as he processes her words. Vash isn’t here yet because he survived. He kept on living, just like Knives wanted him to. That’s what he wanted, right? Knives looks down at this not-brother of his, at his sleeping face, so achingly familiar even with those subtle differences. Knives wanted—wants—Vash to keep on living. But a part of him so deeply wants him here now, with him. Now that he knows there’s a here, there’s an after. Even if the here and after means—

“We’re human now, aren’t we?”

Tesla hums in agreement. Knives nods to himself, still looking at Vash. He could feel it from the beginning, the absence of his gate, of that connection to a well of power. Here, he’s aging like a normal human child. Frustrating, how long that takes. Tesla breaks the tense silence they’ve fallen into after who knows how long.

“What’s your brother’s name?”

“Vash.”

Tesla giggles. Knives finally looks away from his brother to shoot her a curious look. She’s staring at him so fondly it makes him blush.

“Knives and Vash. Now those are some interesting names.”

Knives frowns, momentarily concerned. He never thought there was anything wrong with their names, but are they that strange? But he doesn’t think too hard about it, not when Tesla is still smiling and her eyes are glittering again.

“Don’t worry, these humans already think I’m crazy. I’m a single woman that decided to travel West all alone, while pregnant. Then, for three years I refused to name my own children. Now, their names are Knives and Vash?”

Tesla laughs again but Knives doesn’t join in. He doesn’t quite understand everything she says. It’s inevitable that being from the future would grant her some strange habits, but enough to label her crazy? Well, perhaps not naming her children is pretty odd, and being a superior lifeform—

No, enough. No room to think that way anymore.

“Call me Nai instead,” he offers after a moment.

“Nai?”

“It’s not as strange as Knives, right?” He asks, suddenly doubtful. But Tesla just laughs again.

“Well, I won’t argue with that.”

The bed creaks as Tesla stands and stretches. More light from the rising sun is starting to light up the room, spilling past the fabric curtains. They’ve been talking for quite a while it seems. Knives—Nai—stands as well, traipsing around curiously. The wooden floorboards scratch and creak under his feet. It feels different from Noman’s Land; real lumber, not the synthetic Plant-made fiber he’s familiar with. Tesla lets him wander around cautiously before waving him over, pulling some simple clothes out of a small dresser.

“Get dressed and come with me. You’ve got lots of catching up to do, Nai.”

Knives takes the clothes in his small hands: a simple cotton shirt and denim overalls. The knees have patches and the hems are frayed, but they’re clean. Knives fumbles to get them on, still clumsy in that childish way. Tesla said they went without names for three years; is that how old he is now? Knives can’t remember being this age in his old life. It probably only lasted weeks before. He has a lifetime of this ahead.

Tesla interrupts his musing to comb his hair back with a wet brush. He scrunches his face at the strange sensation; no one ever brushed his hair like this, not even Rem. She fusses next over his clothes, making sure everything is buckled correctly. He begrudgingly accepts the necessity of this. His fingers don’t have the right dexterity yet to be reliable.

Finally, Tesla straightens up with a smile and struts over to the curtained window in what Knives guesses is their kitchen. He follows. She glances down at him before opening the curtains with a playful flair and lifting Knives so he can look outside. The sight takes his breath away.

The rising sun—just one, Knives remembers—is barely clearing a distant mountain top. The land is painted in hues of gold and green. In the distance, a subtle roar can be heard that Knives is wholly unfamiliar with. Tesla sighs as she watches the sunrise with him, resting her head against Knives’.

“Welcome to Pagosa Springs.”

Knives thought he knew what life was; he knew the science behind what Plants could create, had seen it on that godforsaken planet, had seen it on the SEEDS ships.

It’s only now he realizes that what man attempted to create with Plants was a terribly sad imitation of the truth.

The settlement dubbed Pagosa Springs is nothing more than a few scattered wooden structures that Knives hesitates on calling “homes” and some larger, semi-constructed buildings serving as the “town.” It’s both nothing and everything like the charming Western stories he read so long ago on the SEEDS ship. What the settlement lacks in modernity, however, it makes up for in sheer beauty.

It’s the height of spring, so the landscape is crawling with greenery. Trees and bushes and flowers of all types cover the land. A river cuts through the land, a roaring rampant of water that Knives could hardly believe the first time he’d seen it. Mountains cut across the endless expanse of blue sky and sometimes, big, fluffy, white clouds will hang up high and block out the sun.

Knives has seen it all, in theory. He’s seen the photos, the videos, the diagrams Rem provided on the SEEDS ship. But actually being here, breathing in the crystalline air, it’s somehow an experience beyond Knives’ imagination.

Life is hard on the frontier, the fight for survival not unlike what he witnessed on Noman’s Land. But this place is alive in ways that planet could never be; this is what humanity squandered, what they so desperately sought to find again.

Within just a day of being shown around his new home, Knives realizes he has a lot to learn.

Upon request, Tesla shows him maps and newspapers to fill the gaps in his knowledge. Books are hard to come by out here, but Tesla amassed her own collection before heading West. Knives reads them with a gusto, anything to lessen the sense of loss and helplessness he’s now subject to.

Being in this new and strange place, in this new and strange body, Knives finds himself feeling more vulnerable than he’d like to admit. Well, it’s not like Knives was ever keen on admitting his vulnerability before either. But this is different. Here, he’s a simple human, and a child at that.

He doesn’t need to read to know how vulnerable a child is. He witnessed, over and over, exactly how vulnerable children are. He rained fire from the sky in retaliation for a child, and for the sake of another child. He himself remembers being a child, angry and afraid and, eventually, alone. But this is even worse. He still has things to protect. His brother, more helpless than ever. Tesla, hardly less vulnerable than him, he soon learns, as a single mother in this time period.

So much to protect, and here he is, defenseless. Here, his knives are gone. He doesn’t know how to accept this. Not yet.

Then, there are the rules.

After toting Knives around town that first day, pointing out anything of import, Tesla sat him down and explained some warnings on proper conduct. Knives had squirmed in his seat, the conversation much too reminiscent of what Rem had once tried, when she warned him about his powers. Except here, there were no powers. Just oddities.

