Chapter Text
"Can you hear it hanging on the wind?
Can you feel it underneath your skin?
You've got to go on, further than you've ever gone
You've got to run far from all you've ever known."
--- The Oh Hellos (Second Child, Restless Child)
*****
A full moon hangs in the blank night sky over Frank’s head, large as a saucer. He isn’t too fond of it; it’s a little harder to blend with shadows with it, but it also makes them easier to find.
He quietly sits on a sturdy trunk of a tree that has grown a mile across from the edge of a high cliff, overseeing the dense forest below with a sprig between his lips. His eyes are locked on a distant trail of lamplights in the distance, which slowly approach towards his plain sight, and eventually reel into view along a clearer trail.
Four lights. Four caravans. And a scanty bunch of men.
Frank snickers, smirking around the sprig. ‘Now what could this one be?’
He puts his boots on the trunk and stands up, the trunk wobbling lightly at the weight. The chains dangling from his hip clatter at the action. The wind picks up and shuffles the leaves, blending with the hoots and chirps echoing in the forest below.
Frank spits the sprig out and gazes skywards. Slowly, he shifts backwards, the moon flipping into plain sight, and free falls into the forest.
Midway, he draws his chain-sickle, spins one of the sickles by the chain, and thatches it up to the branch with vigorous grace. It latches, and he swings across and high up. He pulls the chain, tearing the sickle out from the trunk, and thatches it on another trunk protruding from the lower face of the cliff.
As he swings forth, he gears for the cliff and runs his feet along it, retrieves the sickle again and launches into the forest proper. He swings along a couple more tree branches, before finding a lower one, monkey-swings upwards and lands on it. He backs off into the shadows of the canopy.
The caravans creep into clearer sight into the trail. The chocobos dragging them across look skinny, sad and dirty, lacking the fancy armor that typically goes along with a heavy-duty vehicle. The men on the driver seats then come into clearer view. As much as their lamplights can show, they don’t seem to be wearing any heavy duty gear either. But typical commoners don’t wade into the forest at night with masks on.
That only means one thing. They’re here to hide as well.
The trail eventually goes past, silent.
Frank keeps his sickles and follows suit in the trees.
*
The caravans round up in a clearing, and the drivers dismount to screen the area. Several more men in bandanna masks— a total of nine— spill out of the vehicles, undoing their stuffy covers and basking in the cold night air with disgruntled noises.
“All right, assholes, your turn for guard duty,” one of the drivers demands. “Gotta make sure none of those scouts catch us where we are.”
A few groans from the group. The said driver points his gaze at one of them in the crowd. “Ziris.”
“Huh? Seriously?” A gruff-looking youth with a bandanna grumbles back.
“You already had your doze at the last stop. You keep watch."
Ziris rolls his eyes while scratching his neck. “Why is it always me? I already stood watch the other two times. Pick someone else. I’m damn tired.”
“Then pick a dog out of the others or something. My butt’s been itching the entire ride,” the driver stretches and yawns, heading for the back of the caravan. “You all do some screening or shit. Wouldn’t want any critters creeping up on our trade.”
The others start to spread out, all muttering and sighing about body ache and fatigue. Ziris just sighs and ruffles his hair in exasperation. His eye then lands on the lanky young man standing close to him and rubbing his eye.
“Lucas,” he calls. The youth turns his head. “Help me watch over this junk. You’re not getting any sleep tonight.”
The youth, Lucas, gives him a hesitant look. “But I already kept watch earlier at the last stop.”
“What do I care? Didn’t you say you would help me out in any way? Now you complain?" Ziris glares at him.
Lucas stiffens, then drops his shoulders in defeat. “Fine. I understand.”
Ziris scoffs and starts to walk off to the other caravans, grumbling. “That dirty sucker bossing me around like this…”
The chocobo of the front caravan cracks a sudden “wark!”, startling him. He scowls and waves the bird off. “Shut it, Chickenfeet!”
The chocobo squawks again.
“Pipe down! No more Dead Peppers for you!” Ziris berates and marches off grumpily, leaving the chocobo shifting in its feet crankily.
A while has gone past and the gang gathers back up. Later, the clearing falls into silence, the men holed up in the backs of the old caravans and the chocobos slumbering on their feet, still tied on their harnesses.
“Chickenfeet” nests on his spot before his caravan, nodding his head as he struggles to stay awake. A light noise in the bushes startles him out of his trance, and suddenly an open pouch is tossed to his feet. Curious, he slips his beak into its contents, smelling peppers. Those peppers. He feasts on them right away.
