Chapter Text
Age Eleven
The sky was red now. It would always be red, from now until the end of forever. For all of eternity the sky would be red to serve as a reminder for the grievance he had committed. His reminder. His penance.
It’s been 2 months.
Lark kicks a rock and sends it skittering down the sidewalk. It hits a crack in the pavement funny, which sends it soaring up into the air. When it lands, it bounces wildly until it settles, nestled in the grass at the side of the pavement. He wasn’t allowed to be out on his own like this, technically, but Father was over at Grant’s dad’s house, meeting with the other Dads. His mother was busy trying out a new recipe she’s found for vegan crème brûlée, and would be occupied for hours. Slipping out unseen was hardly even a test of his skills. Sparrow had been in the shower, and even though it caused a pang in his chest to leave without saying anything to him, he needed to be outside and he didn’t want to wait around.
Sparrow was the only one who really understood even a modicum of what he was going through. He hadn’t been the one to drive the blade into Father’s flesh, but he had been party to the ploy. He had felt the same nausea-ridden turmoil rip through his body as the three of them vomited static into the world. He wasn’t sure if Sparrow felt guilty. He said he did. He said the two of them shared the guilt, so Lark didn’t have to carry it alone. And Lark was choosing to trust that. But secretly, he wasn’t sure Sparrow understood the gravity of his lingering resentment towards Father even now. He felt so much hatred inside him, and on any given day it was difficult to tease out how much of it was directed at Henry, and how much was directed at himself.
Lark came upon the rock again. Red sky for the red blood he’d spilled down his father’s back which he didn’t even regret because his own red heart had so much red anger--
Step up, toes pointed down, bend the knee. Lark kicks, imagining the center of his shoe laces and where they would hit a soccer ball. Swing, follow through. His toe picks up the rock and sends it careening down the path until he can’t even tell where it’s landed. He stands and breathes, hoping for some sort of catharsis which might abate him of this feeling in his chest.
Would he were so lucky.
His shoulders drop. He stares, stone-faced, down the sidewalk. It seems a monumental and pointless task to continue down this avenue, seeing as his entertainment has been lost. He has no choice but to find another outlet.
He looks around, considering. Mrs. Luttle has some neatly growing petunias which he could wreak havoc on. He thinks about soil and grit under his fingernails, long nights under the Faerun stars, sweaty and wild and ecstatic. Then he remembers the tacky feeling of dried blood under his nails, in the creases between his fingers. The pink runoff against the white lacquer of the bathroom sink as his mother worked to wash his hands for him, whispering hurriedly “ Va a estar bien, mijo. Tu estas bien, no fue tu culpa. Solo respira, cariño--”
Lark sniffs, turns to look across the street. Something else then. He and Sparrow had given up punching trees after Erin O’Neil had threatened to turn them into mulch when she learned of their habit, which in theory sounded like a very cool and grotesque thing to happen, but in practice they deemed it lame, as it would mean they could no longer do things like play violent video games or trick Father into buying sugar cereal from the store. He heads toward the park.
It didn’t take long for people to acclimate to the new world. The first week had been chaos, of course. Every news station and every person on the street talking like it was the end times. And who could blame them? It probably was. Their dads certainly hadn’t know what the new world order would mean. For a week, Father and Mother had kept them huddled inside, on high alert, certain that the Doodler being unleashed in their world would mean that the monsters they’d come across in Faerun would be able to run amuck here, too. Lark remembers the hard-set brow of his father, fierce and determined in a way he’d scarcely seen before, his tense jaw, his confident hands as he cast abjurative magics on the house to ward off whatever might be waiting for them.
Why won’t you let us help, he had thought. We have seen just as much as you, we are just as capable.
He and Sparrow had been relentless in their efforts to get Father to teach them how to fight. How to cast magic. How to do anything. They knew how to fight, of course, but only in the way children fought, ignorant and inexperienced. They needed to know real combat.
Boys, it’s just not the time right now, okay? I need you to listen to me and just stay safe for right now, and we’ll talk about this later.
Lark passes through the little metal gate into the park. A handful of kids run around the colorful playground equipment, their parents sitting with watchful eyes on benches nearby, or holding their hands as they navigate treacherous obstacles. A few adults cast an eye his way, and he can only hope it's because he looks suspicious or dangerous. In reality, he knows they see him as a child. They’re wondering where his parents are. A child shouldn’t be walking out in all this alone, not anymore.
Lark finds a spot away from the main park, a tree with a little wooden picnic table under it, and sits on the ground. He crosses his legs, and something in him compels him to close his eyes, to try breathing smoothly and evenly like Father always tried to teach him and Sparrow.
The art of meditation is an ancient practice, boys, and if you ask me that’s pretty ‘epic!' It regulates the nervous system, it clears your mind, it does all sorts of neat stuff that's good for your mind and your body.
Lark breathes in, counts, breathes out. He feels the irritation rising in his chest. Breath in….
Hen, you’re overreacting again, come on, come on. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose…out from the mouth.
Their grandfather’s condescending tone replays in his mind. Lark breaths out harshly through his nose, like a dragon blowing smoke into the air. What was it Nicky had said when they all got back? He’d been talking about how seeing Glenn interact with his dad reminded him of how he interacted with Glenn.
We’re all just different iterations of each other in different ways. Like, just imagine my grandfather is my dad, and my dad is me. It’s the same as if my dad was my dad, and I was me. It’s all the same. It just loops, over and over again. And if I ever have a kid, I’m gonna be my dad, and my kid is gonna be me, I bet.