So, although he initially resents it, Knives heeds all of Tesla’s words. She’s the expert here, after all, until Knives can get himself caught up on the gaps in his knowledge. And also, this is Tesla. She’s already lived one life where no one gave her words any regard; Knives, stubborn as he may be, will not trample her goodness again.

Knives follows the rules. He does not read in public. He does not speak more than simple words with the other settlers. He keeps his eyes averted and minds his own whenever they must go into town. These rules are not too difficult, either way, considering how the other settlers already treat the family as public pariahs.

Tesla had run cool fingers through his hair as she explained their need for rules. “The settlers already keep their distance from us. Out here, there’s so few of us that we have to stick together. But, it’s best not to give them any reason for undue suspicion.”

Humans have always feared otherness. It happens time and time again throughout history. They fear different cultures and different beliefs, different ways of life. And that fear gives way not to understanding, but to hatred and retaliation.

(Knives doesn’t acknowledge just yet that he’s the same, always has been. That his fear also gave way to hate, which gave way to violence, to retaliation. The Fall, his brother’s arm, the Ark…)

As it turns out, it’s not really Tesla being a single-mother that secludes her. She’s not the only single woman, unmarried or widowed or otherwise. Rather, it is indeed the way Tesla acts, always with this strange sense of detachment, that makes the settlers wary of her. Her strange twins don’t help the case, that’s for sure.

It was less noticeable when they were infants, perhaps, but as they got older it became clear that something was off about the twins. Which brings Knives to his last rule, which really isn’t a rule, but rather Knives’ own prerogative: take care of Vash.

When Tesla said Vash was empty, she wasn’t exaggerating. The boy Knives calls his brother wakes in the morning and sleeps at night. He eats the meals put before him and walks when Tesla guides him by the hand. But there’s nothing behind those big blue eyes of his.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t play. He doesn’t exert any type of independence at all. Is this what it means to lack a soul? In this world, Vash truly cannot be alone, truly cannot care for himself. So, Knives cares for him.

They’re rarely seen apart from each other. If Knives has chores or Tesla sends him on an errand, he’s dragging Vash along, leading him by the hand. He can be seen talking to him—simple words—in town and reading picture books out loud on their porch. Vash always just watches him with a pleasant, blank look.

He talks to him when they’re alone. In private, he’ll unload all his worries, all that which he doesn’t want even Tesla to hear. He’ll talk about the past. The present. Sometimes, he’ll dare to speak on the future. Vash never answers him with more than a mild smile and blink of those big blue eyes.

Knives once thought that this is what he always wanted: a brother that would finally stop fighting him, that would rely on only him. Someone that Knives could care for and shelter and love. It’s only now that it truly sinks in that that was never the case. He doesn’t want this at all, this blank shell in the form of his brother.

He wants Vash. He misses him.

He misses his brother’s voice, his fire, his anger. His kindness, his laughter. Every contrary detail, every confounding moral code. All the things he fought against so fiercely, just to lose in the end. He misses Vash something fierce, so deeply it aches within his very marrow.

When all the house has fallen asleep, Knives finds himself slipping out of bed more often. He won’t go far, just onto the porch usually. Just so he can sit under the stars, like he’s always done, and dream that maybe Vash is doing the same from wherever, whenever he may be.

The stars here are so different from the SEEDS ships, from Noman’s Land, but they still help Knives feel like he’s a little less alone.

Knives is five years old when he realizes something is wrong with Tesla.

One day, as they’re collecting water from the river, Tesla faints. She’s been fatigued as of late, for sure, constantly needing to take breaks between daily tasks. Life on the frontier isn’t easy, after all. Knives tries to help as much as he can, but he’s still small, and will still be small for several more years.

He’s small, so when Tesla faints and falls into the river, he screams, a short panicked sound. Knives tries to catch her, pulls on her shirt, then her skirt, but she’s too heavy. The current, which once upon a time seemed so gentle, carries her away like she weighs nothing.

Knives hesitates. Vash is sitting further up the bank, a safe distance from the water, watching with blank eyes. He won’t move on his own, probably. Still, Knives tries calling out.

“Vash! Just stay there, okay? Stay there, I’ll be back!”

Vash just blinks at him, lips curling in a placid smile, like he does whenever Knives talks to him. Good enough.

He breaks into a sprint, running as fast as his small legs will carry him, chasing Tesla down river. But the current is deceptively fast and he loses sight of her. Not knowing what else to do, he keeps running, hoping, praying, that Tesla gets caught on a rock or a log and maybe, just maybe, he’ll have a chance to save her.

Knives runs and runs and grows more frantic every passing second. But just as he’s on the verge of collapsing, he sees them. On the other side of the river there’s a group of native women, and in the center of them is Tesla.

She’s lying prone on the ground, soaking wet, but still breathing. Knives can see the shallow rise and fall of her chest, even from across the river. By all means, it looks like the group of women fished Tesla out of the river, and it looks like they’re all fretting over her, finding a pulse and checking her breath. But still, Knives hesitates.

Relations between the settlers and natives are fraught at best, outright hostile at worst. And usually, it’s the worst. From their clothing and location—south of the river, not north—Knives concludes these women belong to the Diné. Relations with that tribe are even murkier.

But, these are women. Women who took time to fish a blonde woman out of the river. These are women, and Knives is a child, so maybe it’ll be alright… He has to take the chance.

“Mama?!” He calls out across the river, not even having to feign the tears and panic in his voice.

The women turn as one at the sound of his voice. There’s three of them, seemingly middle-aged. Their eyes hold surprise and worry, but no hostility that Knives can see. The women talk amongst themselves before one breaks away, approaching Knives. He can see now that they’re at a place where the river runs thin and shallow; that’s probably how the women saved Tesla in the first place. The woman crosses the river and Knives tries not to squirm as she gets closer.

“Mother?” She asks when she’s close enough, pointing back at Tesla.

The word is accented, but clear. Knives nods rapidly, relieved to be understood. The woman nods and extends her hand with a smile. Knives warily extends his own hand. She grasps it firmly, but not painfully, and begins to lead him towards the river, towards Tesla. Knives pulls back with all his strength.

