Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Just down the plaza’s road, people’s weeps rang in his ears, tears falling as rain did beforehand. It was the fourth funeral today–and it was 2pm.

Shuffling his cards in magnificent forms, dancing across his arms and between his fingers, Shamil sits cross-legged on the pavement, still damp from the rainfall. He could feel the fabric of his jeans soak through, leaving a dark spot. Frigidity spread across his skin beneath. 

The walls surrounding him on either side are moist, centipedes and other crawlers slivering between the cracks in the mundane bricks.

Barely any proper time to grieve before the memorial is replaced and the cycle continues. He was pretty sure it was a kid this time, a girl. The cause was, like many others, hypothermia or malnutrition. Or, so he suspects. Probably a troublemaker, as most children were (knowing from experience,) and went out to play when the snow caught up to them, which swallowed them whole.

Spring, the period of blossoming flowers and rising suns, is the ugliest season.

When people mention the time, they always bring up how the fiery ball of our solar system creeps over the edge of the peaks surrounding their village in the early morning hours, sending rays through their windows and assaulting their eyes. Sometimes people think of how their favorite blossom would start rising from the soil, or how animals quit their vacation and emerge from hibernation. 

Maybe even how rain pours from the dreary clouds above, drenching our clothes and causing our produce to become soggy if not brought to the dry, warm inside fast enough.

No one mentions the death. Or, more accurately, the mourning.

Winter, or, as Shamil liked to call it, the Season of Bones, is ruthless. It ravages the crops, which are already limited, causes outbursts of illness, and, worst of all, is cold. The air stills to the point that your breaths materialize while snow coats your clothes till you're drenched and sludging your way home. 

Fire, you say? Nope! Can’t get much of that either!

You need wood to make fire. Crispia stood at just the base of an incredible mountain, which stole most of the greenery from them, leaving them barren. Around them, as well, had barely anything except for grass and soil for miles. Except for a sole field of blooms that grew on the opposite of the mountain, which was lined with a wide-spaning lake. The sun often hides behind its slopes, gracing shadows upon Crispia often.

The only good acre of trees, lush and not rotting or dead and worth chopping lies at the upper slope of the mountain. It’s led by a rocky trail, giving you a great view of the 100-foot drop two meters to the left. Fun, right?

Plus, the harpies rule that portion of the Mountain. Huge, 10 foot tall creatures who could fly at neck-breaking speeds. No one dared to go up after midnight, or, at least, without a weapon. Often, they didn’t bother them unless provoked, so no one wanted to do just that. 

So, due to these very reasons, the snowy portion of the year takes out nearly a third of Crispia; from frostbite, hypothermia, malnutrition, the works. 

This is why Spring is such a, to be blunt, depressing time. Shamil swears that nearly half of the village is dressed in black. Long days filled with one small funeral per hour which includes some tears, already half-wilting flowers, and a shitty, black and white, dull photo of the victim. 

Oh, the bugs suck, too. He forgot the bugs.

If he cared to, he’d go over and check, probably just to see a cheeky photo and dozens of bouquets. He doesn’t know many children anyways, except when putting on half-assed puppet shows for some of them, who crowd around him like ants. They all looked the same anyways. Dirty in the face, scraggly hair and crooked buck teeth that took up their mouth when they grinned.

Alas, he had his own people to take care of. Including himself.

“Hello.”

The timid voice made his head shoot up to find the source. Speaking of children, said vocals came from one. Maybe 12 or 13, who stands just at the opening of the lane. Her brown hair reached her waist, knots travelling through it. Not as long as his own, but she’s getting there. Green eyes–not the type of bright, colorful green you’d see on a poorly drawn rainbow. No, hers are dull, almost apathetic.

Funny. She could be Mysta’s doppelganger, only younger.

She’s in a dark, flimsy gown that looked like it’d been stretched far too much. Maybe it was passed down between her siblings, who knows. Probably a friend of the girl who died, it would make sense. Her ears are beginning to grow their tips, more downward and soft than his own upcast and pointy ones.

“Hey.” Was all he could mutter back, mustering up a smirk that showed off his chipped tooth on the right. One of the many fights he’s been in; hurt like hell, too. “You here to play, kid? You got any games you enjoy? Or I can show you a trick, if that’s more of your cup of tea!”

She kneeled down, already scuffed up knees hitting the concrete. “I don’t know any games, sir.” Ha! Sir, that’s a new one. Usually it’s scum or good for nothing. Sir, he could get used to. “A trick, please?”

Well, since she asked so~ nicely…

Shamil spread out the deck, face down, across the ground, most probably soaking them. The red backings stood proudly to the sky, as if beckoning her to choose them. “Pick one, and only one. Don’t let me see it, and I will guess it!” He stuck a hand arrogantly to his chest.

Tapping the metal can beside him, labeled Tips in his messy handwriting, Shamil smirked at her. “And, if I guess right, or impress you, then a teeny bit of cash is wanted, girly.” It had two loonies, an old ass penny and a five dollar bill. Could be worse.

Hesitantly, as if it would bite, she grasped a lightly damaged card, protectively holding it to her chest. A foreign gap was left in the middle of the array, leaving him to gather them all up and place them to his side for further use in a not-so-neat stack. 

“Alright, girly,” She didn’t like the nickname, by the way her face twisted ever so unpleasantly. Shamil stuck with it. “I’m about to read your little mind!”

For a liar, that was the honest truth.

Channelling into his SoulJam, hidden underneath his gruffed blouse, he reached out and grasped a tendril of power. It was pulsing with life, blue and strong. He slipped into the girl's mind painlessly (he hopes) and searched for the card with analytic eyes.

Memories played and danced around him as he waltzed through, evading thoughts left and right. Both the sour pangs of the worse, and the sweet flow of the better graced his SoulJam, mingling with his magic tenderly. He wasn’t blocked by wall after wall, nor was met with screaming protests pounding at his skull. Just… content. 

A decent girl; one of few left in this town.

But, there, amidst the normal complexity of her mind, was a single, blood-red card. Found it.

“Ooh~ a good pick indeed!” He drawled, creeping out of her mind in the blink of an eye. Said eyes were uncertain, brows furrowed as she stared at his cocky grin. “A nine of spades! You got some resilience in you, girly!”

A blatant, but white lie. It actually means lots of problems and loss. But she could believe otherwise.

Looking from her card, to the con-artist, then back to the card, her face grew bewildered. Reaching to his side, she threw down the deck, maybe expecting them all to be the same. They weren’t, and her brows only continued to narrow. “How’d you do that!? You must’ve cheated, there’s no way you knew!”

“Ah, so you are impressed!” A giggled uprooted from Shamil’s throat at her outburst, muscles aching as his shoulders bobbed up and down. “But I’m afraid I can’t say! A magician never revealed his secrets! It’s protocol!” He held his hands up in a feigned surrender.

“Do it again!” Her yells echoed through the alley, shoving the cards back into his lap with a fervor to prove him wrong. 

Sighing, Shamil scooped up the cards once more, shuffling them in ways that left the child in awe, mouth agape. Round after round rolled by, the air warming and the sun revealing itself over the mountain’s sharp peaks. The girl cried out in denial as he kept winning, finding the card within her mind every time.

Eventually, she gave up. Instead, she wanted him to read her future.

Thank the Witches, his magic was thoroughly drained.

“Finally accepting defeat, huh girly?” She pouted as he snatched the tarot cards from his small bag. A stitched section stretched along its middle, old and barely holding together. He could basically call it another pocket. 

As he mixed them thoroughly through a basic shuffle, he looked at her. She’s scrawny, a miracle that she survived the chilly Season of Bones. “Where are your parents?” Shamil inquired with a suspicious frown and narrowed eyes. “Didn’t they teach you not to talk to strangers?”

“Nobody’s a stranger in Crispia.” She retorted simply, eyes trained on his hands. They’re worn, scar filled and calloused. Must not be a pretty sight.

He, the King of insults, paused at the clipped comeback. “Touché.”

Humming calmly, she pointed to the funeral service, which looks as if they're just starting to pack up. Finally. “They’re somewhere over there. I sneaked away; didn't want to stand in a crowd of crying people.”

A startled laugh took even himself by surprise at her bluntness, but it only made Shamil more entertained of this kid. “What? Not friends with that girl? Was she a jerk? You can be honest with me.” She really can’t. Shouldn’t.

She simply shook her head, the hair that curtained her face swayed. “No, she was nice, I just wasn’t friends with her. A classmate from the schoolhouse.” Ah, right. The rundown building at the main road that taught their entire population what they needed to know. 

Bullshit. Math and grammar won’t help you when you’re scrounging around for food. 

A bored, acknowledging noise came from Shamil, who finally settled the pack down in front of him. “Alright, girly~” Hand rested on the deck, a grin pulling at the corners of his lips. “Let’s see your future!” He announced, slamming the first card down.

Strength, upturned.

“This means, well–it obviously means you're strong, but it also means that you’ve got that compassion in ya! Some good, strong-willed well being.” Poking a finger towards her heart, she batted his hand away. Shamil snorted, then used said hand to set the second one down next to the first.

The Hierophant, reversed.

“Taking after me, huh? This one means rebellion, taking your own path instead of the one paved for you. A good thing, in my sense.” And it was. He’d rather die than live out a life written for him. “It's never good to let others make you someone you're not, this is a great sign for you!”

Crossing her arms, she looks deadpanned at him. “Says the one performing magic tricks for money.” The girl mumbled under her breath, which had him gasping in mock offense. 

“How dare you! This is art!” Gesturing to his cards, “It had you impressed earlier, as well! You were all: ‘Oh! How did you do that!’” Shamil raised the back of his pale hand to his head dramatically. “And no tip for it either! The scandal!”

She let out a long, drawn out groan of frustration and begrudgingly dropped a bill into his small jar. Ten dollars, the most he’s got all day. A good margin of the cash in that thing is pickpocketed as he weaved around the town’s crowds. “There. Happy, stranger?”

His smile grew ear to ear, extending his hand as if to shake hers. “Very. And, please, Shamil is the name. Don’t wear it out, I still need it!” A chuckle erupted as she slapped his hands away harshly once more. Rebellion, indeed.

Ah, right. The third card. The finale.

“And here, my dear child, is your final card. Your destiny, your–” Shamil’s voice died out in his throat as he glanced at the third card. Thankfully, the girl couldn’t see it at this angle, left confused and waiting.

Death, reversed.

After a short moment, he pulled back on his smirk and, with a sly of the hand, slipped the card into his sleeve. The card he switched it with, however, was a–

“The Sun! Good things are in for you, girly!” Setting the bright card on the ground, keeping the real, darker one hidden away in a secret pocket he had stitched himself. He didn’t need her to know the even darker meanings of it, even if she didn’t believe in this reading at all. “Happiness and all that boring, sappy stuff. Success, even!”

Looking mildly suspicious, she opened her thin-lipped mouth to say something, maybe ask a question. But, was interrupted before she could by two booming voices calling out. 

“Mari!” A brunette called out amidst the crowd, now dispersing like ants. Said man’s name was Lattimer. An uptight fool, in his opinion. They did have many similarities, the hair, the face shape and their straight noses were all the same. Must be his daughter, considering the way she got up to meet him halfway upon his arrival.

Lattimer, or, as he was nicknamed, Latt, narrowed his eyes when he saw Shamil, beckoning Mari to come to him. “Come on, Mari, it’s time to head home. And, don’t hang around with people like that, okay. Scam artists.” Even as he tried to say the last part quietly (to be ‘polite’, no less), Shamil heard it clear as day, ears twitching.

“What was that, Lattie? Why don’t you say it a little louder so little old me can hear?” Cheek resting upon his rough hand, he continued leisurely. “She came up to me, don’t blame the artist for his art!”

A scowl formed on the brewer’s face, guiding his daughter closer, awfully protective, by the shoulders. He was tense, by the way Mari’s dress scrunched up under his fingers.

Fully ignoring Shamil, Latt turned to his child, resting a tender hand onto her thick head of hair. “Did he steal anything from you? Don’t tell me you gave something to him, Mari.”

A considering expression took over her face, eyes glancing between her father and him. Then, at the worn out tip jar, dusty and unused. A faint sense of sympathy seemed to contort her features. 

Wettening her lips, she sent a soft smile Latt’s way. “No, nothing, Dad. Just played some cards, that’s all.” Mari shrugged.

A moment of doubt crossed her father’s face, looking at Shamil with it more than at her. Latt let out a deep sigh, nudging Mari’s back as his face schooled and ignored the card-player entirely. “Alright, if you’re sure. Let’s go home, ‘Mar. We wouldn’t wanna leave your father waiting.” To that, she nodded, starting down the road with him.

Shamil didn’t know if he was imagining it or not, but as she walked away, she just slightly turned back, sending a knowing smile his way.

When you’re broke, and only scam people and steal for a living, buying things can be tricky. Especially if all Shamil got today… was $17.01.