After gobbling the whole thing up, the chocobo then whirls his head about like a broken toy key, manic. Then he transfixes on the bushes, where a bigger bag is held out in an enticing shake.
“Here, here, little chocobo~~” a whisper tempts from the bushes. “You want it? Come and get it~~”
Chickenfeet locks on like a hawk, and steps forth out of his perch. The person with the bag then scoots into the trees. The bird takes a couple more strides, slowly at first, then frantic after. The caravan tugs along as it goes, wheels creaking into motion.
Ziris startles at the noise. “What the?” He springs up from his seat on top of one of the three other caravans. Lucas does the same in surprise.
The caravan races mad into the bushes, fading in seconds.
“Hey! Come back here!” Ziris jumps off the roof and gives chase. Lucas follows him to the ground, looking torn, until Ziris throws him a look, “You! Wake everyone up! One of the hauls’ getting away!”
*
Frank dashes through the trees and bushes, the bag of peppers in his grasp. The chocobo follows close behind, its caravan haphazardly tracking along the clunky forest floor.
Frank then spots a thick trunk, runs up along it and launches into the air in a somersault. He lands smoothly on the roof of the caravan, ducking down to avoid hanging branches.
Panicked yelps and grunts sound from under the roof.
“Hey, what’s going on!? Why are we moving!? Ow!”
“It must be an ambush! Check out the front!”
Frank creeps to the front of the caravan and looks down the driver seat, where a guy from the gang earlier pokes his head out of the curtains, sporting a disheveled look.
“Hey stupid chicken! What the hell are you doing!? Stop!” the guy yells and scrambles into the driver seat, grabbing the reins and pulling them. Chickenfeet’s head reels back hard, wings flapping in panic, but the bird doesn’t stop its race.
Frank grasps the edge of the front arc and creeps to the side, latching on the upper corner.
“Why you little… I said stop!” The guy pulls out a crossbow from inside the caravan, pointing it at the bird.
Frank launches off the side and swings into the guy’s face with a rocket kick, throwing him to the ground below. He sets down on the driver seat, still holding the edges of the front arc. The curtains open up in his face, and another gang lackey pokes out.
“Who the hell are—”
Frank grabs the guy’s hair and knees him in the ribs. A third lackey lunges with a dagger. Frank throws the second guy at him and the two men both hit the floor.
He steps into the caravan to see a fourth one coming. He parries the lackey’s knife with one of his sickles and knocks him up the chin and in the face with the butt of the other sickle.
The caravan jerks violently, throwing Frank’s balance off. He flails his arms in panic and flops on a pile of bags, feeling hard prickly stones on his bare forearms and palms.
Ooh. Warm to the touch.
Frank flicks his eyes up in panic and launches off of the bags, evading a slash, and hits his back on hard wood. He blocks a dagger with his chain.
The lackey snarls down at him, exerting force unsteadily. “You tailgating rat. You’re here to steal our haul, huh? Not on my watch!”
The caravan tilts into an abrupt curve, throwing everything to the side. The lackey shifts along and hits the wall with a grunt.
Soon as the caravan goes upright again, Frank shoots up and wraps the lackey’s armed wrist with the chain, sacks him hard in the gut with the sickle hilt, then yanks him across the space to the floor. The other two rise up to their knees and lunge.
Frank grabs the beam of the roof and launches his boots at their faces, toppling them off to the wooden block on the rear mouth of the caravan. The two then fly out into the forest trail screaming.
The last lackey strains to rise, but is then held up by the collar. Frank sneers at his face.
“You camped out in the wrong woods, pansy ,” He whispers in the guy’s ear and shoves him out of the rear. The guy dramatically topples off to space and rolls on the ground upon impact.
Frank then crouches down to the bags behind him and checks some of them out. A heap of colorful stones flashes in each of them.
Sweet.
The earth tremors, jerking the already rattling vehicle in repeated beats. Once. Twice.
Perturbed, Frank creeps out to the rear mouth. Squawking birds and flying beasts scamper out of the trees as a gigantic shadow with eyes of flame sprouts out. The thing marches with a thunderous step.
Funny. This forest never has giants that size. Where did that spectacle come from?
Frank hurries to the driver seat and claims the reins. “Come on, faster!” He yells and whips them.
The giant shadow looms over him as the race goes. It swings an arm down and scoops up acres of trees just by the tail of the caravan. Chickenfeet screeches hysterically and picks up pace.
Frank’s gaze locks in front. A cave lies in the distance, a tall substrate towering above it. This is it. The end of the woods.