“Wait!”

The woman turns to him with wide-eyes. She misinterprets the panic on his face and points again, searching for words.

“No hurt. Help. Mother.”

Knives doesn’t budge. He points back in the direction he came. “I left my brother. My brother. I need to go get him.”

The woman tilts her head, confused. He’s speaking too much, too fast. It’s clear her vocabulary is limited to key words. Knives takes a deep breath and tries again.

“Brother. My brother. Please.” He points more urgently back upstream. After a tense moment, she seems to understand, or at least comes to some sort of conclusion.

She turns back to the other women and says something Knives can’t understand. Whatever it is, the women agree and stand, lifting Tesla and beginning to walk away. Knives grows anxious again, but his worry over Vash wins out.

The woman, still holding Knives’ hand, points upstream and waves for him to lead the way. Knives nods and tugs her along, breaking into a sprint once more. The woman makes a surprised noise but follows along, hardly struggling to follow his shorter gait.

They reach Vash quickly, surprisingly, because Vash isn’t where he left him. Luckily, he’s actually closer, having apparently wandered downstream on his own. Unluckily, he didn’t just wander downstream, but closer to the river as well. He’s sitting on the bank, fingers dipped into the rushing stream. Knives’ heart skips a beat.

“Vash! Stop!”

His yelling is perhaps overkill, as is the way he rushes and yanks Vash away from the water. Vash wasn’t moving, just sitting by the river, watching it flow. But Knives can’t control the panic that rises in him, not so soon after seeing Tesla get swept away like that.

Knives kneels next to Vash’s toppled form, hand clenched in his shirt. Vash just blinks up at him and quirks a vague smile. Knives fights the urge to cry, remembering their company. He takes a deep breath and stands. He pulls Vash up with him, twines their fingers together, and leads him to where the woman is watching them curiously.

The woman gestures between the two of them, smiling, and says something Knives doesn’t understand. She says it again, slower, more intentionally. Knives tries to repeat it.

“Nah..kiss…?”

“Naakishchíín,” she repeats, then hums. “Brother. Brother, same.”

She points first at Knives’ face, then at Vash, then back and forth again. Knives nods slowly, guessing that she means they look alike. She giggles at what must be a baffled look on Knives’ face and reaches for his hand again. Knives takes it and lets himself be led away. The solid weight of Vash’s hand in his is more of a comfort than he’d like to admit.

The Diné village isn’t far from the river, and it’s smaller than Knives thought it would be. The way the settlers talk, he imagined more of an imposing force. Then again, he should know better than that.

He knows how this all plays out, with the settlers and indigenous people. It always upset him, more in the sense that the indigenous people always cared for the land better than the settlers, who just destroyed ecosystems with mining and pollution. But at the end of the day, all of them were the same in his mind: they were all humans.

After living—consciously—as a human child himself for a couple years, he’s not inclined to change his opinion. However, he can’t afford to view people with the same detachment as before. His life now, even more so than before, relies heavily on what type of mercy other humans are willing to grant him.

There are a number of people milling about, doing daily chores, chattering happily; they all pause as Knives and Vash walk by, staring at the newcomers. Knives forces himself to meet their eyes head on.

They’re not hostile, per say, just wary. Well, a few are hostile, but not as many as one would think. Knives takes in a deep breath. It’s not because he’s a Plant. It’s not because he’s so different, a freak like the other settlers whisper behind their backs. No, here the stares are mostly due to his blond hair and white skin. Knives exhales. He can accept that. A different type of otherness, but one so shallow, so human that it settles him.

The woman guides Knives with a gentle hand on his shoulder, greeting people as they pass. Knives tries to subtly lean more into her touch; right now, this woman is his safety. It must not be very subtle after all, considering the way she smiles down at him before walking that much closer.

They stop in front of a humble structure, built with wood like the settlers’ homes, but then covered with red clay and mud. Taking another look around, Knives notes many of their structures are built in this fashion.

The air is cool within the building, and it smells of earth and herbs. Knives blinks as he adjusts to the dim lighting within. Tesla is laid out in the center of the room, dried off and tucked in with a heavy blanket. Kneeling next to her is an older woman, much older than the women from the river.

She looks up as they enter, hooded eyes lingering on Vash and Knives just a beat too long. She exchanges quick words with the woman that led Knives, then seems to dismiss her. The woman gives him one last smile before leaving the boys alone with Tesla and the elder.

“Come, sit.”

The old woman gestures at the space next to Tesla, directly across from where she still kneeled. Knives tries not to show his surprise at her English, clearer than the other woman. He tugs Vash closer, leading him first to sit before dropping down himself. He shoots worried glances at Tesla, fingers twitching to reach out to her. She looks deathly pale, face dotted in a cold sweat. But she’s breathing. She’s still breathing.

“Your mother?”

The old woman’s question has Knives springing back to attention. He gives a short nod, then follows it with a verbal response, just to be safe.

“Yes.”

The woman continues to stare at him, humming to herself. Knives fights not to squirm under that wisened gaze. Something about it feels especially piercing, as if she’s looking at him and into him, beyond him. Then, the woman turns those knowing eyes on Vash and Knives gets even more uncomfortable.

“Naakishchíín,” she repeats that word from earlier. “You are twins.”

So that’s what the word meant. Knives makes an agreeable noise. There’s no denying what they are, mirror images sitting side by side. The woman seems amused by this, humming curiously as she studies them.

“Twins.” She nods to herself and glances back at Vash again. Knives tightens his hold on his brother’s hand. “What are you called, yázhí?”

Vash, predictably, doesn’t answer. He just stares back with a smile. Knives shifts and the old woman looks back to him, raising her brows.

“His name is Vash. My name is… Nai.”

“He cannot speak?”

Knives frowns and shakes his head. No use in hiding it. Perhaps they’ll just think him mute and move on. The woman hums again and returns to studying Vash. Her brow furrows and she mumbles to herself, words Knives doesn’t understand. He’s saved from the awful moment by a new person entering the abode.

“Amá-sání?”