Wading through the townspeople, the heat imprinted itself onto his skin, likely causing it to burn later due to its fragility. His equally fragile body throbbed with each step, already feeling stiff from sitting for so long earlier. 

Stands full of fruit, on the verge of falling off the cliff of being ripe, some hand crafted clothes and small, useless trinkets lined the road. Sellers beckoned people to purchase from theirs like sirens in the sea.

He approached a few people observing the goods, picking them up and squeezing to see their freshness. Shamil thought they may burst them open in their vice grip. A package of bland, straightened pasta, strawberries and some assorted peppers were his choice; filling but lasts for a while. 

When Shamil handed the items to the worker, he eyed him carefully as they checked the price tags, summing up the price. He was a ragged, deep voiced man with a beard down to his throat. “Not stealin’ from us today? What a surprise.”

“Be grateful I’m not, old man. Seventeen bucks is all I got.” He gestured to the food, whipping back his head to rid his hair from his face. “Is that gonna cover it?”

After finishing the total, the guy practically snatched his money from him, only throwing back his purchase and a looney in return. Beardy threw the rest into his rickety cash register, coins jumbling together carelessly. “Barely. Things have gotten expensive nowadays, kid. Gotta make more than that.”

Damn inflation.

Bristling, Shamil snided, “Okay, one, I’m not a kid. I’m 22. And, secondly, you try living with rusty-ass limbs and doing labor. I can’t, for your information, and I’ve got a stupid sister to feed, so, stay out of my business.” Without waiting for a reply, he waltzed off, a tomato hidden in his pants pocket.

He was halfway through the crowds, tucking the plastic bag of produce into his own bag, he suddenly paused, feet halting to a standstill as he reran the short conversation in his head. Distantly, he could hear frustrated citizens berating him to stay out of the way, wading around him like oil and water, but he didn’t even turn.

…Stupid sister.

Fuck.

It was her damn birthday today! That’s why Suri was all dressed up (well, as much as she could be) this morning!

And he had a dollar left. People were beginning to trickle out of the square, leaving mere beggars and salespeople. No pickpocketing.

But, what could he get her that doesn’t cost anything? Not a crocheted piece, he was out of wool and it was too late to start a project. He had nothing of worth, so what did she like that is a fine gift? What do girls like? Uh, shopping she can’t do, no dresses, no jewelry…

Oh! Flowers. Flowers he could get for free as Mother Nature so graciously never put any tax on them other than soil, water and sunlight. What does she like… oh yeah, matthiola’s. She had a weird love for the way stocks looked, even though there are so many better ones to choose from. In his own opinion, milkcrowns are way better.

Welp, to each their own. 

A deep groan left him as he took a sharp turn, heading down a dark alley with a renowned purpose. Get Suri a gift, go home, give it to her, then sleep. A solid, beautiful plan.

Exiting the lane, he thudded down Crispia’s stoned streets, leading to the outskirts of the village, sharp bladed grass brushing his mud stained sandals. On the opposite side of the mountain lay a nice, calmed valley. It usually grew stocks around this time, as well as other assortments. You got to it through one of the Mountain’s many gaps, walls so close you would think they’d crush you. 

The impasse was dark, crowded with lavender that lines the narrow trail. Shamil’s hand traced the scraped walls, rough against his digits. Deep, jagged gouges trailed in the wall above. He decided to ignore it, for his remaining sanity's sake.

If he was lucky, he could get there before nightfall came.

He was, in fact, not the luckiest guy.

Due to his sore feet and steadily numbing legs, he had to take a breather frequently, sitting at the base of the mountain, back against the hard stone. Beads of sweat dripped down his face and seeped into his pores, slicking his forehead and dampening his shirt.

It took him about… roughly 8 breaks before finally coming to the edge of the lush span. The plants were looming, about halfways up his body. Blossoms of all varieties spread out, tickling at his pant legs that uncovered his boney ankles from overwear.

The sky settled into a deep orange hue, their source of heat about midway to its napping place. God, what he would give to nap now. But, he couldn’t. He was on a mission. The sun would just have to mock him from afar. 

The sunset reflected off of the stark royal blue of the vast last to his side. A sharp and noticeable contrast, though weirdly a beloved one by people. Well, he supposes opposites attract. Lilypads floated on the surface, wading through the water as the crickets chirped.

Drawing a huff from him, he no less collapsed on the grassy earth, staining his pants a yellowish color. Shamil was surrounded on all sides by flowers, some crashed under his landing. The mooncrown’s and matthiola mingled side by side, their vines intertwining and bending easily with the wind. Mixed amongst them were others; sunflowers, that stood vibrant and tall, carnations, whose petals glistened in the light, and roses of every color. 

This place may possibly be the most peaceful in all of Crispia. Though, he barely felt calm, and that didn’t change now. Pessimism was his right hand man, making him focus on his sweat-slicked clothes and stabbing body instead of the soft air that made his bangs whirl. But, at least here he wouldn’t be bothered by nosy townspeople.

Leath, skilled hands plucked the stocks in a jerked motion, one by one. Shamil sat aside the ones with wilting sections or had the roots clinging to the bottom from the harsh pull. Between plucking them, he’d pause to swat away the vibrating bees flitting around him in an angry protest. As the nonexistent clock ticked away, he had plucked probably a dozen or more stocks, pink and fluttering. 

Shamil tucked them at his side before reaching out a hand to grace the mooncrown’s soft edges. The sweet smell curated with the pollen, his fingers pricking lightly as they ran over the sharp thorns along the base. 

People would always say that mooncrowns bloom where someone’s tears once fell. That they seeped into the soil and their sorrow grew a being of beauty. But, even beautiful things have their ragged edges. Especially beautiful things.

Glancing around the field, a bark of a laugh escaped him, “Who the hell cries this much?” 

There were hundreds of the species dragged along these grounds. He’s lived here his whole life and never once did he not see them here. Day and night, their presence was always made apparent.

Speaking of night, the sun had just now decided to lower itself beneath the cliffs. It showered him in darkness, and fireflies took it as their cue to spring up. Their lights dotted his vision like a gentle assurance, flying by without a care. The beginnings of stars splattered faintly in the sky like freckles against one's face.

Shamil plucked the flowers from their spot beside him and stood on stiff legs. Vegetation creaked beneath his worn shoes, crying out from their deathbed. Humidity filled the air, making his clothes fill with hot air and cling to his skin–

A pained whine was drawn from his throat, cutting through the air.

His muscles throbbed and cramped relentlessly. Shamil was on the ground before he knew it, clutching at them, pounding on them to try to make it go away. Matthiola scattered on the ground as his fists bashed, causing them to slip from his grasp. It was unbearable. His mouth opened in a soundless scream-

A booming, keening shriek pierced the air. It froze over.

Shamil’s head shot up. It wasn’t his own. It was loud and disturbed, echoing as if it shook the mountain itself. Pain became a background noise as a rare feeling of fear coiled tight in his chest. Weirdly enough, his SoulJam pulsed with fervor at the yell, as if calling back to it. It was warm, vibrating happily, which it’s never done before. 

Besides that, he didn’t know what the noise could’ve come from. Can’t be a bear, they’re more deep-throated, couldn’t be a bird, their too small–

A bird.

A harpy.

Just barely, on the edge of the peak closest to him, a dark figure was detected, Shamil’s pupils contracting instantaneously. It was only a few hundred feet above him, the creature could fly down here in probably two seconds flat if it wanted to. 

Though Shamil couldn’t see them, he could feel the eyes figured on him with a scary level of sharpness.

The stocks were quickly gathered in his hands, forcing himself to his feet even as they dared to give out. Every step brought a new wave of uncut agony that spiked through Shamil’s body, his hand distinct in its grip around the flowers. The thorns cut into his palm, blood dribbling down his wrist.

But it was better than being killed. Or eaten, whatever their sick method was.

So he ran, faster than he thought he ever had before. Never looking back, he bolted through the passageway, pitch black between the crest of the mountains. His feet reverberated as they padded down the rough ground, even as spontaneous rocks almost tripped him. His shaking hands held him upright against any near surface whenever his vision blurred.

Even though he didn’t have much, he did have his life.

And he was not going to lose it today.

It was only when he nearly crashed into Mysta, who was packing up her small shop, that he ceased his sprint. 

The collision was only slight, more of a bump than anything. But, almost as soon as he found one, he fell into a chair, one of dingy, white plastic that looked as if it would break under his weight. Luckily, he was a quite light. 

What he also was, was sweaty, very sweaty. Rivers of it poured down his red face, legs tingling unpleasantly as well as his palm, now scarlet-soaked. Head hanging back, heaving breaths filled the air. A month ago, it would’ve been visible, but now, all that could show for it was the way his lungs clenched and greedily embraced every ounce of oxygen.

“What the hell!?” Was his friend's immediate, stunned reaction to Shamil, before her face schooled until only twitches of frustration remained. “One, why the fuck are you running? Two, if you ever run into me again like that I will slap you. Three–”

A slender, long nailed hand, uncharacteristically gentle, grasped his own, unclutching his digits from the stocks. Mysta always showed this kind of care whenever one of them was hurt. Shamil jokingly calls her the ‘mom’ of the group, though gets slapped upside the head for it without relent. “-you’re bleeding.” She finished, placing the matthiola to the side.

Between huffs, he muttered, “Real observant, thanks.” When she glared at him, he scoffed, voice breathless and slightly slurred. “S’just a few scratches, Misty. M’not bleeding to death, not stabbed nor shot.” He ran his opposite hand down his face. It was useless to convince her, she was already grabbing bandages. “And, for the first question, a wild animal or somethin’. Don’t know what it was, exactly.” He lied.

The gauze was dry, primarily unused as she opted for singular bandaids instead. But this was more spread out, so she opted for this instead. “Doesn’t matter, your house is dirty as hell, do you want it to get infected?” Mysta deadpanned, “Plus, why were you out picking stocks, of all things, so late? I know they're not your favorite.”

Of course she knew that. As little as she commented or spoke up, she seemed to take in every ounce of information spoken aloud.

Shamil’s breathing had decided to finally come down and even out, thank the Witches. “Yeah, but they are Suri’s and I only had a dollar to spare.” Gesturing to the flowers he gave her a small smile, feigning innocence. “Do… you happen to have a spare letter and piece of paper lying around, Misty~?” He batted his eyelashes for a dramatic flair.

Mysta met him with a sharp tug on his bandages, tying them tighter than they needed to be just out of spite. “You expect me to give you those because of what? That you got a few cuts and are poor like every other person? No.”

“Oh, come on. I’m your buddy, aren’t I~?” Shamil drawled, a grin spreading out his face. “Plus, it’s for Suri~ You wouldn’t make me go home with only a few measly flowers and nothing else, would you~? She’d be heartbroken! Plus, I’m legally impaired, you have to be nice to me.”

As much as he despised speaking of his disability, it had a chance of doing him a rare favour this time.

At their little house just down the corner, a pair of crutches were stored away deep under his bed. They were practically crushed between his busted up mattress and the boards supporting it, hidden away so that Suri couldn’t force Shamil to wear them. The pair was hard, old and were the ones where the velcro scratched your arms uncomfortably; so graciously given by the small medical center down the road.

No. Shamil would rather deal with falling down every time he over-exerted his withering body than wear those in public.

When she met him with a thoroughly unimpressed look and began ambling away, he tried to follow, rising from his chair, which squeaked unpleasantly. But, before he could, he was shoved back down by a quick hand. “Sit. I don’t want you passing out in the middle of my bakery.” A pointed finger was shot in his direction, almost as pointed as her voice. “This is the last time I’m doing you a favor, Shami.”

Sound fading, her feet tread into the back of the building, and his lips curved upwards. Shamil knew it wouldn’t be the last time. Mysta always had a soft spot for their small bubble of friends, even if she didn’t admit it. 

Shamil’s eyes slipped shut a few moments later, exhaustion a soothing lullaby that made the aches and tingling become a quiet hum. But, before darkness enveloped him, something was tossed at him carelessly, hitting him square in the chest. His eyes bugged open once more to find the source.

It was a pale yellow card, one that had the standard ‘Happy Birthday!’ written in a cursive font; the ink was still slightly wet. The writing was slightly tapered off at the end, making it known that Mysta wrote in a rush.

A quill feathers stood proudly, resting on the table at his side, placed by Mysta, glistening in the soft, honey glowing lights that hung above. Sitting beside it was a small pot of onyx ink.

Before he could pick it up, Mysta tugged slightly on his pale bangs, making Shamil let out an annoyed hiss. “Don’t write something stupid, or unthoughtful. You already came home late and I’d bet at least $20 on the fact that you didn’t even remember the occasion this morning. Much less wish her good wishes.”

“I wasn’t planning to write an essay, Misty.” He groaned dramatically.

“Well, you are.” She muttered, unamused, as she wrapped the long-stemmed flowers into a paper wrapping. “And do it quickly. I want you gone in ten minutes; maximum. Got it?”