Frank tosses the last bag of peppers at the chocobo, and it catches the prize with a practiced finesse without breaking its race. He whips the reins again and the vehicle launches near bullet speed.
The giant uproots a whole tree and throws it across space. Its shadow hovers over the caravan as it flies.
Chickenfeet delves into the cave seconds before the tree hits the entrance, blocking the moonlight out.
Frank squints through the immense darkness, fumbling in his pouch for a flare. Suddenly, the cave lights up in jade blue lights. He blinks, caught off guard, then marvels around in wide awe.
A thick spiral of glowing blue moss runs along the walls, ceiling and ground, dotted by patches of tiny spectral orbs which flurry past as the caravan stirs them in its path. Frank looks around, and lifts a hand to scoop up the orbs. He draws his hand back and sees the orbs linger on it and then flow into the breeze.
The brilliant cave becomes a forest again. This time, the moon hangs in full view overhead, smiling. The giant shadow has disappeared, the dense forested crater all behind him.
Frank throws his head back, cackling into the solemn night.
Alive. So freaking alive.
*
The caravan struts to a stop in the shadows of some trees, shielded from the moonlight.
Frank leans back with a relaxed sigh, the reins hanging loose on his hands. "Not so bad for a skinny guy, huh?" He throws a smirk at the chocobo, who is still chewing on the remains of the pepper bag. "Did they honestly call you Chickenfeet?"
The chocobo ticks its head, its beady eye facing Frank, the bag now reduced to shreds in its beak. Frank snorts at the funny sight as he fumbles into his pouch, drawing out a small crop. He holds it up with a little shake, earning the bird's stare.
"Bet you haven't slept for days with that high. Here you go," Frank smiles and tosses the crop across. The chocobo catches it neatly, munching it with the shredded bag along.
Frank does a stretch, then pulls his legs back, shifting into the back of the caravan. He finds a seat among the bags and flops his back on them. A wince twitches his face.
He tries shifting in place, seeking a comfy spot along the prickly surface of the bags.
Finding nothing, he just leans back, staring blankly at the low ceiling.
Shard bags make terrible pillows.
"Oh well."
Not long after, he snores in the silence.
A stormcloud looms over the woods that night.
A gale blows, silent, but cruel. Much cruelly that the trees all around cower in and shed their leaves, little by little, all the way to the last branch. A critter drops flat from the branches, followed by a bird or two, and many. They then shrivel and fade into the earth as quickly as they fell.
Soon, the gale mellows out. And the cloud flies by, fading into the skies as easily as it came.
*****
Dusk has never been darker outside Newark.
Gerard steps out of the tent, fully equipped and geared. The silent glades of the Bellaville border stretch in a dark expanse around him. A few stars are still left in the blank sky, sparse as the life shadowed beneath.
He struts down the small slope, where a mellow singing voice sounds. His boots crunch lightly on short grass as he goes.
"Softly
Sweetly
Wrapped up in heaven's arms
Sailing
Soaring
Over the moon
Gathering stardust…"
Gerard slows to a stop, looming behind a tall figure sitting on the grass. Up close, Mikey almost blends with the darkness, his voice soft as the cold air. He could disappear into the ambience if it wasn't for the little light glowing on his hand.
Mikey then falls silent, stopping at a hanging note, then puts the light down.
"You're up early," he says, not looking back. "Sunrise is still thirty minutes away."
"What are you doing this far out?" Gerard asks, trying not to sound accusatory.
Mikey shifts lightly in place, looking smaller in the dark. "Didn't want to disturb. You stayed watch last night, after all."
Gerard tilts his head. "Disturb?"
Mikey turns around and holds out the little light. Gerard stares down at it.
Elena's gem. The little sprout inside it pulsates with a yellowish light instead of emerald green, the tiny firefly dots coursing about like a sea of stardust.
"It can cast magic," Mikey says. "Kind of like a glowshard."
"What kind?" Gerard asks.
"Tranquil."
Gerard's brows crease. That's the calming magic Elena used to help him sleep soundly back in the day. "How did you know? Did you try to summon it?"
"No. It casted on its own." Mikey draws the gem back, dropping his gaze low. "I was… having a nightmare."
Gerard looks at his brother, noting the latter isn't wearing his glasses. Before Gerard left the tent, the sheets on Mikey's mat were crumpled, and his pillow felt wet.
For a second, Gerard is thrown back to a long, long past, in the dark little room of the old house. The feeling that something was once lingering there, but missing in sight. Damn. He was still five then.