Knives looks up at the newcomer and promptly chokes. He hasn’t seen that face in centuries, not outside of his own dreams, his own nightmares. He’s suddenly inclined to believe that perhaps this is it, all of this has been nothing but a cruel dream, and he’ll wake any moment. Because the woman standing before him can be no one other than Rem Saverem.

The woman looks at him and Knives can’t breathe. Then, she smiles, and it’s so familiar Knives could cry or scream or both.

“Hello,” she greets in markedly clear English, “My name is Doba. Who are you two?”

Doba walks into the building fully and takes a seat next to the elder woman. Knives stays silent, still partially in shock. But this isn’t Rem. Rem was just a normal human woman, there’d be no reason for her to end up here as well. This woman is Doba, and this woman looks at them with a kind smile but absolutely no recognition in her eyes. Knives feels his shoulders relax.

“My name is Nai. This is my brother, Vash.”

Doba looks over at Vash with that same pleasant smile and Knives holds his breath. He almost expects Vash to give a reaction, to finally wake up in her presence. Her, this woman that looks so much like Rem. He’s almost disappointed when he doesn’t. He just sits there, as always. Knives sighs.

“I am here to help with speaking. I am the one who knows your language best in this village.”

Knives nods. It makes sense. Doba’s accent is the clearest by far.

“My mother…” Knives starts, finally glancing down at Tesla again. “Is she alright? Is she sick?”

Doba exchanges words with the elder and turns back. “We were hoping you could tell us. Her body is very weak, more than it should be from falling in the river. Has your mother been any different?”

“She’s tired a lot. She’s sleeping more than usual and always needs to sit down.” Knives hesitates, but keeps talking. “She’s not eating enough. Sometimes, while talking, she’ll just stop and stare into the distance.”

He doesn’t know why he tells them so much, except he does. He does know. Knives is scared. Tesla never wants to visit the doctor among the settlers, and Knives understands that. He wouldn’t either, if he’d gone through what she had. But he’s getting worried. He’s been worried for weeks now.

When Doba is done translating, the elder woman hums and begins walking around, gathering herbs from a shelf. Knives watches her curiously, then looks back at Doba. He tries not to flinch when he meets her dark eyes head on.

“What’s she doing? Who is she?”

Doba giggles at Knives’ brusque tone. “Her name is Asdza. She is azee’ neikahi; one who knows medicine.”

“Yázhí will call me sání,” the medicine woman calls back and Doba laughs.

“Sání means ‘elder one.’ It is more respectful. You may call her Asdza-sání.” Doba leans forward and waves Knives closer, as if to share a secret. He reluctantly follows her lead. She whispers, “Or, you may call her what I do, amá-sání. This means grandmother. It is a family term, but she likes small ones calling her that.”

Knives can’t tell if she’s joking or not, for she wears the same genial smile throughout the mini language lesson. Still, he nods and files the words away. He’s not sure how useful they’ll be, but he can’t disregard them.

Asdza comes back with her gathered herbs and kneels by Tesla’s side once more. She hums in a low tone as she mixes them up. Knives tries not to jump when she suddenly sparks a fire in the bowl. A rich, herbal smoke fills the room; Asdza places the bowl by Tesla’s head and waits. Not a minute later, she begins to stir, blinking her bright green eyes open.

Her eyes slowly focus, sluggishly taking in her surroundings. When she sees Knives kneeling anxiously next to her, she smiles and reaches a hand out. Knives takes it in both of his, warming her cold fingers with his own. Then her eyes slide to the other side, studying the two Diné women. Asdza leans in closer and Tesla holds her gaze.

They stare at one another for who know how long before Asdza leans back with a sigh. Tesla blinks and huffs a little sigh of her own. Asdza turns to Doba and speaks quickly in a low tone. Knives doesn’t like the grave expression that overtakes both women. Tesla must notice as well, for she tightens her grip on Knives’ hands as best she can.

“Ma’am,” Doba speaks up at last, “We think it best to send the children outside.”

Tesla smiles, a hint of knowing sadness. “Only if he wants to. Nai?”

“I’m staying.”

He doesn’t hesitate a moment in his reply. If there’s something wrong with Tesla, then Knives needs to know. He needs to know what to do and how to fix it. Forget that he’s only a “child,” that he’s only human. Tesla is everything to him right now; in some ways, she always has been, but here it’s tangible. Here, without Tesla, Knives is lost. Knives is alone.

The women don’t like his stubborn refusal to leave. They equally dislike Tesla’s easy acceptance of this fact. They wouldn’t understand and Knives doesn’t care if they do. However, they must see it’s futile to make him—and by extension, Vash—leave, and so Doba just lets out a heavy sigh and nods.

Asdza speaks and Doba translates.

Tesla weakens gradually over the next year.

Daily tasks grow increasingly difficult for her, until they become impossible altogether. Knives takes over the bulk of the cleaning, the cooking, the tending of their small garden that puts food in their stomachs, but never enough. Knives gives the larger portions to Vash, whose body runs purely on instinct and will wake up crying from hunger in the middle of the night. He pretends not to notice how Tesla gives Knives some of her portions, making constant claims about how her appetite is dwindling.

He can’t tell if it’s a lie or not.

This type of decay is not the same as before, not the same as the medical records Knives and Vash found when they were much too young. But it’s close. Terrifyingly close.

Sure, Tesla’s hair doesn’t turn black, but it does begin to fall out in clumps. Her skin doesn’t peel and blister, but she does grow increasingly thin and sallow. And maybe her bones don’t just snap under her lessening weight, but when Tesla tries to help with dinner one night, lifting the steel pot does nearly sprain her wrist. Knives refuses to let her cook after that.

There is nothing to be done about it. In pure and simple terms, she’s dying. In Asdza’s words, it’s not something so simple.

(“She says her body is rejecting her soul,” Doba stated with a frown. “It’s decaying from within, spiritually and physically. Asdza has not seen a person like this before.”

Knives had felt his spine freeze at the words, at the images a word like decay brought to the forefront. Of bright yellow hair turning black, of falling teeth and patchy skin, brittle bones and dead eyes.