Letting out a half-assed acknowledgement, he started to scribble lines down the thick paper. Though he did go to school and definitely wasn’t a slacker in any means as a child, his handwriting has never piqued like Mysta or Suri’s have. His was blurred together, a little crooked and some lines were sloppier than others due to the improper use of the quill. 

It didn’t take him less than ten minutes, due to having to flex his hand from his rigid fingers. Mysta’s face grew more irritated by the minute, but she closed up shop around him. Maybe to convince herself not to punch him. Sweet scents of pastries wafted through the place as they were packaged, frosting and batter looming in his nostrils.

Mysta silenced Shamil with a glare before he could even ask for any. She probably already gave some to Suri, so he didn’t bother to get anymore. Well, for her, at least.

After writing what he deemed a good amount, Shamil eased himself up from the chair, waiting a moment to let his body balance itself, before plucking a roll of tape off the table. He tore off a small bit with his teeth after taking way too long to find the edge where the tape began, eventually folding and sticking the letter to the flower’s base. 

It wasn’t perfect. Some of the flowers bent out in odd ways, some were missing petals, and the paper used was tacky and frail.

It’s fine. Nothing is, really.

Shamil gingerly hauled up the flowers, tucking them in the crook of his elbow like the swaddle of a newborn. He bellowed, “Alright, Misty, I’m heading off! Good seein’ you, always is, but I gotta scadaddle–!” Before he could get out the rest of his words, lined with a smirk, hands were already pushing him out the door swiftly. 

“I can’t say the same about you. Get out.” Mysta grumbled with a harsh irritantance.

“Aw~ come on! You know you love to see lil’ old me! You wouldn’t have helped me out if you didn’t~!” Shamil taunted, now perched outside.

With a final glare, the roll-up door slammed shut without a word, creating a barrier between them. A bark of laughter was drawn from him, reverberating into the night sky. 

Classic Mysta. Always the giver, but never owning up to caring.

The walk home was short, thank the Witches. 

Their tiny house was hidden away, non-visible to the public eye. Wouldn't be a problem if it was, though. Not like they had much to steal, anyways.

You have to walk into a narrow, dusty alleyway to get to it. A singular, dim lamp hung above their rickety, wooden door, marking their existence. Flies buzzed loudly in his pointed ears, making them twitch, swatting them away with his free, bandaged up hand.

When Shamil eased the door open with an abruptly loud creak, he was almost immediately jumped by his bright haired sister. Suri’s brows were furrowed in annoyance, form practically bouncing with a rare, restless movement. “Where the hell have you been!? It’s like – ten at night! And-" She paused, redirecting her focus to the gauze. "What happened to your hand?"

Rolling his eyes, he waded around her effortlessly. “Getting us sustenance. May not be as good as a cake, but it’ll have to do.” He grumbled, carelessly dropping the groceries onto their table and beginning to gather things he needed. "Just a few scrapes, I'll be fine. Nothing serious." He dismissed, waving her off with the same hand she was inquiring on.

“The shops aren’t even open– you weren’t–!” She paused, pupils contracting and body stilling as she took in both his words and the flowers, paired with a card. “You– I thought– I thought you forgot.” Suri mumbled, dumbfounded.

Shamil scoffed, “Yeah, I did, at first, but–” Running a hand down his face, he sighed, not looking at her. “But I did. Remember, I mean. It’s why you were all dressed up this morning, yeah? Where did you go?” His voice was uncaring, tired, but he tried to mask it with interest.

Silence filled the room before Suri found her voice again. “Oh–yeah. I didn’t really go anywhere. No one to go with, really. Everybody’s working this time of year, so no one has the time. Plus, I’m still trying to find a job.”

He should probably ask about what she did instead, or give her the stocks he had (quite literally) risked his life for. But, he didn’t. “You’re, what, 20 now? Why don’t you have one yet? Or create one. Sell lemonade or something if you’re so desperate.”

That was most likely not the best thing to say, especially not on a special day. But he couldn’t help it! They’ve been having this same fight for forever! Suri never had the motivation for labor, just like he had, but more mentally. She didn’t have the passion to do anything for money other than to play her wooden lyre in the streets. And even that she barely did!

An offended scoff was drawn from her throat. “I am trying, Shami! No one is hiring and when I do get hired, I don’t stick around for long. You know this.” Suri rounded on him, pulling at his shoulder to make them eye to eye. 

“And whose fault is that?” Shamil’s teeth subconsciously bared, chipped tooth glinting as exhaustion and irritation hit like a freight train. “Go work with Mysta! She’s offered before! All you have to do is sell the goods, she’ll bake them, then you get money! It’s that simple.”

She met her kin with a barely suppressed glare. “It is not that simple! And I don’t wanna make Mysta have to split her pay, it’s unfair to her. I just–” Suri’s eyes stared at the floor. “I just… can’t sometimes.”

“All you have to do is stand there–”

“That’s not what I mean!” Arms crossing and hands gripping, her body tensed. “You just– You wouldn’t get it! You, who never had to deal with it and hasn’t ever had a single day of real labor in his life–!”

“I can’t!” Shamil’s voice finally cracked open and increased in volume. Pale hands ran through his hair where it was fraying from his ponytail. “I literally can’t, Suri! I just ran for my Witch's forsaken life trying to get you these stupid flowers,” He shoved the matthiola’s into her arms, “because a harpy was no less than ten yards from me!”

Suri’s eyes bulged, meeting his narrowed ones. “A harpy–”

“I had to basically book it to Mysta’s store so my dumb limbs wouldn't give up on me! So don’t–” Finally, he pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a breath as his eyes slipped close. Once regaining composure, he muttered, “Just– Don’t mistake my fucking flaw with your issues.”

Before she could get another word out, he placed a chaste finger to her lips. A silent 'shut up and don’t ask.’

Their eyes met and, for a brief moment, their vulnerabilities did too, like they had few times before. Shamil quickly nipped it in the bud by reaching up and ruffling her hair, messing up the long curls. It caught her off guard, making her break free from her tension-induced stupor.

With a flick to Suri’s forehead, he made his way to the door near the corner; his tiny bedroom that barely fit a bed. He can’t even count how many times he’s fallen off of it. The food was forgotten on the table, but was easy enough to make so she could do it quickly herself.

Turning back briefly, he flashed her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Enjoy your gift, Cherub. Don’t let it die.”

The door shut with an audible thud, which echoed through the house like a gong. Almost as soon as his back hit the mattress, his body went lax, and sleep took him. Its embrace was gentle, filling him whole and holding him tightly. It caressed him and soothed his aches.

It wouldn’t last, but the thought was nice.

It didn’t last. Not by a long shot.

The sky was but a faded blue when he rose, clouds in the distance slowly approaching, anticipating rainfall. It may as well rain all the time with how much the droplets graced their streets. 

With a groan, he turned back over to try and return to the peaceful abyss of sleep.  It didn’t work. It never worked. Shamil mimicked the mountain range with how his quilt was piled on top of him to mitigate his cold body. A comical sight. 

His feet hit the wood as it creaked beneath his weight, which only multiplied as he walked. His limbs protested with a cry, crashing into him like a tsunami.

Witches, he just wanted to sleep.

Balanced silence echoed through the place, the hall was barely lit, only the faint glow from the natural light gliding in through the clouds. Without even having to strain his ear, he could hear Suri’s snores from her door. 

Shamil will mock her when she wakes.

The wind was brazen; harsh. It blew against their front door, which banged itself back and forth. Chilly air filled the house, making goosebumps form on his light skin. He could’ve sworn he had locked that door on the way in. Guess not.

His hair whipped around wildly, knots tugging at his skull as he approached the door, yearning for the quiet. Though he didn’t mind the usual thrum of the village, a little quiet was good now and then. Just not too much, until it gets uncomfortable.

Shamil’s thoughts came to a standstill when something on the doorstep invaded his sight.

They were bright, a sharp contrast to the dark pavement, humming with life. Tied together with a small, stringed bow, they burst with vibrancy, fresh and well-kept. It made his breath hitch with, not only the sight, but the thought that someone had put these out for rather him or Suri to see–

Him. They were for him. 

The flower’s petals mingled together as he lifted them up, cradling them in his arms with uncertainty. They were of different kinds, mixed in a bundle of beauty. He’s never had flowers sent to him before, he didn’t know what to do with them. Nor how to think about it.

Brows furrowing, Shamil turns over the blossoms, identifying their breeds. Suri, who had been into botany for a while now, studied the names and species of every one. She would often point out and spiel about it randomly, followed by him smacking her upside the head.

Chrysanthemums, blending in a mix of a deep, blood-like ruby and lavender-hued purples. The petals huddled close, crowding the herb as if on the edge of a cliff. 

Deep affection, love, and even meanings to get well soon.

Well, too bad. He won’t.

Next were moonflowers, his personal favorite, and the sign that these were for him. The surface was smooth, soft, almost like velvet. Their color reflected off the name, like they were plucked off the Moon itself. 

Messages of both an unsettled sorrow and the fact that whoever sent these knew he liked them.

Creepy. His goosebumps weren’t from the wind anymore.

Finally, were the bright carnations. They stood out from the bunch, every one standing tall and every floral leaf danced with color. They were flimsy and thin to the touch, but left behind the sticky, cinnamon smell that stuck to your clothes for days. 

Love. The petals reflected the sender’s heart, red and yearning.

Chapter Text

“Up and at ‘em, Cherub~” Shamil bellowed as he flicked the overhead lamp on with a deft finger. 

It flickered, delayed from lack of use, before lighting up the windowless bedroom and blinding his withering sister. Flies immediately began to congregate, relocating from the rotting food on Suri’s bedside table. He grimaced; revolting.

Beside them on a fluffed up, dirty brown pillow, was her own SoulJam, heart-shape glinting in the overhead. It was long untouched as of late, a thin layer of dust coating its surface.

But, still, the faint glow of raw power rumbled underneath the surface, a violet gleam beating like her own heartbeat.

She herself never took it out in public with her, as Shamil was forced to, due to its embedding on his sternum. It usually stayed ignored on her nightstand.

Suri had never found a point to take it out. Shamil had much, much more knowledge on the subject of spellcraft, even if he only knew a limited variety. Her own wasn’t like his, engulfed with magic and crafts beyond comparison.

All she knew was that when she entered a room with hers, everyone’s serotonin seemed to skyrocket with almost no effort on her end.

Though it gave her a rush unlike any liquor could ever do. She tried desperately to push away that small part of her that yearned for it, ergo why it was locked up in her room. But the utter control of it just… called to her.

She just wished she could use it on herself. Put herself in check.

“Go away.” Suri groaned in response, burrowing deeper into her comforters until they draped over her head. Only strands of hair poked out, greasy and long overdue for a wash. To be honest, they both most likely smelled horrid.

No, they did smell terrible. Shamil can smell himself just fine.

With a huff, he thumped over and tugged the blankets off of her, weighing on the heels of his feet when she pulled back.

“No can do~ This is an intervention.” He drawled through a strained smile, both playful and firm.

Finally revealing her pale form, he dropped the crocheted blanket to the ground with little care.

Autumn was one of Shamil’s favorite seasons, by far. Summer makes him melt, Spring is…well, Spring and Winter is the death season. Fall was a nice middle ground, the quiet before the storm, so to say.

Besides, everything is quieter during this time of year. The crowds grow scarce, the water a tad warmer and the trees atop the mountain in a full, sunset bloom.

Suri, on the other hand, despised Fall.

Her mood always dipped as the air would, a slow and agonizing process, then fell as snow did months later. While her body slowly began to lose the willpower to function, she quit trying to force it to. 

It’s not that she wasn’t bothered by the state of herself. She hated the fact that her hair was grimy and thick curls turning to loose tufts. Depised that she didn’t even have the decency to eat the food her brother paid for and made, due to just… not being able to. 

Immobile. Useless.

Pathetic.

“Don’t bother.” Suri murmured, head ducking beneath her flattened pillow. Shamil’s glare was burning against her back, unseen but felt; the protest that he was restraining. “I don’t want you to take care of me just cause I can’t do it myself. I know you don’t either.”

With a scoff, he scooped beneath her underarms to haul her into a sitting position. Shorly after she slumped over, much like a shrimp. 

“What I don’t want is you sleeping yourself into an early grave!” Shamil hissed, grabbing her by the shoulders, lightly shaking her. “What I don't want is you killing yourself.”

“I am not–”

“Yes, you are.” He retorted, words a growl. But, underneath them was slight faint sense of worry. “You aren't eating; the insects have more food in their bellies than you. Your hair looks like straw, you reek, and your body is like you’re related to a twig.” 

Arms wrapping across her abdomen, she averted her eyes shamefully. It was all the harsh, hard truth that needed to be said. But it still hit like a slap to the face.

