Chapter Text
Every day was a cold day in life next to the coast. Whether by sunlight or starlight, winds would come blowing in from the horizon like unleashed dogs, nipping and playing with any creature or item in their wake. On days when it was particularly rabid, a person without proper footing could even be caught off guard and stumbled. It always smelled of salt.
As constellations splayed themselves against the heavens, night’s chill would only get greater, sharper, deeper. Glacial enough to accumulate briny crystals in one’s hair.
[ ] knew this all too well, and could feel it ruining his darkless ponytail. A boat was quickly drifting away from shore.
“[ ]’s taken the boat!”
“What??” Two faces appeared in the doorway of the beachside house. The shorter of the two groaned, “Oh, Universe, this kid is gonna be the death of me.”
“You’ve been saying that for thirteen years.” The other mused.
“It’ll happen one day.”
“Well…are we just going to let our son…do that?”
“He’ll return. It’s a ploy to try to scare us. Give it a minute.”
“I’m going to scare him back.” [ ] declared, ignoring the protests. He managed to dash forward, kicking up black sand, and using the momentum he leapt onto the boat.
“Come on, [ ]!” He shouted upon landing, “Enough games!”
The little rower yelped as his sudden weight caused the boat to rock and kick up water. The oars nearly fell from their hands, but recovered in time to keep paddling. “HEY!!! You blinding annoying idiot!!! Get out!!!”
“Of what, the boat? No. I’d rather not get my clothes all wet. Turn this vessel around, young man.”
“I'm TRYING to run away from home right now!” Their eyes flickered up to him, brimming with the annoyance of a foiled plan. “Shoo!!!”
[ ] was aware that [ ] wasn’t really going to flee; he just wanted to cause the kid some trouble in return. Petty, yes, since he was an adult and [ ] was a teenager, but as the kid’s honorary uncle he was obligated to tease him at every opportunity.
“Who’s the adult here? You really must eat your vegetables, [ ], or else you’ll stay scrawny!”
“Blind off! I don’t wanna!”
“Language, kiddo! Honestly, doesn’t your father scold you for talking like that?”
[ ] stuck out his tongue. “But Mom thinks it’s hilarious as long as I don’t say it to her!”
[ ] snorted. “Yeah, sounds about right. Come along now. Head back to shore.”
The kid humphed, giving the oars a few more persistent strokes. “Swim back by yourself.”
“Pass.” He ruffled the kid’s hair as messily as possible, eliciting an indignant squeal. “Honestly. Your dinner’s gonna get cold.”
“Cold and soggy veggies get tossed out. So, no veggies.”
“Is that the diabolical scheme you came up with?”
A chin lifted proudly. “Yes.”
“How horridly bright. Anyways, if you’re gonna be out here, then-”
The ocean smelled like burnt sugar.
[ ] cut himself off abruptly, stiffening. His attention switched to the horizon. “…are YOU doing that, kiddo?”
“Huh? Doing what?” [ ]’s head tipped back, nose twitching, and his expression fell. “N-no. Is- is that Wish Craft? In…the sea?”
It was. Wish Craft’s scent was often present on the island, ferried by the air. But this felt like it was coming from everywhere; each biting breeze brought mush into his ears, clogging up his brain. He felt dizzy. Hot. He collapsed to his knees next to [ ], suddenly feeling an immense pressure. It hurt. Blazingly.
The coast was never hot, and the ocean didn’t smell like burnt sugar.
But it did, at that world-ending moment.
[ ]’s cry of pain jarred him out of his stupor long enough for the protective instincts to kick in. He seized the kid, one arm locking around their waist and the other over the shoulder- utterly unwilling to let go under any circumstances. He was the adult here. [ ]’s parents were back at the house. If there was a threat, it would have to kill [ ] first.
He had to protect-
The shockwave of Craft crashed over them.
…
. . .
~
. . .
…
Protect.
“-a person! Two people!”
“Oh my Change! Is that a kid?!”
“Are they both alright???”
“They haven’t drowned, have they?!”
He feels himself being shifted. Pebbles and sand scrape his side, back, and clothes. Warm sunlight glares into his shut eyes while the remnants of seawater chill his bones. It smells like fish. (No more sugar.) Voices blend together as they squabble and yell over the proximity of crashing waves and shuffling of feet on gravel.
Someone tries to pry away what he clutches to his chest.
Protect.
A raspy growl escapes him as he jerks back. The thing he holds whimpers, coughs, cuddles closer, and he becomes aware that it’s a person. A young person whose arms and legs are wrapped tightly around his torso, like a koala. A scrawny koala that is very, very wet.
“Wah! They’re alive!!!”
“Okay, don’t touch the kid, noted.”
“Excuse me?? Half-drowned people?? Are you conscious???”
“Back off, back off, you’ll disorient them even more-”
“What if they need CPR????”
“They’re BREATHING, they don’t need any crabbing CPR!!!”
“Oh, okay, good, because I don’t know it.”
“I swear to Change-”
The man finds it in himself to open his eyes, and regrets doing so immediately. It’s sunny, even with all the figures leaning over him.
“WE GOT CONSCIOUSNESS!!!”
“SHUT UP!! So loud!!!”
He winces. The human koala on his chest is shivering violently. On instinct he rubs circles on their back. That past echo of fierce “Protect” has faded into the impression of a duty, a bond…
The man tries to reach into his mind for answers. It’s only void. Blankness.
His grip tightens.
~
Corbeaux, said his wonderful (albeit noisy) heroes. The city Corbeaux, in the nation of Vaugarde.
The man knows of it. He knows some of the other nations in the world. But his home escapes him, his memories are gone, and he cannot remember his name.
Neither can the teenager that he washed up with.
Their accents are the same, coming from a language that no one seems to recognize. It’s a mystery. All they can really conclude is that they knew each other, given how adamant the man had been about holding on to the kid. And yet despite these dubious origins, and having nothing to their nameless selves, Corbeaux welcomes them with open arms and wide smiles.
They’re given refuge in a place of religious significance to Vaugarde, called the House of Change. It’s more than hospitable; the kindness and compassion is so overwhelming that the man can’t help but cry for hours.
A few days after their appearance, as they begin to acclimate to this strange reality, a child oblivious to tact approaches both man and teen.
“Your accents are weird,” they state, not unkindly. “Where are you from?”
The man is at a loss for words. This very topic makes him want to tear out his hair in search of the answer.
But his younger companion replies, “I don’t know.”
“How do you not know?”
“We just don’t. I guess we’re from nowhere, for now.”
“Weird,” says the child before the lack of clarity makes them lose all previous interest. “Alright, then, Mr. Nowhere! I’ll see you around. Bye.”
They leave.
The man puts a hand on his ward’s shoulder, shaky yet firm. “We’ll figure it out.”
He leans into the touch, eyes distant, but bright in a way that’s achingly familiar. “Okay.”