But in the face of such news, Tesla had just smiled. Smiled and nodded, as if this was nothing startling. As if she’d somehow expected this. And Knives… Knives fought hard not to let the betrayal show on his face. Tried to restrain the surge of resentment that followed, followed them like a dark shadow as the two women helped them back to the settlement across the river, departing with promises to check in and help in any way they could.

But from the way Tesla kept glancing at him, it was obvious he was letting it show. Children were always achingly honest, if you just knew where to look. Even Knives. Especially Knives. The hurt, the betrayal, the resentment, it was all there in the set of his eyes, the clench of his fists.

Knives, like always, worked to restrain himself; like always, it proved futile.)

The Diné women help. They uphold their promise to check in again, Asdza bringing her medicines and rituals that always have Tesla feeling better for a few days. Not for the first time, Knives is glad their home is so secluded. Here, on the edge of town, it’s quite easy to entertain their visitors without garnering too much attention.

Doba continues to accompany Asdza, most likely for safety, but always with the excuse of translating. By their third visit in just a few weeks, however, it’s clear that Asdza has no great need of Doba’s translating, not with Tesla’s terminal diagnosis out of the way. The older woman communicates well enough in simple terms, and it’s not like Tesla comments on anything other than the weather now and then.

No, Doba may not be needed, but she still comes. As the weeks turn to months, she starts to help around the house instead, tidying up and assisting Knives with tasks he’s too stubborn to admit he can’t do. She always asks what they need help with. When she notices how thin the boys are getting, she starts bringing food.

“You boys need to eat, to keep up your energy and grow big and strong.”

Knives takes one look at Vash’s gaunt cheeks and thin wrists and doesn’t reject her kindness.

She takes this as blanket permission to become the boys’ “caretaker” during the medical visits. She cooks for them, helps them clean, and, if they have extra time, patiently teaches them some of her language. Well, she takes time to teach Knives some of her language. Vash sits in with him on the lessons too, but seeing as he doesn’t speak, Knives can’t be sure how beneficial it is.

She’s useful, if nothing else. Knives doesn’t like it.

He tells himself time and time again that this woman isn’t Rem, because she’s not. Rem died centuries ago—or will die centuries from now?—and Rem was human, not a Plant. So this is not Rem.

But when she smiles, it’s so hauntingly similar he finds himself looking away. Her gentle tone as she patiently corrects Knives’ pronunciation floods his mind with memories, memories he thought long since buried. When, months down the line, she grows comfortable enough to reach out and mess up Knives’ hair with a fond laugh, Knives fights the awful urge to cry.

This is not Rem. This is Doba. But, when Doba brings a bushel of wildflowers to a lesson one day and mentions how the red blooms are her favorites, Knives thinks that maybe…maybe this is enough.

Tesla and Knives are out on the porch one night, gazing at the stars in silence. Vash is tucked in bed, soundly asleep. They’ve begun to do this now on nights when Tesla, and by extension Knives, can’t sleep. The stars settle them in ways that can’t be fully explained, except that it feels something like home up there.

In the stars they were born, and to the stars they will return.

“I was never meant to be long for any world, I think.”

Tesla breaks the silence with her gentle voice, but Knives feels their impact like a blow. No one knows how long Tesla has left to live. It’s been months now since the medicine woman’s prognosis. Knives still doesn’t know what to do about it.

Tesla looks at him and sighs. She’s smiling again when Knives looks up at her. She wraps an arm around him, not minding how he goes stiff under her touch, still averse to affection.

“You’ll be okay Nai, don’t make that face. I just want you to promise me one thing, alright?”

He gazes up at this woman and feels a wave of deep grief. This girl, whose first life was cut so traumatically short. This girl, who was reborn into a world, alone, to fend for herself all over again. This woman, who carried and birthed them and played at mother for years. Except, it was never a play, was it? Tesla was, is, a mother, in all the ways that count. And Knives… Nai can do so much better by her.

Nai stares up into her dimming green eyes and nods. “What is it?”

Tesla’s smile softens into something more real, and it’s only then that Nai realizes how fake some of them have been. His chest tightens.

“I want you to promise me that if something goes wrong, if you’re ever in trouble or if something happens to me, you won’t go to the settlers. Go to the Diné instead. To Asdza and Doba.”

Nai doesn’t fight her but his skepticism must show. Sure, the women have been kind to them, but they’d still be outsiders, and in more ways than one.

“Trust me, they’ll take better care of you than any of the settlers would.”

“I don’t understand. Is there a Plant with the Diné?”

After all, humans are humans at the end of the day. Whether Nai ended up alone with the settlers or with the Diné, there wouldn’t be too much of a marked difference. There are others in the settlement, some of the other mothers, that treat them with a similar kindness and care that Doba and Asdza do.

Tesla hums. “How do I put this? No, there’s no Plant there, as far as I know. But when I talk to Asdza… When she looks at me, it’s like she sees me.”

Nai frowns. He has no idea what she’s talking about. Tesla sees this and laughs lightly. It tinkles, a musical sound, in the chill night air. She tugs him a little closer and he forces himself to relax.

“Do you know what she calls me now?” When Nai doesn’t answer she smiles, a secret thing. “She calls me Dilyéhé.”

Nai digs through his memory for the meaning of the word, but it proves futile. Doba just started language with them recently. He doesn’t know what it means. That’s fine. Tesla fills him in soon enough.

“It’s their name for a constellation, what we call the Seven Sisters, or the Pleiades.” Tesla sighs and gazes up at the heavens once more. “She sees me and she knows I don’t belong here. I belong to the stars. There I was born, there I died. And there is where my soul is being called once more.”

Silence hangs between them. Nai doesn’t know how to feel about that. Her soul is being called to the stars? Is that Tesla’s reason for not fearing death, for smiling in the face of inevitability? He doesn’t know if he thinks her strong or thinks her simple for it. He decides he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter what he thinks.

Tesla sighs and seems to come back to herself. She looks down at Nai and jostles him gently.

“They see me, and I know they’ll see you too. So go to them. Promise me.”

Nai still isn’t sure if he believes her, but still he answers:

“I promise.”