Instead, with an uncharacteristically soft turn of his hand, her gaze revisited Shamil’s, whose were determined, stern. “So, you’re gonna eat, brush your… everything, and I’ll gather water to make you a bath, yeah? Got it?”

Suri’s brows shot up, almost to her hairline. They rarely washed here, in their home. Usually they bring the lotions along and bathe in the lake.

This was due to the fact that, to have a proper bath, you’d need to walk a tremendous amount to get enough, then boil it to a certain degree over a stovertop. Lukewarm enough to not burn, but warm enough to bring satisfaction. Besides, you had to make the same travels multiple times over, causing your feet to curl in on themselves.

A job both of them hated to accomplish.

Shaking her head, Suri insistently declined, “No, Shami, I’m fine! I’m not even hungry anyways and you don’t need to go all the way–”

“No, I don’t need to. But I am, don’t ask stupid questions.” Shamil retorted, voice growing only an inch softer, “Got it?” He repeated.

A beat of quiet flooded the room before her face melted into a genuine, softly surged smile. One that makes it clear they were related due to the same quirk at the side of their lips. 

Though her dramatized brother acted as if this was all but pure torture, she knew better. While he did loathe walking far distances and taking care of others wasn’t his forte, he still did it anyways. 

They’ve both been against the world for the last two decades. Like it or not, he cared.

And she knew it.

Suri let out a low sigh of exasperation, “Got it…” She muttered, running a hand through her wild locks with her free hand.

Planting her feet on the floor, her toes wriggled against the hardwood. She had barely any time to adjust when Shamil yanked her upright. Suri’s body swayed slightly, legs wobbling before catching itself.

For a guy who hates labor, he sure has a lot of energy when in a good mood. Or, she thinks he’s in a good mood. Hopes.

Without pulling her along, Shamil glides out the door, the smell of the earth and decayed grass mingling in the air behind him. Suri’s body suddenly felt weighed down once he released her, as if she’d sink into the ground if she happened to topple.

She just felt the need to snuggle back under the covers and sink away-

"Don’t you dare go back to sleep!” Her brother yells across the small house. Rather he was using his SoulJam against her or he was just very intuitive. “If you do, I’ll drag you out. Don’t test me!”

Letting out a drawn out groan, she sent back a marginally quieter reply. “Fine, fine. Okay.” As she dragged herself to the washroom just next to her room, she grumbled, “And, if you ever do that, I’ll kick you in the balls.”

It wasn’t meant to be heard, with how hushed of a tone she said it in. But he must’ve heard it anyway cause she could hear him bark with laughter from here.

What a dumbass.

Once she got herself going, getting ready was a slow but steady operation. Suri’s limbs still felt sluggish as they moved; spreading the cerulean paste to her toothbrush, patting her sharp-jawed face down with a rag, dampened by a small collection of dirty rainwater. Her joints were rusty like a worn out doll, underused and stiff from her time in bed.

It was gradually going, though. 

Well, until she got to her hair.

While carding the wooden brush through the strawberry blonde tangles, it wouldn’t in the slightest. It kept becoming obstructed by clustered knots along with mats that conjoined together and rejected the bristles. Hanging awkwardly mid-knot, she opted to take a different route with this.

Pestering.

Suri’s loud footsteps groaned through the floorboards as she crossed into the kitchen. Steam from the soup (filled with various veggies and probably whatever Shamil found while scrounging about) was wafting through the air, thickening it with its smell.

Stirring the half-boiling pot, her brother’s eyes flicked towards her momentarily until a wheeze left him, causing his body to fold, leaning upon the countertop. Shamil was downright cackling at the sight of the hairbrush that dangled in her hair. 

So she didn’t care to remove it, sue her!

“You–” He coughed with the intensity of his laughter before she swatted him on the arm.

“Shut your mouth and just brush it. I can’t get these Witches-forsaken knots out and you’re gonna help me.” Suri snapped, ripping out the brush and shoving it into his chest.

Failing to catch it, Shamil was forced to drop the handle of the long-handled spoon. Sneering, he twirled the hairbrush around in his hand, “Really~? I cook and I have to brush your hair? Geez, I’m not your damn maid–”

“If you were a maid, I would’ve fired your ass at this point.” Ambling over to the tiny stove, she pushed around him, grasping the spoon and twisting it in an uncoordinated, lazy stir. “If you brush my hair for me, I guess I’ll do this for you for a bit. Got it?” She mocked.

Shamil’s eyes rolled in a similar motion to the utensil, chipped tooth jutting out when his mouth split open. “Fine~” He started working his way through her hair, from the dead ends that were thin and scraggly. “But don’t blame me when it gets pulled. Or, better yet, don’t whine. You’re annoying when you whine.”

“I do not whine!” Suri protested, head attempting to whip around before a soft wince escaped her by a knot being tugged. With an offended huff, she turned back, eying the poorly cut vegetation that whirled around the spoon’s tip. “You’re projecting.”

He snorted, parting her hair and draping one of them over her shoulder. “Thanks for proving my point, Cherub, cause ‘ya just did~!” The brush moved meticulously, moving from the ends, now puffed, to the roots of her scalp, where he had to put in a little more effort. “I do not whine!” 

“Shut up!” Heat floods her face, running down her neck in embarrassment and frustration. Oh, how she desperately wanted to wring his neck. “I swear to the Witches that I’m gonna sow your mouth shut with your damn sowing supplies!"

Their banter clouded the area, remarks and wits shooting back and forth as soup curdled and hair separated. A common occurrence, rather while they were playing chess or shouting from room to room. It was routine.

Somewhere through it, the heaviness on her shoulders lessened. Didn’t cease, but softened its edges. It was only subconsciously did she realize that he had riled her up to distract her, to help her in his own shitty way.

Shamil would never admit it, but it was the truth.

The blade in his knapsack was heavy with the weight of violence.

Not that any real blood has been spilled with its usage. Just the potential, the possibilities with this weapon that was made to hunt–to kill–hung on his shoulders. Feelings swelled in Shamil’s stomach. Ones of both an overwhelming sense of power and adrenaline.

Not that he was particularly thrilled about maybe having the need to murder another living being. Though he didn’t mind gore, he’d rather not get his hands dirty doing it himself. Besides, he doubts he'd win in a situation such as that anyways.

Weaponry, such as his own, was becoming increasingly more frequent in the common household.

So has the disappearances.

One or even two once in a while weren’t uncommon, even expected. Which was obviously due to the wildly known predators that scoured that area. Talons made to pierce, teeth made to gorge and wings created to capture. 

Usually, they weren’t too keen to make the first move. Always the provoked, not the provoker, and people tend to take that heavily. They like to test their luck, never expecting anything bad to happen to them. Then it does, and they're never seen again.

Most likely torn from the joints and devoured, but he didn’t wanna picture that.

Spears, knives, even sharpened rakes were now kept at the person’s bedside, as if awaiting for an attack they weren’t sure was gonna come. Wariness spread through Crispia like a wildfire; children clutched by weeping mothers, doors being bolted shut. Ones who lived further up the slopes set out traps around their property for protection.

Which is the reason why–before he left the comfort of his humid home–Suri had thrusted a sharp edged dagger into his palms, hilt a patterned wooden design which ridges fit against his palm with ease. She practically begged him to take it along, all before heading back to collapse into her bed.

A cool breeze billowed through the narrow cavern he traversed through. His hair followed the coordinates of the wind as the steel bucket in his hand clanked against the side of his thigh. Shamil’s footsteps echoed quietly and slow instead of the fast pace they had been months back. 

The inside of the pail was already damp, worn out by the several carries it had already endured to collect water from multiple trips. The crooks of his knees and pads of his feet ached, sharing the same sentiment. 

As the lane came to a halt, it revealed the tiring familiarity of the lake, dueting with the sun as it glistened. Just to the right of them lies the same, boring old valley. The only difference this time around was that all the flowers that vibrated there before had wilted, leaving only brown-ish spikes of grass behind. Their town didn't have anything much to gape over it's newness.

The blossoms that had once lived there never stopped arriving at his doorstep.

At first, Shamil had tried to convince himself that they were really meant for Suri, due to the fact that it was her birthday and all when they first arrived. Even gave the first set to her after they both properly woke. I mean, what if the admirer just didn’t know what she preferred? Could’ve just been a mere coincidence. A harmless mistake.

But they kept coming. 

Every. 

Morning.

And, always, they were paired with velvet-smooth mooncrowns. Sometimes they were paired with various other flowers, such as lavender or begonias, but his favorite always remained. Sure, he could be unaware at times, but he wasn’t stupid. Far from it.

When he couldn’t sleep, he would try to catch the one who did it, barging through the front door after every miniscule sound. But, he would always show up too early or late; the petals that brushed against the ground mocked his defeat.

They had only ceased their arrival once Autumn had usurped Summer. When sunny days and bright green lands shifted to hazy skies and decaying leaves, there was nothing left to give. The mystery faded along with his mind for it, settling back into a robotic routine.

Crouching down to the body to muddied water, he dipped the bucket in, creating ripples in the unaffected stillness. Beneath the surface, he could spot a pair of brightly colored fish fleeing. Shamil’s knees dug into the grainy, wet sand, only increasing the red marks left behind. It would probably bruise later as he did so easily, but he didn’t pay much mind to it.

Reflected in the water, he analyzed himself as the pail ducked under. His own hair was stringy, unwashed and utterly disgusting to him. Might be a good priority to wash it after Suri’s done. 

Usually it was bounced in a fluffed curl, soft but wild, crazed while uncontrolled. Without the proper care, it’s straightened out, knotted and probably full of crusted sweat and dirt. Which was one of the main reasons why it was being confined to a low ponytail.

Small bags hung from his keen eyes, probably from the fitful bouts of sleep he’s gotten recently. Pain kept him awake, an unrelenting partner that stuck to his hip and clung to his limbs. 

Witches, is this what he looked like to other people?

Ew.

In an act of childish spite, he wiped the water with a free hand as he rose once more, shaking the excess off. Shamil’s hand was clutched, pale with tension against the handle of the pail. Rivulets of lakewater spilled onto the grass from being filled so high. He couldn’t help but scoff.

Shaking his head, beads of sweat fell from his brows as he made his way–yet again–back home. 

Home. It’s such a silly word. Flexible. Some people think it means a safe haven, a place where you sleep and rejuvenate between socializing. A time to bond with your family and feel a sense of contentment. Somewhere for a sense of privacy, calmness, even security.

The word, to him, has no meaning. Anywhere could be your home if you tried hard enough to make it your own. He sees beggars everyday, only accompanied by a dusty blanket and the rats that scurried through that have no place to go back to. 

Their lanky old house has never meant anything to him other than the rare luck that’s been placed on him and his sister’s heads by the crank who owned the place. A place to just… be. Where you can seal yourself up inside like the frightened parents on the streets; to escape the harsh reality and death outsi–

The next course of events, which snapped him out from his own head, happened in a matter of seconds.

A bony shoulder had rammed into his, causing him to lose his balance as he tumbled to the soil. Lakewater spilled onto his clothes, soaking the fabric as the rear burned from the impact of the fall. Shamil’s bucket rolled a few inches away, now painfully empty.

When he turned to look up to see who had done it, he found a familiar, blonde haired prick.

“Ah, my bad, my bad–” Claudio’s voice, feigning guilt, pausing for a moment. “Are you quite alright?” He asked with a grin, extending a hand in a faux concern.

No. He wasn’t. And one of the reasons he wasn’t was because of the fact that he was soaking wet when the bastard didn’t have a drop on him. He didn't even have a bucket for Witches sake, how come he's even here? Another could be that, despite Shamil zoning out, this guy could’ve walked around him. 

Claudio came from one of the slightly richer families, the kind that could afford clean, filtered water by the jug and the ability to be spoiled and arrogant. This, which he always flaunted by the way he dressed. A white, fancy blouse and jet black leggings that fanned out at the hems. Not a speck of dirt on them. 

Shamil had an intense urge to change that.

Brushing off his dank top as much as he could, he rose after snatching his toppled bucket off the ground. He didn’t take the bastard's hand. No way in hell. A glare sharpened in his eyes, staring him down since their height was close to the same.

“I’m just fine. Watch your fucking step.” Shamil growled, smacking his hand away. “Do you not have eyes, clod?” 

Claudio’s eyes darkened ever so slightly at the mock name, but not enough to lose his perfectly retained composure. “You were the one not paying attention. Still stuck in that thick skull, all these years later, hm?” His mouth split into a grin, pearly whites visible.

Thankfully, Claudio and him didn’t cross paths often, as they lived in opposite parts of town. But, in their adolescent years, they went to the same schoolhouse, in some of the same classes. They both barely talked except for angry quips and bumps of shoulders, but also got the same high marks.

He still thinks he paid his way.

Shamil scoffed, “At least I have a brain to get stuck in. Your family probably bought yours, didn’t they? Since you were born as stupid as your name?”