Gerard sits down beside Mikey, and lets the silence hang for a while. "Do you still miss them?" He asks very gently.
"... When will I never? Their last stamp was only five years ago. They even said they'd be coming back in a month or two," Mikey says with a light shake of his head. "They have no idea they'll be coming back home to a wreckage soon."
Gerard folds his arms over his knees and rests his chin on them. "They don't even know how their mother and sons have been doing these past twenty years," he says with a bitter note.
The silence after that is heavy.
Gerard starts to feel a tinge of regret over what he just said. He doesn't mean to hate their parents for being absent for almost all their lives, but longing messes with the heart a lot. If either of them were to be bitter, it can be just him. Mikey doesn't need that kind of burden.
"You think we'll see them again at some point?" Mikey asks. "When we head for the North, I mean."
"... I don't know." Gerard isn't sure if he even wants to see them. "Maybe one day. Hopefully."
Mikey doesn't talk after that. Gerard holds him by the shoulder and gives a few soft taps, his gaze lingering off to the ground. A tiny firefly hovers along the short grass before his boot.
He blinks once, and for a moment the Spirit Willow is there, ghosting over a lone tree in the distance clustered upon by fireflies. Coreless, lightless. A mirage of what was once.
Gerard slips a glance at Mikey, then at the gem in his hand resting on his lap. It's still glowing, but not pulsating as much anymore. It has a more solemn wavelength now, matching quite well with Mikey's own.
A discerning look glints in Gerard's eye. "You carry that gem," he says.
Mikey's eyes reel to him. "Me?"
Gerard shrugs. "Can't risk losing it myself. I already got stolen once. You do safekeeping better."
"But, don't you need it?"
"Just take it." Gerard gives him a soft but firm look. "That'd help me keep you safe twice as hard."
Mikey stares at him for a bit, then drops his gaze again.
Gerard puts his arm off of Mikey and picks up to his feet.
"I'll be back in ten minutes," he says. "Don't stay out of camp for too long."
"Right." Mikey answers. "You too."
Gerard turns heel and walks up the slope, his footsteps fading into the woods situated several yards away from the camp.
As the silence returns, Mikey stares down at Elena's gem, its glow returning to its resting brightness. A glum shadow veils his brown eyes.
He had a nightmare. One he hasn't had in quite a while. He can still see it behind closed eyes, the frightening pitch blackness, the creeping and sharpening ice in his blood. The gem's light, here in his palm, tore through that dark and showered through, thawing him out. Just like it does now through his eyelids and his palm.
Sighing, Mikey picks up to his feet and starts to walk back to the tent. Suddenly, he stops midway, and then gazes skywards again. The stars are fewer now.
A light breeze wafts past, a ghost of a soft kiss brushing on his lips. He looks back to the horizon, where a faint tinge of blue paints the sky.
A small world. Yet still so wide, for something that's doomed to end.
If he may see them at some point, would that mean.… he may see her as well?
Mikey glumly pulls his gaze away and walks off.
'That won't be necessary.'
****
The sun has risen.
Frank stares long into a vast open field, troubled. A breeze flies past, stirring up shreds of dry leaves across. The grass under his boots rustles with a shriveled noise.
It's not only the woods that died. The plains outside them have dried up too. The plains— once lush green and alive as he remembers— are now an empty sheet of gray and brown.
'What the hell happened here?'
Chickenfeet crows uneasily from a distance behind. Frank turns to it, seeing the bird shrink back into its tattered down in fear. He then gazes beyond it at the mountain range in the far horizon.
The giant hasn't shown up yet.
Frank looks back at the vastness again, frowning. Now the bushes and trees are gone, he can't discern the landmarks anymore. It's like the maze walls have been removed at once, and the memory of the routes has also come along with it.
At this point, Frank only remembers two routes through these plains. They're quite simple routes, with little turns and obstructions to maneuver around. And they both lead to quite unfavorable places. One of them in particular he'd rather not breach on, just as anyone who's sane enough to care for their lives would. The other… not any better, when one would be mugged at any rate when they least expect it.
The earth quakes weakly.
Well, shit. It's catching on already.
Frank searches in his pocket and pulls out a coin. One side is a king's head, the other a wolf. He flips it into the air, and catches it on the back of his hand. He uncovers the coin.
Heads.
Frank gazes westwards, blunt. There's just vastness ahead, with no mountains compared to the east.
The earth quakes again.
'Mugbear land, it is.'
He jogs back to the caravan, claims the reins, and sets off into the vastness.