Tesla is pleased by this and they proceed to sit and stargaze in comfortable silence. Nai does his best to relax in her embrace. Lord knows she could use the comfort. But still, the action feels awkward. Stifling. He can’t help but feel that this is wrong somehow. That he’s dirty, unworthy of her affection. After all he’s done, does he truly deserve to live in peace?

Perhaps not, but Tesla does. Tesla deserves it, so he can make himself give in for once.

It’s many minutes, maybe hours, later when Tesla breaks the silence again. She hums, that musical note of contemplation, and creates some space so she can look down at Nai again. The earnest, dreamy look in her green eyes beckons to him, has him ready to bend to her every whim.

“Tell me that story again,” she asks, “about the SEEDS ships. About that train and a blank ticket.”

Nai does as he’s told.

It is then after that he fully, truly mourns her. Mourns her in a way that isn’t wholly unfamiliar, but also markedly different. It’s more solemn this time around, free of the retaliatory rage and heavy with true sorrow.

Nai wonders what’s changed. Perhaps now he’s mourning the loss of a person more than the loss of an idea. Perhaps it’s the years they got to spend together, and not just quiet nights spent alone in fear.

Nai sits and he wonders about all the things that’ve changed in this lifetime. He doesn’t for a second think about how he himself might have changed.

Nai is seven years old and essentially an orphan when Vash falls ill. Terribly ill. Ill in a way Nai has never seen him get, in this lifetime or the past.

His eyes are constantly dilated, black with a thin blue ring. He’s pale and his body shivers, but Nai can feel the building heat of a fever starting up. More than that, he’s almost completely unresponsive, ignoring Nai completely as he stares at a wall or the ceiling, eyes glazed and empty.

Tesla, barely clinging to life herself, just smiles when he tells her.

“I was so afraid to leave you alone, Nai, but everything is going to be okay now.”

Nai is confused, clinging to Tesla’s frail hand as she catches her breath. It’s so hard for her to speak nowadays. He hasn’t wanted to admit it, but every morning that he wakes up and finds her still breathing, he’s dreadfully surprised.

“Nai. Nai listen to me,” she pleads in her strained whisper. Nai leans forward, showing his attention. “Do you remember the way to the village, to Asdza-sání?”

Nai nods. They’ve only been there once, sure, but it isn’t difficult to find. Just travel downstream enough, find the markings in the earth Doba’s talked about. He nods and dread fills his belly, anticipating Tesla’s next words.

“Good.” She smiles. “Get your brother up while he can still walk and go to them. Go, and don’t look back.”

He expected the words, truly he did, but still they take him aback. Nai shakes his head, clinging to Tesla’s hand. It’s so thin, so frail. Even in his distress, Nai is careful not to squeeze too hard for fear of hurting her.

“I don’t understand. Tesla, I’ll just bring amá-sání back here,” he pleads, even though he knows it’s useless.

“No, you must go,” she insists. She takes a few breaths before continuing, resolve as strong as ever. “This isn’t a simple fever. Vash will need to recover someplace safe. Call it a mother’s intuition, won’t you?”

Nai knows what this is. This is a goodbye, isn’t it? Tesla has been barely holding on for so long now. If Nai leaves, abides by her wishes and takes Vash, she probably won’t make it through the night. He thought he’d come to terms with this already, but he still feels tears welling up, though he wills them not to fall.

“I’ll go. But what about you?” Nai can’t help but ask.

Tesla smiles, bright and genuine, and lifts trembling fingers to caress his cheek. He feels a tear slip free. Tesla catches it.

“Take your brother and leave me, Nai. I’ll have the stars for company soon enough.”

With that, she lets her hand drop, exhausted. Nai misses its warmth immediately. Her eyelids flutter and her breath grows faint, the tell-tale sign she’s falling asleep. Tesla sleeps so much these days. In the pseudo-privacy he’s been given, Nai lets his tears fall.

They shake through him, quietly at first, then violently, harsh jerks of his shoulders as he chokes back sobs. He leans forward, resting his head on Tesla’s chest, taking in the scent of herbs and sickness that’s become the norm in the past few months; but underneath that is the scent of something warmer. The scent of familiarity and comfort, a scent Nai’s sure he’ll never forget: the scent of a mother.

He startles when thin arms wrap around him. Even still, Tesla offers comfort, even in her addled, half-conscious state. Nai returns the embrace in a way he never has, but maybe should’ve. He holds her tightly, clings as if he’s afraid to let go, and he is. Because when he lets go, he’ll have to leave. So Nai holds her, close and warm, even as her arms go slack, breath shallow with sleep.

Nai holds her, presses his face into her bosom, and murmurs his parting words, unsure if she can even hear them, but knowing she will. There’s a whispered, “thank you” and then an “I’m sorry.” These are the closest words he has for “I love you.”

Nai leaves that night with his fever-dazed brother and a simple pack of belongings.

He’s wandered a wilderness before, harsh wilderness, with no hope of life without the touch of Plants. This is nothing compared to that. There is no blazing heat of suns, no vast expanse of nothingness to drive one mad. There’s greenery and gentle moonlight, and a river he follows downstream to the Diné.

But his body here is smaller and so much softer. Weaker. Human. It’s what he is, what he’s been for at least seven years now. Human: small and fragile and oh so mortal.

It’s all Vash ever wanted and everything Knives resented. He would think, most nights, that perhaps that’s why he was brought here. Here, back to Earth, to the birth of humanity to live the same mistakes as them all. He would think and wonder and conclude that perhaps this was all a divine punishment for his sins. Nowadays, he’s not so sure.

Vash trips over his feet and doesn’t stand again. Nai puts a hand—small, small hand—on his forehead and grimaces. His fever is getting worse.

Even if this is divine punishment, Nai will take it. But, more often than not these days, he desperately reaches for the hope buried deep in heart. Hope that, perhaps, this is instead a path to atonement. A way to make things right somehow.

This is his blank ticket.

Vash can’t walk anymore. He stays collapsed on the ground, breathing labored and face flushed. Nai kneels before him, hands touching his mirror image, and tries not to cry. With some quick adjustments, Nai gets Vash lifted onto his back and starts walking again.

“Please Vash. Don’t leave me again. It’ll be better this time. I’ll be better this time, I promise.”