“And, at least I have real money. Not rummaging about and playing cards for a living like a child.” His smirk grew. “Speaking of, is your body still as weak as it was before? Are you sure you didn’t break something on the way down?”

His teeth bared quickly, like a wolf about to pounce. Loose hands tightened into fists at his sides as his muscles ached in a taunt. “I am just fucking peachy. Thanks for nothing, dick.”

Rebounding to the earlier comment before the bastard could speak, he interrupted shamelessly. Practically hissing, Shamil spit, “Also, we are doing just great without living off of our daddy’s money like you. I’d much rather do what I am now than lounge about like your lazy ass and wait for your bitches for parents to feed you by the grapevine."

Claudio’s smile finally dropped at the blatant insult.

Half of Shamil’s mind cheered in victory. The other half called him a pussy.

“Lazy?” The clod’s eyes narrowed at him pointedly. “Like that sister of yours? Who probably lies on her bed every hour of the day and is too emotional to get a job because of it? Overdramatic, if you ask any sane person in ths town. If we’re gonna talk about unproductiveness, then–”

“Do not speak of my sister. This isn’t about her.” Shamil snapped angrily, hand subconsciously fiddling with the dagger in his knapsack.

When Claudio said that, it was like a restraint had broken, one filled with a nostalgic protectiveness that he had tried to bury away deep inside of him. Though, it still managed to break free at times, such as in the Season of Bones, cuddling together for warmth and giving her his extra blankets to lessen her shivers. Or when she was more hungry than anticipated, causing him to lend her his plate.

Like right now.

“Or what, hm?” Claudio’s face leaned right close to his, breath fanning onto his skin. A dare; A challenge. “What’re you gonna do? You can barely walk a mile without crippling yourself.”

A fit of untempered rage filled his core, mind blanking for a moment. Shamil’s body moved on its own, as if on autopilot. He grabbed the hilt of the blade. In a flash of movement, he slashed blindly, the blonde staggering back–

When he finally came back to himself, Claudio had a dribble of blood running down his neck. A thin cut had been placed on the underside of his jaw, though not deep enough to put on any real consequences. In his involuntarily shaking hand, his knife was lined with blood, the iron smell singeing his nose.

Silence echoed through the interpass, the only sound being the soft billows of grass. Shamil’s eyes flicked from the blade’s edge to the one it had marked. A whole bundle of feelings bundled tight in his chest, none of them recognizable.

It started slow, quiet. 

Shamil only really noticed at first from the shaking shoulders of the blonde before laughs echoed through the mountain's ridges. Claudio’s head was thrown back, allowing his blood to catch the faint light that made it's way over the mountan's interpass in rays. 

His brows only had time to furrow before his back was against the stones’ harsh backing. 

The crown of his head was thrown into it with such an intensity that he was positive he heard a crack. Head roaring in pain from the blow, his vision swam dangerously. Spades of black and white flitted over his mind, like the cards of his deck. Plunging into the patches of grass, his dagger lied as it fell from his hand. 

Witches, he hopes he doesn’t have a concussion.

As he refocused, ears still ringing distantly, he caught a glimpse of Claudio’s mouth, shifted into a wide, malicious grin. His canines gleamed with viscous intent, eyes wide and angry. Shamil had only seen him like this once, when some other jerk in school had tried to ridicule him publicly, resaulting in two broken bones in his leg and countless bruises and cuts.

That was maybe the one thing they had in common. Their tempers were easily set off.

The arm of the blonde was holding him upright, tight against his chest as his elbow jutted into his ribs to the point where he strained to breath. When Shamil shifted, trying to get loose from his grasp, the hold only turned to a stabbing degree. 

The tip of a blade was pointed to his throat.

“You’ve got some goddamn nerve. Still, after all this time.” Claudio hissed, lip curling. His windpipe was flush against the knife's edge, close enough to kill, but restrained by a small thread. He didn’t dare swallow. “How about I just cut those fine little vocal chords, huh? Snap the very thing that allows the Beast to bark.”

Ah, yes. The nickname. A title he’d earned in his senior years of high school that stuck around. 

Before his disability progressed so far, he’d get into frequent (and marginally brutal) fights. The other kid would most definitely be in a worse state, but, nonetheless, he came home almost everyday dotted with blood. Whether it was his own, or not.

Even afterwards, he’d gained the same sharpness to his tongue that his fists once possessed. Though it couldn’t be released much physically anymore, it released itself through both harsh words and a temperament of a–

Well, a beast.

A drop of scarlet ran down his Adam’s apple once the dagger cut deeper. Just the tip poked in; not enough to truly hurt, just to be known. To warn. “Or, I could just kill you outright. I’d just hate to get my hands dirty with your filthy blood.”

Motherfucker. 

As Claudio’s smile fell, a contemplating look ran across his eyes. But, Shamil knew he didn’t have the guts to do it. Much less the balls. “But… it would be a waste, yeah?” Both the blade and his arm were removed, and he quickly slid to the ground. 

He watched as the bastard crouched in front of him, as if he were a child and he wanted to get to his level. 

A sharp-knuckled, mocking hand tilted his head up; he growled deep in his throat, but the bite was overridden by the pain roaring in his skull. “Who would wanna take the risk of killing if.. The person in question would barely be cared about when gone?”

Mother. Fucker.

Without a moment of hesitation, without a single care for his existence, Claudio arose, Shamil’s own head lolling and the knife being removed from his trachea as he twirled it around in his hands. It was almost like what he did when shuffling cards. 

It was swiftly sheathed in its maroon case, which was hung from his belt. His gaze had already wandered off, losing focus by the time Claudio began to traipse off, footsteps padding away.

Not another word was spoken between them when the bastard came and went, only a tense and unriddled quiet lingering. It was both a small blessing and a silent ‘fuck you.’

Shamil hated how his voice felt stuck, all the insults fighting and unsuccessfully escaping to sneer at him. He hated how the clod just waltzed away like you do after throwing out a piece of garbage. He hated how his thoughts started to blur together, how his gaze darkened and his body felt like lead as his own blood dripped down his nape. 

He hated how he lost, his uselessness proven.

He hated how, deep down in his soul, he believed what was said to be true.

By the time his eyes peeled open, evening was already seeping into dusk.

The mountain was solid, cold against his back. He could feel the faint stickiness of dried blood that ran down his back. Fingers intertwined with the grass, a gentle wind ruffled his hair. Unwanted tears blurred his vision as he yawned, wading off the edge of sleep.

Pressure rose against his skull, throbbing with an intensity. Shamil massaged his temples using his knuckles, imagining just cutting open his skin and clipping the pain at its source. Of course, you can’t do that, but it was nice to think so.

But, when his fingertips brushed where was supposed to be flesh and hair, was a rough, scratchy weave that wrapped around his head.

It was thickly (almost too thickly) swaddled around the crown of his head, where his wound was. Someone, while he was out, had come out here and bandaged him.

Before he had time to question it, a familiar ache screamed through his body. When raising his arms to help stretch it out, something slipped down to only cover his legs, exposing his skin to the chill of Autumn. A bridled groan rose from his throat, causing him to try and grab at the fabric that held warmth–

Wait– fabric?

Shamil’s sight, which he hadn’t even realized was unfocused, zeroed in on his lap, where his hands were tugging up the soft wool. Tightly knit and blended with countless whites, grays and browns, was a small quilt.

It smelt strongly of grass, as if it itself was a tool used in the craft. The blanket was soft, fluffy enough to shelter people from the cool weather. Someone, when he was unconscious, also left this.

Who the fuck..?

It couldn’t have been one of his friends because, depending on whom, would’ve carried him back or shook him till he came to. Most of them probably the latter, except for Herald. Shamil knew them, they wouldn’t just… leave him here.

Not Saph, nor Cadi. They’ve both been occupied at home for the past few weeks after the latter came down with a high-ass fever.

Besides, even if Saph decided to come down for some water, he wouldn’t have a blanket or gauze just... on him. He sure as hell didn’t trek all the way back home just to leave him, as well. Saphi may be an asshole at times, but he isn’t a fool.

Shamil soon cast aside the short-lived investigation. His mind was too scattered.

What he knew he didn’t want was to be out here after dark. To be added to the long list of missing people’s cases.

Ever so steadily, he braced his arms on the stone against his back, using the leverage to haul himself up. Tucked under his one of them was the throw, which still reached the soil despite being folded in half with its length.

Hey, someone gave it to him, he may as well keep it.

Shamil’s legs shook with uncertainty, as if deciding whether to give out or not. He leaned heavily against the wall, body naturally stiff and achy from sitting for too long. It almost made him wish for his crutches.

Almost.

Though, as he took a baby step, a tentative testing, a sharp shiver ran down his spine like lightning. Bile rose before he could force it back, the bitter taste frying his throat, tastebuds, then the Earth as it spilled from his lips. A sharp cough followed, causing him to double over as he sputtered and choked.

Heaves poured from him like a dog in heat, eyes screwed shut in both discomfort and sheer pain. Fat tears ran down his face as wheezes were torn from him. 

Fatigue threatened to blanket him as the quilt had done before, but he pushed it away, forcing his eyes to crack open.

It was mostly stomach acid, nothing much vegetatively except for small remnants of the soup he had cooked early this morning. He had to avert his gaze to not vomit anymore; nausea still rolled in his abdomen.

Shamil breathed deeply, lungs being filled to the brim before being released, and emptied. He repeated the cycle a few times over, a calming technique, Suri had called it.

There was only one last thing he needed to grab, then he could go home, then to bed. It was no use of even dreaming about filling his sister a bath while like…well, this. He just had to snatch up his pail, drag himself home and grill Suri to eat something if sh–

His bucket was gone. Turning this way and that, he searched, eyes darting. It was nowhere to be seen.

Shamil quickly had to take another breath before he screamed.

Discarding the bucket’s disappearance frustratingly and tying the blanket much like a shawl around his shoulders, he began to shuffle forwards. It was slow, barely half a foot at a time at first, before he finally got a full one in.

A stupid victory, but one indeed.

His groan echoed through the interpass as he realized this was going to take ages.

Five buckets of water stood proudly on his doorstep, staring at Shamil’s bulging eyes.

They weren’t small, either. Nearly the height and width of his dresser against his bedside, they were filled nearly to the brim with (what looks to be) clean water. The material of the buckets themselves looked to be cleanly carved wood, shaved down to not be rough, but thick enough to sustain heavy weight.

And, tucked away beside them, was his own missing pail.

There were only three words that rose up in Shamil’s brain. Three totally, completely calm words that encased all he was feeling. So serene, even, that he didn’t scream them in his head nor out loud.

What. The. Fuck.

This must’ve been the person who bandaged him, it wouldn’t make sense if it wasn’t! Otherwise, how the hell did they get his bucket? And, second off, how did this person know his address?!

Was it the same person who gave him the flowers? Or were they different people? Shamil’s mind raced, causing it to ache evermore, pounding at his skull relentlessly. How did said person even get the buckets here without Suri noticing? She would’ve heard the noise.

Casting aside the thoughts for now (probably for the middle of the night tonight) he waded around the water-filled pails, reaching to pluck his own up. He was just about to push open the door to call for Suri’s help when his body stilled.

It was as if time had stopped as he read the big bright letters that stared him down from the sheet of paper.

Snatching it down with a harsh tear, his eyes flitted through the words, written in a practiced but abrasive cursive that had written the words which pierced his soul. The thin page crumpled beneath his digits as they shook much like his breathing. 

An eviction notice.

If what it states abundantly clearly is true, then they have at least two weeks to pay missed rent, which counts up to several weeks worth. Though he has given money, it just wasn’t enough. Not to the old hag, at least.

If they failed to pay, both their debt and upcoming payments, in two weeks… they were out. Gone.

What. The. Fuck!?

Cramming it into a tight ball amidst his fist, Shamil bared his teeth to the world as a yell of frustration threatened to leave his throat. He had to shove said fist into his mouth until it bled to suppress it, pointed teeth digging into pale skin. Iron danced along his tastebuds.

After breathing, a lot of breathing, he sighed heavily, opting to shove the paper into his pants pocket. It was better not to let Suri know until the bitter end. He’d rather not have her panic about it until necessary.

Not him though. He could panic all he wants. Hooray!

Shamil could do that later though, right now, he had someone to deal with and pints upon pints of water on his front step. He needed to handle that first. Then his possible concussion, then his muscles, then…

You know what, he’s just gonna stop.

“Cherub!” He yelled into the home through the cracked door. It echoed like a bat cave, bouncing off the walls. “A little help here, yeah?” After throwing the small bucket inside carelessly with a clank, he reached for the first bigger one.

It was much, much heavier than it initially looked. He hauled it up with trouble, arms trembling as he dragged it into the house. As it sloshed around with his movements, water splashed onto his hand and dripped down to the floorboards.. It was, surprisingly, warm.