He had been high at the time, though. So maybe he didn't know what he was talking about.
But when Lark thinks back to Oakvale, to seeing the righteous indignation on Father’s face while Barry spoke calm platitudes…he saw himself in that anger on his father's face. Suddenly, he understood where it came from. He had seen Henry in Barry’s calm facade. Maybe Nicky was onto something.
Lark starts ripping up handfuls of grass.
“Brother!”
Sparrow’s voice carries over the park as Lark sprinkles his latest handful of grass onto his bare legs. His chest lightens immediately. Sparrow has spotted him and comes jogging over, a grin plastered on his face. Lark’s own mouth begins to pull in an effort to mirror it, out of instinct. He’s seen Terry Jr.’s face when he draws, sometimes emoting subtly to reflect the face he’s trying to draw. Lark wonders if that’s what happens when he and Sparrow see each other.
“Your escape was formidable. The bedroom window showed no signs of egress, and Mother remains none the wiser,” Sparrow says as he plops down next to Lark. Seeing the activity of the hour, he rips up a handful of grass and sprinkles it over Lark’s legs to add to the effort.
“We should go back within the hour if we want to evade punishment,” Lark murmurs.
Sparrow nods, acknowledging the wisdom there. They spend a minute or two picking at the grass, sprinkling it over Lark’s legs, arranging the blades into shapes against his tan skin. Eventually Lark speaks up:
“Have you spoken to Father about training?”
Sparrow’s mouth twists, his eyebrows furrow. “No. It’s not the right time. If we’re to be successful, we must wait until an occasion of celebration or, barring that, of pity. Our chance of success will increase if Father wants to abate us, or reward us for something.”
Lark hums, nodding thoughtfully. Sparrow makes a good point. But he wants to learn now.
“Grant is taking archery lessons,” Sparrow says.
“His father believes in being prepared.”
“Perhaps if we frame it as another form of extracurricular? Like soccer!”
“Perhaps…” Lark grumbles, sweeping his palm over his thighs to brush the grass back onto the ground. He lets out a loud, dramatic groan that comes from deep in his chest and falls onto his back. He throws an arm over his eyes so he doesn’t have to look up at the sky.
He listens to the little kids on the playground scream and laugh. Hadn’t he been one of those kids not so long ago? Now he just wanted to sleep. Or hit something. If he thought about it too hard it made tears prick at his eyes.
“Brother?” Sparrow's voice was quite and low. A voice reserved just for the two of them.
Lark hums in response to show that he is listening. Sparrow is quiet for a minute, and Lark can feel him thinking, probably picking at the grass or tracing over the name inked into his arm, the twin to his own tattoo.
“Has Father spoken to you about talking to someone?”
“I don’t care who Father talks to,” Lark says into the black space of his arm.
There’s another hesitance, which makes Lark’s hackles raise slightly. It’s not often the two of them hesitate to tell each other something. He sits and waits, knowing that Sparrow will not hold it back even if he is unsure.
“I mean, about you--us--talking to someone.”
Lark lifts his arm an inch so he can look at his brother. “Talk to who?”
Sparrow looks off to the side, with a bit of irritation. “A therapist…”
Lark sits up too fast, a spike of anger lancing through him. “Like Grant ?”
“And Terry Jr.”
“Terry Jr. doesn’t see a therapist.”
Sparrow nods. “He mentioned it to me in confidence. Don’t let him know I told you.”
Lark nods as an afterthought. A therapist. Even his mind says it with vitriol. What would he even talk to a therapist about?
“Father says they’ve found someone who knows about Faerun, their clientele are exclusively people who know about magic,” Sparrow says, as if sensing his thoughts.
Lark glances at him. “So he has talked to you about this?”
Sparrow looks guilty, but nods. Lark wonders how long ago this was. “He thought if I were to broach the subject with you, that you might be more willing to consider it.”
Lark snorts derisively. Typical Father, trying to use their love for each other to get his own way. Lark picks at one of his nails.
“I don’t need to talk to anyone. I have you.” Sparrow smiles. Lark mirrors him. “And we have the others we can talk to. They would understand better than any stranger would.”
Sparrow gets a sour look on his face. “Father says we should talk to a professional…that it’s not always good to just talk to friends.”
“Father used to sun his butt hole for all the world to see.”
Sparrow laughs at this, a bright, loud noise that gets them a couple of dirty looks form the adults at the playground. Sparrow shifts, shuffling in the grass so that he sits next to Lark instead of across from him. He leans his head onto Lark’s shoulder.
“I might do it…”
Lark looks at him, nose wrinkling. “Why?”
Sparrow shrugs. “Grant says it helps. Sometimes.”
Lark chews the inside of his lip. Of all the kids, Grant is the one he respects the most. He showed real power while in the Forgotten Realms, which he and Sparrow both thought was pretty metal. Once they returned, once…everything happened, Grant seemed to be the one who most closely understood what Lark felt. Anger. Emptiness. But Grant hadn’t doomed the world. Grant hadn’t stabbed his dad.
“I think I’m done talking about this for now,” Lark says, keeping his eyes trained down at his hands.
“Okay,” Sparrow concedes.
There is a weight in his chest that he doesn’t know what to do with. He wants to pick it out of his chest like a fruit and hurl it through the nearest window. He wants to chew it up and swallow it again, make it easier to digest. Sparrow’s hand comes up to rest on his back, running up and down the length of his spine in a soothing, familiar motion. Lark chews at the soft skin inside his cheek.
Who needs a therapist, anyways.