He murmurs gentle words and desperate promises all through the night, until his voice runs hoarse. His brother is a brand of heat against his back, heavy despite how underweight he is. Not unlike a cross that Nai must bear; if this will bring deliverance, then he’ll gladly bear it.

Nai reaches the Diné just as dawn begins to color the sky. He worries for a moment that the village is still asleep, that no one will help. But then he sees a few people at the outskirts giving him wary looks. Vash is so heavy; his knees threaten to buckle.

He does his best to croak a greeting, one of the many simple phrases he learned since Tesla fell ill. That goes a long way to assuage their wariness.

“Help,” he tries, the words clumsy on his tongue. “My brother, help.”

Vash shudders in his arms, sweating profusely from the fever. Nai fights to keep his grip.

Some of the villagers approach and one of them lights up with recognition. True, they hadn’t been back to the village since that fateful day at the river, but surely whispers spread about the white woman and her twins that Asdza-sání goes to visit.

The woman approaches without fear after sending someone else off, and Nai feels a little bad for not recognizing her. He can only guess she was one of the women at the river. She crouches by his side and looks over Vash with a worried face.

She makes a move as if to take Vash from him, and Nai can’t help it: he jerks away from her touch. His heart races with panic, even as his mind recognizes she means no harm. The woman backs off, uncertain, but doesn’t leave him completely. Nai is shaking from the effort to stay standing, but he can’t let just anyone take Vash from him, he can’t.

“Ah, if it isn’t sání-kii.”

Nai can’t help the flood of relief upon the familiar woman’s appearance. Asdza parts the crowd that’s gathered around him—Nai hadn’t even noticed they’d gathered a crowd. He turns to the medicine woman and eyes he thought long since dry well with tears once more.

“Please help, amá-sání, please.”

Asdza kneels next to him, wisened eyes taking note of Vash on his back, and the absence of someone quite important.

“Your mother?”

Nai shakes his head, fighting back tears. A wrinkled hand passes through his matted hair. The weight of his brother is lifted away. Asdza may be old, but she’s strong. Nai follows her on unsteady legs, ignoring the looks from the other villagers. He can feel their stares, the sensation of feeling like a specimen under a microscope. He should be used to it. Even here, as a human among humans, he could never escape the otherness that clings to him like a second skin.

He looks up at some point, unable to stand the piercing sting of the villagers’ eyes. But what he finds is something completely different. Sure, the villagers stare, but it is curiosity and worry which lights their eyes. There’s no hostility this time, no wariness or alienation. The women smile sadly when he meets their eyes. The other children wave shyly. Nai keeps walking, head down, unsure how to react.

He’s relieved when they reach Asdza’s abode, finally shielded from their strangely kind eyes. Together, they get Vash settled onto a mat and Asdza begins gathering her supplies. Nai sits patiently at Vash’s side, combing back some of his damp blond hair. Vash groans at the touch, lips moving as if he wants to speak. Nai leans closer, desperate to hear any words, anything to give him hope. Nothing.

“Give him space, sání-kii.”

Sání-kii. It’s what Asdza has taken to calling him. It’s a clever nickname, a paradox that took Nai some time to translate on his own. But it rings true: he is an ancient soul trapped in this little body. Maybe Nai shouldn’t have been so skeptical of Tesla when she claimed Asdza could “see” her. Nai always felt like the older woman could peer straight through him as well.

Nai forces himself to stay calm, to sit quietly and patiently as Asdza gathers some herbs to crush and burn. The fragrant smoke is comforting, at least, but in a way that makes his heart ache. It’s the same smell that clung to Tesla. Nai puts it out of his mind; right now, he needs to worry about Vash.

There’s a long, contemplative silence as Asdza stares down at Vash, fingers on his pulse. Nai is practically vibrating in his skin with anxiety.

Finally, she lets out a deep breath and sits up with a nod. She picks up some other herbs and begins to put them in a pot to boil. When still she does not speak, Nai’s patience crumbles.

“What’s wrong with him, amá-sání?”

Asdza shakes her head with a rue smile. “Nothing is wrong.”

Nai stares at her unblinkingly. He glances back down at his ill brother, burning with fever and delirious. He looks back up at her, the picture of flabbergasted. Asdza has the nerve to laugh at him.

“Smile, Nai. Your brother’s soul is coming home.”

Nai’s heart skips a beat then races at the implications. But he smothers his hope soon enough. Sure, Asdza’s English has much improved in the past months, but it’s far from perfect. This could just be an error of translation. Where’s Doba? If Doba were here, then Nai could be sure. He… he trusts Doba. He instantly wants her here, needs her here. The admittance itself frightens him.

Vash’s soul is coming home. Could it actually be that he’s reached his end on Noman’s Land? That something or someone finally got the best of his brother, and the strange power that brought Nai here will actually bring Vash too?

He dares not cling to hope, but that hope is all he has now.

Asdza finishes brewing her herbs and pours some out. She soaks a cloth with the mixture and places it on Vash’s chest, then another on his forehead. Vash stops shaking as much, his breath coming a bit easier. Asdza directs him to change out the cloths every few hours or so, and to try and get Vash to drink some tea if he can. With that, she stands to take her leave, and Nai stares pitifully up at her. She sighs and offers him some final words.

“There’s not much else to do, yázhí. He must make the voyage himself. It is only a matter of time.”

Time. Well, Nai has nothing but time now. With Tesla gone and Vash in limbo, what else can he do but wait? So Nai crosses his legs, makes himself comfortable, and waits.

Vash sleeps continuously, not even waking to eat or drink. Nai stays by his bedside constantly, wetting his lips with tea and water so he at least won’t dehydrate. Asdza checks on him every morning and every night, but the result is the same.

He just needs more time.

Nai waits and waits and waits for Vash to awaken. Sometimes—most of the time—he’s alone. Alone in this cloying room, rich with the scent of herbs and sweat and desperation.

But sometimes, he’s not alone. Sometimes, when she has time, Doba stops in and sits with him. Sits and sings and tends to Vash as well. Nai asks her to teach him a song. She does. They sing together and they wait.