By the time he thumped the first of five onto the kitchen’s floor, Shamil heard the slow, creaking steps of his sister coming down the hall. The first sign she had actually got there, though, was the sharp gasp he heard behind him.

“What the–!” Suri was about to startle before he cut in.

“Yeah, I know.” Though he was holding most of it back, there was still a small edge to his tone. “Dunno how they got here either. Would’ya help me get the rest–”

“I don’t mean the bathwater!” She chided, rushing forward in the blink of an eye, causing him to jump. “I mean you, dipshit!” Her hands carefully brushed the bandages on his head. “What the hell happened!?”

Shamil’s brain stalled for a moment. He barely remembered about the dressings for a good minute. It didn’t hurt all that he thought it would. He’d been too blindsighted by…well, everything else.

“...The person in question would barely be cared about when gone?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He mumbled stupidly. “Just a small…spat. Nothing to worry about, really.”

Suri’s eyes sharpened in doubt, “Bullshit. You swore to me to not get in any more fights, Shami!” 

His shoulders lowered in a foreign feeling. Maybe guilt, or maybe irritance, but he didn’t know for sure. It was like solving a puzzle with all except one piece. He wasn’t good at love, nor sadness or loneliness; he didn’t know how to handle them, much less have them.

Shamil was only good at anger and disdain. 

With a deep sigh, he softened his voice as much as possible before speaking. “I’m sorry, Suri.” It was half-genuine. Felt like knives traveling down his throat. “Wasn’t planning it. Just… happened. Some prick from the other side of town.”

Silence loomed. Hard, unapologetic and wearying.

“You’ve gotta stop lashing out at people. You can’t keep doing this, Shamil.” Suri finally spoke, voice earnest with a lining of worry. “Lemme see how bad it is.” 

“Why don’t you just help me carry in the water first–”

“Shamil, I swear to the damn Witches if you don’t turn around I’m gonna slap you.” She waved an expectant hand, gesturing for him to face his back to her, where the edge of the gauze lied.

He did, reluctantly, with a drawled out, dramatic huff.

Though he disliked her sadness, he despised her anger. 

No other words were spoken as the bandage slowly unraveled from his head like a roll of tape. The pain lessened and lessened until all that was left was the dull throb behind his brow. 

Suri untied the woolen blanket from his neck, folding it gently and setting it on the side. Her delicate hands unleashed his ponytail and pulled his hair aside to get a better look.

“There’s nothing there.”

Shamil was almost as incredulous as she sounded. More, actually.

“The fuck do you mean there’s 'nothing there'? You must be looking in the wrong spot, cause there was blood– lots of it, and–” He cut himself off, not wanting to lead into the details.

Distantly, he felt her hesitating before checking around some more. She parted his hair this way and that for a full inspection, but no gasp ever came. “Nope. Nothing's there.” Suri hummed. “Not a scratch.” She finished off with a quiet, fond chuckle, “You finally going crazy, Shami?”

What.

The.

Fuck.

Flickering between the non-blood soaked bandages that lay on their table, to the pitchers of heated water, to the throw off to the side. He was so goddamn confused and he was far, far, from an idiot.

“Let’s just…” Shamil started, voice breathless as if he had run a marathon, “...fill up your bath, yeah?”

Warmth surrounded him on all sides. 

Shamil doesn’t know what time he fell asleep; probably somewhere early morning, when every morally sane organism was asleep. He’d kicked off all the covers after feeling suffocated, embracing the natural coolness of Autumn.

But it was the complete opposite when he woke.

Even before he opened his eyes, soft snorts reverberated on his chest, where a dead-weight was. Drool from his sister’s sleeping, wide open mouth poured onto him, forming a puddle. Disgusting.

When he finally did, however, he found that the smooth blanket which he’d retrieved yesterday was strewn about on top of them, leaving little room for personal space. Even if it wasn’t there, Suri’s arm was extended across him, latching him in place as her personal body pillow.

Great.

Last night, just after Suri washed herself, soaking for a good half an hour, she inquired where he had got the comforter. Of course, not wanting to tell her about the stalker-like, totally not creepy events that had happened, he did what he did best.

Lied.

Shamil answered simply, rolling off his tongue with a practiced ease of manipulation. It was from Herald, who he had visited before he got home for an object of warmth. A totally believable answer; his friend was always sneaking him small things under the counter, even when not supposed to.

She thought so, too.

He could easily wiggle his way out of this bear hug, Shamil thought. It’s not like he hadn’t done it before.

But, instead, this time he turned into the embrace. He settled, found an uncommon peace in it, and his tired eyes fluttered shut.

For the first time in a while, it worked.

Chapter Text

“Are you insane?!” 

Shamil’s shriek of pure disbelief rattled through the metal rails beneath his feet. He hadn’t bothered in the least to keep quiet, even if they were facing the town square; he certainly got more than one turned head. “Like, are you actually going senile or something?!”

Bared canines were pointedly spitting venom to Bluma, a middle aged woman who owned both their house and the bookstore atop of it. It was half the reason he never got in an afternoon nap, with the footsteps and the kind, shortly exchanged words coming through the floorboards. It always left him throwing a pillow over his head to block it all out.

She was quiet and dutiful, though had a draggingly dull persona. While her bronze hair was pulled into a bun, she pushed her spectacles up onto the notch of her nose, pursing her lips at his ill-manners. Bluma's blue, puffy winter dress flowed around her ankles with every movement.

Yeah, you remember that old crank? This is her, in all of her oh-so-little glory. The old part isn’t all too true, though the latter definitely is.

“Please, Shamil, be diligent.” Bluma chided with a flat tone, almost like a mother to a toddler's temper tantrum. The belittling tone only irked him on further. “You were warned months ago; you must understand–”

A sharp scoff of fury cut through clenched teeth. “Bullshit!” His knuckles turned pale from their harsh grip on the cold railing, lined with frost. “Months ago, it was warmer, months ago, there wasn’t a snowstorm on its way! Months ago, it was easier to make money while people aren’t scrambling like chickens without heads!”

If Shamil didn’t fight their way out of this, he would turn himself into a huge hypocrite.

People had no free time this far into the year, especially not to pity con-artists and music performers on the streets. They were too busy on their own trying to gather wood, which was already at an all time low, and bundling themselves up in layers until their faces were hidden away. The children ambling around the streets looked more like balls of yarn than human beings.

Bluma shut the door a small ways, jamming herself between the intersection of the snowy town and her bookshop. It made him almost worried that she would lock the door on him; almost. The distinct smell of ash and dust made it through the barrier, a warmth also carrying through. 

“I agree that you’ve been doing the best you can the past little while, but I did give you notice nonetheless.” Feignful pity, his eyes only narrowed further, like she was wary he wasn’t paying rent by choice to horde. Cause that’s all he was to these parts; a liar, a good-for-nothing scam artist who doesn’t care for anyone but himself. “It’s out of my hands unless you pay me your remaining fee.”

A beat passed, his own breath coming out in harsh puffs in the air. If there were little ways to get the money, or convince her to let it slide, then maybe he could bargain?

Yeah, bargain. He could bargain.

Shamil schooled his expression as much as possible before speaking in a quieter, calmer voice. “What about something I can give you? Like uh…” His eyes darted as he shifted through his belongings in his mind. 

A hopeful smile was slapped onto his face. “Books! What about some new books for your shop? I got tons of ‘em! Or– or blankets? I got the softest that you could find! Wouldn’t your customers like to, uh.. cuddle up with a nice blanket and a book? You’d make a fortune!”

He was clearly scrambling for straws, because as much as he tried to find a steadiness in his tone, it still turned out shaky. Wavering.

Bluma’s eyes softened around the edges, wrinkles flattening out. The wishfulness that had sparked in his chest was immediately snuffed out when she shook her head. 

“Shamil. It’s not about giving me something, it’s about what you're giving me.” Her voice was almost solemn. “No one is coming by for my books anymore as much as they're not coming to play cards with you. They’re too stressed to think about such things. I need the money as much as they do, which is why I cannot accept your offer.”

“Bluma–Blumes, come on–” Shamil laughed warily. He refused to plead, but his voice was bordering on it.

She held up a tanned hand, a mute request for his silence. “I can’t, I’m ever sorry, but I need to take care of my relative’s and I’s needs beforehand. If you get the owed bill to me by morning, I would happily allow you to stay.”

His harsh, quickened breaths softened the air between them, intertwining their mutual struggle. Shamil wanted to yell, to scream, to cry, even. All of which was echoing in the cavern of his mind. Mounting curses piled on his tongue, prepared to spit, a gloss threatened to well in his eyes–

Down the cobblestoned road, a slow, rhythmic thrumming captivated his ears, making them twitch and his head pivot.

Plucked harmonies and euphoric notes were all too familiar, spoken in a beautiful language with every note. The strings of the lyre vibrated as they were thrummed by long-nailed fingertips, practiced and performed without failure. Gazes were briefly swept with its hypnotic melody.

In the middle of it all was Suri. Her blonde strands tied up and bundled in a pink beanie, crocheted by his own rough hands with little strings at the bottom tied around her jaw. A small curve formed on her lips, eyes closed and focused. A thick sweater was hanging off her shoulders, which Shamil had to entrap her in early this morning as she fought him.

He had managed to catch her in an alighted mood when she woke up (surprisingly) before noon. A little coaxing could do no harm as he weaved his way into getting her to play her instrument a bit for the people. Of course, when she got home, she would begin to bitch about the cold and the ignorance and–

…And she might not have a home after this.

Words flooded his mouth and rained down before he could stop them, running freely as his brain went on autopilot. “Blumes, please, please.” She perked up, eyes wide and disbelieving that he was speaking this way. “If not for me–then for her.” He gestured to Suri, a desperate gaze locked on Bluma.

Momentarily, a sheen of guilt flooded her features as she looked at her. A frown flattened on her face as the purse in them melted away. “She’s– she’s barely in her twenties.” Shamil gained an edge to his tone, one he had tried to soothe out and iron over, just to resurface as an ugly wrinkle. “Suri’s trying her damn best, okay– we both are.”

He leaned closer to her, as if he was about to barge into her own house and turn the tables with a locked door. “Just– please. Give us the Winter. That’s all I ask.”

Shamil’s asked for a lot more in the past years, and that’s evident in the way she stares at him with a contemplative look. It felt like flipping a penny, except one side meant shelter and the other meant possible death and diesease.

Eventually, she leaned on her doorframe, before holding onto the wooden door with firm-knuckled hands. Her spherical lenses had drooped onto the tip of her nose, eyes refusing to meet his wide ones. “I’m sorry, Shamil.”

Before he could catch her, the door was shut and locked in front of his face. 

As he stood, eyes blown and breaths waning, the world seemed to melt away. His body felt no longer his, the only thing swollen in his chest was an overridden desperation and a smothering, held back anger.

The thin thread of control snapped.

“Oh yeah!” He screeched, rage relighting and spreading throughout his senses. The sorrow and desperation cowered in the corners of his mind, hiding from being licked by the flames. “Hide away in your warm little bookshop while me and my sister freeze!”

No response came from inside, only shuffling against wood and the distinct firewood stench that creeped under the door. Fists pounded against it from his side, all pointless, but as splinters got caught in his digits, a horrid satisfaction–one that he thought he long got away from–rose.

“Fucking bitch!” All bark, his tone was all but hoarse until a heaviness fell over his shoulders. Both physically and mentally. Bangs turned to taps, yells turned to raspy swears as Shamil leaned his forehead against the surface.

Anger was a sword, used both to stab you in the heart and a paranoia that sticks around in your head weeks after being expressed. It was contagious, small spats turning into physical harassment until there were men stamping their heels on the ground with weapons in their hands. Sometimes it was quiet, hidden until the moment to strike, like an assassin. And, sometimes, it was haunting; guilt ridden and crushing under its weight.

Greed was the same way. People yearned, needed, wanted. Give them a foot and they’ll take a mile. Because bullshit kindness and care didn’t define this world; money did, want did. Rapacity did. 

Nothing is free; if someone gives, they always want something more back.

If someone wants, they’ll take without a second glance nor an ounce of guilt.

If there’s a real, core need, it goes over people’s heads as they want and want and want. Their arrogance shadows their vision as children die in the streets, as mothers hold their corpses and weep. Even when you have nothing left, nothing more to give, no more to repay.

What a sin this world has become.

The evening of the following day was a mix of chaos and shambling in their house. Usually, he was comfortable with the former–perferred it, even. But this time, it only increased the pressure laid over his shoulders and threatened to pull him to the ground.

Eerie silence was the only thing accompanying him, along with a clattering of objects as they were thrown into bags and his own loud footsteps. The wooden floors were cold against his bare feet, toes wriggling as if trying to muster warmth. The box in his arms was hauled against his chest as his ponytail swayed.

Shamil winced once he looked at his room for the first time after clearing it.

It looked so… bare. Like a mammal without its fur, it was utterly exposed and empty. No ruffled bedsheets from his splayed limbs, no clustered trinkets on the rustic shelf in the corner to make up for it. Spiders were the only residents visible, legs curled around them as prey were wrapped in a bundle of silk.

Not that his room has always been the most decorative. It was more cluttered, unorganized, but his nonetheless. It made his nose scrunch up that it was now gone except for an empty mattress and old wooden table that looked seconds to giving out.

Ripping his gaze away, he forced himself to make his way into the kitchen, where several other boxes sat. All were messily taped shut and marked in uncoordinated handwriting. They were sitting there, strewn about the table and floor as if they were about to move somewhere nice.

They, most definitely, were not.

It’s be nothing short of a miracle if they found a place after Winter passed, if they survived it at all. They could always try to squeeze into Herald’s; he always let stragglers into his home until no room was left. Shamil never understood why he did it, but–

A faint sound of scurrying made his ears perk up, head moving in the direction of the noise.

Probably the damn mice again. They always loved to make home in Suri’s walls after learning about the free food supply she frequently left. She may as well be Cinderella from those stupid children's books with how much they came by.

With a dissatisfied huff, the splintered broom that had been tucked away in the corner was yanked out as he stomped down the hallway.

Kicking the door open, it hit the wall adjacent to it with a harsh slam as the hinges squealed like pigs. A few rats, as big as his fist or more so, were clumped together on the bedside table, slurping and gnawing at the half eaten egg yolks from the morning before. A few scurried away once he made an appearance, a few others stood their ground like soldiers on a battlefield.

What naive little creatures; To think that they have any control over anything.

They were all like that, once; even himself. Small children who have never experienced the blinding hatred of this cruel world, hidden behind the ignorance of a loved one's shield. Hands covering their eyes until ripped away by seething consciousness and the pain of growing up. You don’t just see your loved ones on the outside, you see their flaws, their fears and the dark parts of themselves they tried to protect you from.

These mice are the exact same. They cling onto the fragile idea that finally they can have some reprieve, some real nutrients to fill their bellies. All until a bigger being who thinks their better comes in to hit them with the harsh slap of cruelty.

But he isn’t better. All that has decided he was is his taller height and further evolution. It doesn’t make it any more right.

Just as promised, the broom came down upon the side of the table with a heavy blow, causing the silverware to clatter against porcelain. A few more swings to rid of the bolder mice, and the last of them snuck away, rather between the floorboards or in the broken drywall in the corner.

“And stay gone..” Shamil cursed under his breath, letting out a jagged sigh as he set the broom against the wall. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, massaging the phantom headache away.

When he reopened his eyes, it felt a little derealising to him.

Shamil found that he’s never really seen this room before. Sure, he’s been in it plenty and cleaned it when his sister wasn’t able, but that almost seemed like a different room entirely. This one was bare, already cleaned out by his own hands (mostly when he wasn’t all there in the head), now only consisting of a wardrobe in the crook of the space and a decently sized bed. The eggs had been left due to simple negligence.

He never really pictured the day where he would have to do this. Well, actually, that’s a lie; he has, many times, thought about what would happen if their income went down the drain as their illnesses worsened. 

But this; the actual emptying out of the place they’ve spent most of their life in… It makes it feel unreal.

He wishes it was.

With a harsh push of both discomfort and frustration, he sealed off the door to both his train of thought and the void of the room left in his trace. He didn’t know what pissed him off the most, himself for letting this happen, their stupid landlord for being so, so useless, or the fact that life blows. Maybe a combination; maybe all three, it's to be decided.

“Hey, Shamil!” Low toned, but all the more feminine, joyous voice twined with the sound of the howling wind that rushed in the front door. It creaked and hit the back wall before Suri shut and latched it. “I tried out those Tarot cards that you lent me! They were a huge hit with the kids–didn’t make much, but–” 

Her speech cut out when her eyes practically bugged out of her head when they landed on the boxes on the table, then at him. His brows were furrowed, frown one of a man who just got caught red-handed.

Yeah, so…

He maybe, sorta, not’ve… told her about them getting kicked out.

“Suri–” He tried his best to calm, to console, but that’s never been his best quality. 

“What. The. Fuck, Shamil!?” Her tone took on an accusing tone, ringing out sharp and incredulous. He could practically feel fingers pointing from all sides with blatant disdain and blame. As if there was a blade at his throat once more.

Suri’s mouth opened and closed with a sound of a held-back groan of frustration, so he decided to speak for her. Against his better or worse judgement.

Almost as if she’d shoot her, he held his hands up slightly. “Listen, I didn’t– It just– happened, okay? I got the form a while ago but I–” He averted his eyes, looking like he was crossing between unsureness and awkwardness. “I didn’t wanna tell you; you were going through a lot. Didn’t wanna worry you… or whatever.”

His sister’s eyes, which usually held a smug or joyful crinkle to the corners, or a playfully annoyed roll, were now void of that. After taking in the words, they narrowed in disbelief. Or, more accurately, anger.

“How long?” Were the only two words that came out of that pinched mouth, a hiss barely contained.

One of Shamil’s fingers subconsciously began to pick at his cuticles, already picked and worn from a habit that never ceased. He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing with the tension. “...A few months. It was September.”

“A few months–!?” She yelled out through clenched teeth, trying and failing to compose her emotions, which she was usually a master at masking on her better days. 

“And you think this was the best way for it to come out?! This isn’t some birthday surprise that was spoiled or something! This is our home, ours!” Suri gestured to the both of them, opposites of a coin, though joined together by flesh and blood. “You don’t get to make a decision about what happens to our home and then keep me in the dark like some little fucking kid!”

Shamil’s hand clenched in the cuff of his sleeve. Not from anger. “What difference would it have made?” His voice was tight, words calculated and mapped out.

She scoffed, throwing her arms out in a wild motion of displeasure. “I–I would’ve done more! I could’ve pulled longer shifts out in town or… I don’t know, something! I live here too, Shamil, I have choices and precedence too!”

Biting back a sharp witted retort under his tongue, he simply shook his head, trying to keep his voice steady; indifferent. “It wouldn’t have mattered. People don’t pay much this time of year and we weren’t gathering enough, so–”

“Bullshit!” Suri yelled. “I could’ve done something! I’m not useless, Shamil!”

For a moment, all went quiet; he actually staggered back, not expecting such a loud and hysteric tone. She’s never yelled like that before; not that he’d seen, anyways. He was always known for being the one with the short fuse, not her.

Though his mind warred against it, a mutter was cursed under his breath, hissed, inaudible, but meant to be by the way his hand fisted.

He wouldn’t say it to her. He wouldn’t; he wouldn’t.

When he looked back up, though, Suri had stepped closer, a daring look in her eyes. She was smiling, though devastatingly unkind. “No. Quit mumbling. If you're gonna say something, say it.”

When he refused with an opposing quiet, she shook one of his shoulders, grip tight. “Say it, Shamil.” When he shook his head with a stubborn, ignorant unacceptance, she snapped out, “Fucking say it–!”

“Fine. Fine; you wanna hear what I have to say?” Shamil finally looked her in the eye, his own holding a long-burrowed annoyance that he tried to hide her away from. Placing a hand to her chest, he pushed her away, causing her to falter back. “You could’ve done more either way. You should’ve for years now.”

A flash of hurt mixed with guilt appeared in her eyes, but she didn’t defend herself. Not yet, at least.

“You shouldn’t have to be explicitly asked and forced into doing something just to do it! You should do it anyway; I sure have for you!” As if revenge for the one he got minutes ago, he pointed a finger at her instead. “When you're bedridden, you don’t ask for food, but I make it anyway. Even if the rats eat more of it than you do. I wasn’t asked to wash your clothing down at the lake or to go out and commit literal crimes to keep a roof over your head!”

Too caught up in his words, he’s tangled like a spider web. His feet move closer to her by a step, then two. “I'll do it anyway! I’ve always done it, even when my body was on fire and I was near fainting on the front step. You can’t even get a damn job!”

“Lazy? Like that sister of yours? Who probably lies on her bed every hour of the day and is too emotional to get a job because of it? If we’re gonna talk about unproductiveness, then…”

“So, yeah, sorry if I didn’t trust you with such stressing information when I was already freaking out a bit myself. Sorry if I don’t think you do jack shit around here, but you don’t.” He spat through bared teeth, eyes wide in both disbelief and a quick onset of anger. 

Everything felt as if he was moving through syrup and moving at light speed in the same second, as if someone else was speaking the words and he wanted to tell them off himself before realizing it was him. No one else but him.

Shamil’s breath heaved as hers in comparison was quiet. He didn’t see Suri hurt nor angry, much. Maybe once or twice a year, but other than that, she was usually pretty calm. Bickering didn’t count, that was a joking, casual thing.

This… this wasn’t sadness, nor even the rare frustration. This was hurt, a wound that cut deep and bled out internally an dspewed out of every crevice. He didn’t want to feel guilty, didn’t want to get to the point where his self-restraint snapped, but he did.

And, in return, cursed himself for it. 

She deserved to know.

He didn’t mean to hurt her.

Why did she have to be so ignorant!?

Why is he like this–!

“I…I need some air.” Came a low murmur, shaking as the syllables were spoken. It made Shamil’s vision refocus and thoughts cease.

Suri had re-zipped her jacket, the bunchy fabric making shuffling as it creased. Her usually light eyes were averted and sheened over with a gloss. He felt his breath catch in his throat, along with the sharp-witted remarks that had easily rolled off his tongue earlier.

Shamil’s face fell, irate snarl forming into a dreaded frown. Aches from his stiff limbs was but a background noise as his her rang with a fervour. His throat bobbed when he swallowed to attempt to ease his desert-dry throat.

He fucked up.

Before she was able to pull at the door handle, he ran over with a speed he didn't know he had. Shamil’s hand gripped her arm, maybe a little too firm, shortened nails latched on like a cat's nail in skin. She whirled around, stunned, but quickly, her face hardened once more.

“Let go.” Suri mumbled, voice uncharacteristically reserved. Her deep blue knapsack has pulled over her shoulder, secured under the arm he wasn’t tugging at.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know yet. Just out.” She yanked herself away, trying to unlatch herself from his grip; but he held on tight, as if his intent was to dislodge her shoulder from her socket. Suri’s face twisted into frustration. “Let go.”

Really, his hold was just out of a nostalgic, strange desperation, a pleading feeling that he thought he long dug a grave for.

“No. There’s a Witches-forsaken snowstorm coming our way and you're just gonna go out there?! I’m not letting you do that–”

Suri’s body coiled in tension as his grip dug into her skin, turning it tender and red. Almost as if it’d bruise. “I don’t care! Let go of me Shamil!”

Shamil growled, voice growing louder; higher. “No! I’m not gonna let you fucking kill yourself–!”

A harsh, bellowing slap rang through the air; Shamil’s voice sputtered into wisps.

His grip finally lessened as he stumbled a few steps back.

A hand trailed up to his face, the skin red and tender, raw.

When his blue eyes finally found Suri again, she was darting her gaze between the hand she had used to strike him and Shamil, who was on the other end of the stick. Time seemed to slow to a near halt. They both held tears in their eyes, one from the shock and the other from guilt.

They never struck each other, no matter how high tensions got.

On shaky legs, Suri tripped back, hitting the wall before throwing open the door. She bolted out of the house before either of them could speak. The door slammed against the wall with the weight of their regrets and heavy words they had thrown. Snowflakes trickled in as the door was left ajar. A perfect pattern illustrated on their snowy forms before being melted into no more than a memory.

It-it happened so quick, he...they-

Shamil’s knees gave out, and hit the ground with a dull thump. No words were left to be spoken.

His seventh cigar of the day left stains of soot on his lower lip as he eased it away.

Smoke whirled through his lungs, where it hadn’t seen in a while, before dispersing into the frosty air as he sighed. The wooded window had long since dug into his elbows, making them turn a harsh pink. It matched his still-sensitive cheek with an almost uncomfortable resemblance.

The vapor spiralled in almost fascinating shapes into the air, cleansing itself and dancing amongst the snow. A childish dream he always had was to fly; stupid, generic. It almost made him envy the harpy's and their huge wings.

Suri had been gone for eight days. 

No trace had been left, only the subtle bruise that lingered on his cheek out of a sharp retaliation. It hurt more than the initial impact did, this reminder.

A reminder of how stupid he’d been.

Ever since he had come to Herald’s, he hadn’t spoken much, no more than a casual greeting or a blatant yes or no. Shamil felt no urge to use his vocal cords, why should he? It wasn’t like they did so great the last time he’d (really) used them.

His friend must’ve taken pity on him or some bullshit because he was given an extra room in the house. The idea of one in his own– old house was almost foreign. Some of the homeless had already ambled into the house, cramming into corners and cowering together for warmth–

What a hypocrite he is, once again. Shamil himself was homeless now.