Vash’s fever breaks on the fifth day. Nai is waiting by his side, carefully wiping the sweat off his brow, so he can feel when his body temperature finally drops. Vash gasps and his eyes flutter. Something in the air shifts. Nai leans closer, close enough to feel the intense heat start to diminish. The air hums with tension and a strange energy. Nai dares to whisper his name in a broken tone, feeling like he’s on a precipice. And then, nothing.

Vash doesn’t wake up. He takes a deep breath, and continues sleeping, as if nothing changed. Nai hovers over him for moments longer, breath hitching and eyes burning. One tear falls, then another. Nai rests his head on Vash’s sternum, feels the even rise and fall of his breathing, and cries.

It almost breaks him. In all honesty, it probably would’ve, had Doba not chosen that moment to visit him. She enters the room with a warm greeting that Nai doesn’t hear; he only becomes aware of her presence as she wraps a warm arm around his shaking form.

He startles at the touch and looks up, face a mess of tears and snot. She takes one look at his face and opens her arms fully. An offer, not an obligation. Nai makes a choice. Nai goes to her.

For the first time in a long, long time, he lets himself feel safe in someone’s arms again.

(“Where will you go when your brother wakes?”

Doba asks him this one night as he picks at his dinner. His appetite has been atrocious since he’s gotten here, but he knows he must eat. Doba does her best to encourage him, cutting him pieces of fresh fruit when he doesn’t eat the usual food Asdza brings him.

“I don’t know,” Nai whispers. “We have no one in this world now…”

Despite Tesla’s warnings, Nai had gone back to their home, just once. Just to check. Tesla had been long gone. Whether the settlers found and buried her, or she just vanished into thin air, Nai doesn’t know. There’s a patch of wildflowers blooming in their abandoned backyard. Nai isn’t sure, but he likes to believe…

“That is not true.”

Doba’s firm response knocks him out of his head. He looks up at her curiously and she smiles down at him fondly. His heart flutters at the sight. Doba reaches down and caresses his cheek, right over his beauty mark. It’s become a habit of hers. Nai’s done nothing to discourage it.

“You have me,” she answers softly but firmly. “Won’t you stay with me, Nai? Both of you?”

Nai holds her tighter than ever.)

Countless days later—so many so that Nai has stopped counting—Nai wakes one morning to a pained groan. It’s easy enough to ignore, sleep still dragging him down. But then he hears it again. And again. And then, he hears a voice.

“Oh my God, why am I so hungry?”

Nai stops breathing, instantly awake, alert as if he’s just been doused in ice water. His heart is racing at the sound of that familiar voice, a voice he feared he’d never hear again. Then, it’s quiet again. Nai breathes again, controlled, in and out. Did he imagine that just now? It wouldn’t be the first time. He tries to relax even as he knows he won’t fall asleep again. But then, there’s movement.

The blankets shift as Nai stays stiffly curled on his side, too scared to turn around, to open his eyes and be met with nothing. It would hurt too much to hope and then find out this is all just a dream.

The bedding continues to be tossed about clumsily, as if Vash is struggling to get free of his cocoon. Vash doesn’t thrash about in his sleep, not like this. It’s been several nights now that they’ve slept side by side again, ever since they moved Vash into Doba’s home to free up Asdza’s medical area. Vash, after all, isn’t sick anymore, just perpetually asleep. Unless he's finally woken up? Nai is ready to dismiss this vain hope until Vash speaks again.

“Where am I…?”

The hints of wonder and confusion in Vash’s voice is so real, nothing like the muddy memory Nai often dreams of. His heart is racing but he doesn’t dare move. Suddenly, a hand lands on his shoulder and he sucks in a deep breath.

He clenches his eyes shut. He can’t wake up from this, he can’t. It’ll break him, he’s sure of it.

“Knives?”

The way Vash whispers his name, hesitant yet hopeful yet so full of fear, quite accurately reflects what Nai is feeling right now. That hand on his shoulder starts to travel, trembling as it trails up his neck, over his ear, then combs through Nai’s hair, parting it to better reveal his profile. This, too, feels so achingly real. Nai can almost, almost let himself believe it. But still, he clings to the safety net belief that this is all a dream. It’ll hurt less that way.

Vash’s breathing is so loud, it shudders through the dark room. He can hear the way it hitches, how it gets faster and shallower as the hand in his hair pulls away.

“Knives? Is that you? Wake up.”

Ah, this is it, right? The part where Vash disappears and Nai wakes up?

But instead, the hand returns, gripping his shoulder like a brand. The hand starts to shake him, a gentle jostle at first, then harder and harder as he gets no reaction. Nai gasps as that hand grips and pulls, dragging him over until he’s sprawled on his back. And even still he keeps his eyes shut, clenched tight, not even feigning sleep.

“Nai?”

Vash’s voice trembles in a way that makes Nai’s heart shake, but still he does not open his eyes. Not until moisture hits his face, tears that are not his own streaking his cheeks. Nai blinks his eyes open and—

Vash. It’s Vash, staring down at him with those awful big, blue eyes. They shimmer with fresh tears, spilling over in a steady stream, over his flushed cheeks and chapped lips. Nai can’t help it. He starts to cry too.

“Nai, where are we? What is this?” Vash’s voice shakes with restrained emotion and Nai finally feels it. Nai finally knows.

This is real.

He can feel it deep within, that aching part of him finally becoming whole. Nai quirks a shy smile, reaches up to wipe away Vash’s tears, thumbing over his mirror beauty mark. Vash tracks the movement with something that looks like wonder, as if he too can’t believe this is real. As if he, too, believes all this might just be a dream.

Nai has so much to tell him, so much to ask him. But that can come later. They have time now, a second chance now. Right now, Nai really only wants one thing. He can only assume it’s also what Vash needs.

Nai wraps his arms around Vash’s neck and pulls him into a tight embrace. Vash can hardly fight it, still weak as he is. But he returns the hug, squeezing with equal force, face tucking into Nai’s neck like he often did as a child. Like he’ll often do, hopefully, seeing as they’re children again. Nai chuckles past the tears, presses his cheek to the top of Vash’s head, and whispers in teasing admonishment:

“What took you so long, Vash?”