The long hair that fell to his thighs was barely in its ponytail, ever so close to breaking free from its confinement. It hadn’t been brushed in days, balls of knots forming at the back of his scalp. He didn’t know if getting the band out of his hair was even an option anymore. 

Shamil doesn’t think he’s taken his eyes off of the road since he got here. His practiced eyes were always scanning every head of hair, every face, for his sister. A displeasant feeling of worry made his stomach sickened, eye bags deeper and body coil further into tension.

Sure, he’d gone out the first few days, bundled up to his neck in a jacket that was way too big for him and a wool scarf crafted out of an itchy yarn. Searched every nook and cranny to see if she had been stubbornly just trying to hide away from him. Asked around even when people turned their nose to him and knocked into his shoulder in arrogance.

Only one had answered. 

A small, but firm hand grasped at Shamil’s shoulder from behind him, making him jolt and freeze. He had half a mind to hit whoever was behind him, mind leaning towards fight mode. By the way his body twisted, it almost seemed as though he would.

But the eyes on this person were ever so familiar. 

Iris’s a deep brown, yet drizzled in an undertone of yellow that made it seem like tea being mixed with a sweet honey. Her eyes were sharp at the corners, older than her age, yet also keeping the roundness of an adolescence.

Mari looked at him impatient, lips pursed in unspoken words as she gripped him. It made her almost look twice her age, with how the edges of her lips creased. Her father’s were off to the side, preoccupied talking to a seller who was boasting about his products. Shamil didn’t focus on them though, didn’t care enough to.

“Your sister,” She started, voice quiet but ever so knowing, “the woman with the lyre who played in the square, yes? Curly hair, freckles?” She gestured with a free hand to the side of her own nape. “A birthmark on her neck?”

Shamil’s eyes must’ve lit with how he perked up, pointy ears twitching as the ends felt numb from the crisp air. Witches, this girl had an immaculate memory. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s her. D-do you know anything, have you seen–”

A placating pinch landed on his pale hand where he had subconsciously gripped onto her forearm subconsciously. He winced, pulling it away with an offended narrow of the eyes. “Quiet. Let me talk.” Mari flatly chided.

“I saw her walk through the shops. She had a little bag and a coat on her, but not much else. You can see her head of hair from miles away; it was up in a high ponytail and looked decently taken care of.” The picture came clearly in his head from how straightforward she was; Suri, walking alone with a purse and a red palm. Tears swelled up her eyes and stuck to her lashes but no-one bothered to inquire.

Her gaze shifted into an insulting one, with a wrinkled nose and a pink lip that curled. “A far fetch from yours, I could see.”

“Continue.” He ground out between clenched teeth. ‘You little brat’ was left unsaid, but echoed in his head.

Mari sighed with discontent, “She was walking into the higher parts of town, where all the ‘richies’ live.” Her twisted expression seemed to be faced towards said people now, her lengthy finger darting up towards the mountain. “I don’t know where she went after that, but if she hasn’t returned, I think we could both interpret what happened to her.”

That she’s dead.

A cloud of dread had been hovering over Shamil ever since, a swell of unease never ceasing to lie low in his gut. It made him nauseous every time he digested something, almost always coming back the way it came once he was hunched over a bin.

The thought of Suri, decapitated and torn apart, covered in a white sheen that mixed in a dangerously beautiful mix with her scarlet blood. Organs spilling out and hung in the creatures mouth as maggots rolled over her–

Her dead eyes, dilated pupils, looking at him as a memorial of the words he had spoken, the anger he had let off the hook and latch onto her like a leech.

The girl was soon pulled away from her father’s, who muttered small, untruthful apologies before whisking her away. He felt their eyes on his back as they led her away as if he was some untamed animal.

That evening, for the first time in five years, he lit a cigarette, letting the smoke pour into him and consume him whole. Maybe hoping it’d take his thoughts away when it was blown into the air. Even if the smoke made his eyes water, lingering and clutching onto him like fangs, sinking deep and consuming him whole.

Shamil considered picking up some older habits, but soon decided not to. Herald’s wrath would be set upon him, and that was an inconvenience in itself. The only move he made was the press of the cigar’s bud on his arm, leaving a dark rim in its wake.

Was this a foolish idea?

Most definitely.

Did his impulse get the better of his actions?

Eh… it’s to be decided. It depends on how his ego’s going.

Shamil’s pant hems held stiff around his worn boots, thick powder reaching up to his calf. It felt like walking through sludge, slow and agonizing. The bottoms did nothing to protect him as the cold nipped at his skin, goosebumps splattered across every inch of his skin.

It got colder as he traversed steeper.

Icy air howled and assaulted his ears, causing the whole of them to go unfeeling. A blush red coated his cheekbones and pronounced his dotted freckles. Every step, a blend of the punishing wind and the slope of the path and the dense snow, made Shamil’s body jerk. His body would not be happy with him later.

To be fair, it wasn’t too joyous now. 

Shamil could swear that his toes had been frozen over, no feeling came through his muddled mind. It felt as if he was on autopilot, legs continuing the walk in a shaky cycle as they braced against the upward climb. His knees wobbled, a threat; a warning.

Fuck, why was he doing this?

A gap left itself at home in his memory, leaving nothing behind where it lay. All that remained of his existence at the Herald’s place was the corpse of a cigarette on the sill and the mess of belongings strewn around the room. The burn lingered on his forearm, mingling with old scars as they reminisced.

He knew he was desperate, a weird thing to feel his gut that’s been curdling there for the past week now. It dulled his edges and replaced the anger, the numbness that had caused his voice to die out and the eyes to grow dim. 

All that remained in the hole in his head was a grace of emotions and sounds. Footsteps pounding against the floorboards, slamming doors and the rustle of clothing. 

He was furious, that much was certain. There was just no one but himself to take it out on but himself. It steeped into his words as he bellowed Suri's name like a war cry. Coming from unused vocals, it ended up hoarse and pathetic, echoing through the peaks. Shamil kept going until his voice fluttered into a cracked whisper, throat burning with a fervour.

Shamil’s steps were labored, feet crushing the snow underneath him like insects and teetering to the side. Thoughts running at a million miles an hour, his SoulJam tried and failed to heat his quivering form in a form of survival instinct. Though a nice intent, it also took away most of his energy.

His foot slipped, catching on the side of the unfenced cliff.

Breath hitching, his body threw itself to the side, shoulder crashing painfully into the rough but comforting powder. His legs hung over the edge, weight threatening to pull him down. Chest against the hard surface, his hand could grasp nothing.

So, instead, feet kicked instinctively, pushing himself away from the icy edge he was nearly thrown down. Snow fell in a mini avalanche into the misted area below, disappearing from sight and stealing his fate mercifully.

Sputtered breaths were spilled, loud and panting unevenly, eyes bulging wide and filled with an unforeseen terror. His shoes had left tracks in the drag– his hands wouldn’t stop shaking–

Large pines strew behind him, seen when he lay back bonelessly and his eyes rolled up. They swayed and rained down with minuscule flakes that lay upon them like a blanket.

Crispia was not but a memory now, swallowed by the twists and turns of the cliff side. Thoughts unleashed through his head, like sheep escaping their shepard. He had to go back— he had to keep going— he had to—

A memory, one of sweet teas and a brisk air filled his head.

One of Mysta’s irritant face, of Herald’s joyously arrogant laugh as he beat Sal at arm wrestling. He himself had been shifting around pieces on a dull, wooden chessboard with a sharp scrape.

His deft fingers placed his Queen in the middle of the board. And Suri, her ecstatic expression with creased eyes and wide smile as she knocked his Queen to the battlefield’s floor with her Bishop. She laughed triumphantly, boasting about her mastery and his losses.

He’d let her do that, is what he had said with a feigned pout.

In character, it was a lie. His mischievous eyes had missed her piece, waiting for the perfect moment to attack. An attack that he’d fallen prey to.

Suri had been learning and practicing to match his level every time he had cornered her pieces and placed her in a chokehold.

But, he couldn’t help but share that fondness when she howelled out in celebration.

Now, his opponent was missing from the board, a single space missing that is mostly deterred by its weakness than its importance. 

The King.

On wobbly legs, he rose from the ground, his ass and shoulder aching with a fervour with every step he took. Shamil’s breaths were shaky and murky, as the foggy sky was above the Earth.

Shamil didn’t go down, he continued upon the trail into the peaks. To find the missing piece before it was placed in checkmate. Even if he'd be killed in the process. A sacrifice, almost. 

The ice spread across the mountain floor was now his biggest rival.

Insensibility travelled up his legs, mingling with the dual loss of contact in his arms. Quivering heaves fell from his mouth, which was wide open as his chest tightened in reply, greedily sucking in air. It had gotten thinner the higher he went, making breathing difficult.

Foot slipped; legs twisted in cruel ways. Cheekbone met the frost, a bruise curdled in its wake.

Head lolled too far forward, back slouched and body following. A harsh blow to his already injured shoulder, though, no pain verberated through his nerves. Just a silent scream at the blow that pushed the air out of him.

Legs buckled. Nose creating a sickening crack as it collided with ice. Blood painted the purity of the snow in a beautifully gruesome painting. Some was weakly coughed up as it rolled down his trachea.

Each and every time, he rose, somehow. Arms pulling most of the heavy weights in the action as his legs dragged along the path. A trail of scarlet was left by an ever-dripping nosebleed. A small nudge at his existence.

“Who would wanna take the risk of killing if.. The person in question would barely be cared about when gone?”

Shamil wondered, in the corner of his blurred, hazy mind, if the avians could smell his blood. If they would come to feast like a blood-hungry shark as his body was lied out in pieces along the snow.

He wondered who would show up to his small funeral in the town square; or if there'd be one at all.

He could no longer breathe, every breath quickly joined with a gasp for more. 

Shamil shivered, arms wrapping around himself feebly like a small child. Herald’s stolen jacket did little; though it was big, it was just as thin as paper.

Frost clumped and formed icicles in his hair, stuck to his face and clothes as well. It made Shamil’s pale skin flush a feverish red, snivels joining light coughs.

Hurt was but embers in his body; a pathetic mercy. Blood had frozen over from his nose long ago, dried and stained his chin. The bridge was crooked, almost looking dented from the break.

What was he doing here, again…?

He saw Herald opening the shop…smoked…panicked..

Sis.. Sister— that’s right, he was looking for his sister. 

Now he’s cold. Numb.

But also warm; no pain got to him up here. Almost as if he won 'King of the castle' on the playground as all the other kids booed and whined at his victory. Shamil’s body wasn’t actively trying to kill itself as it couldn’t feel anything to weaponize.

Shaking. Stumbling. Buckling. But painless.

All white. No dirty truths. No worrying. Nothing mattered in the void of oblivion.

A tree collided with his side, and his legs stuttered, coming to a shaky halt. Shamil’s weight spilt against the bark, powder raining down at the impact. The flakes steeped him like tea, tiny rivulets of water running down his face. He let it run over his eyes, his lips; the saltiness was tangy, but satisfying.

Shamil’s knees were cradled as he fell, embraced by the snow that welcomed him like no one ever had. Its hands cradled his face when he leaned into its touch, its coolness indirectly warmed his skin. 

It molded into his body, pulling him in like a mother to her child. Clung to the smallest of lashes as they fluttered as if he was the most precious thing in the world.

It soothed the constant ache, held him dear.

He didn’t wanna leave. 

Everything was pure, unlike anything their life had been, far from it. Maybe this is what Heaven was, and why it’s made out to be the best place. 

He’d only seen it a handful, briefly, but that was always when the blade would hold his hand to help him cross. Though, he never did traverse that bridge. It but only flashed behind tired, half-dead eyes. Shamil had always been brought back by panicked shakes and flurrying hands of his sister, who'd then drag him to Mysta's for a slap to the head and reluctant treatment.

Maybe Suri was there, too…They could play chess together again..

He would let her win, not without battle, of course. Her smile would stretch and beam as white as the snow as he feigned offence and challenged her once more.

Shutting his weary eyes, maybe Shamil could embrace a world of peace. One where he could sit adjacent to a fireplace, cuddled up with a book as his friends surrounded him and laughed. One where he could eat decent meals and take regular bathes so his beloved hair could become soft and bouncy once more. One where you didn’t have to watch infants die on the streets or feel the ever-growing pit of hunger in his stomach. 

Now, reunited once more with warmth, he never wanted anything more.

Soft-palmed hands hovered over the human's lax body with uncertainty before finally resting on his cheek.

The sharpened digits never once touched the mortal’s face, as if he was ever so fragile and molded into glass. It merely ran across his face, taking some of the powder with it in a jerked but practiced swipe of the thumb.

A fluttering, panicked chirp reverberated from the figure that looked over the body. The near-corpse was tilted onto his back deftly, the abnormally hot hand resting at his pulse point.

Its flame was dimming, wisping about and flickering as it clung onto wax. Like a voice, blanketed and muffled into quiet. Weak, barely there and quieted between them by strain.

He was unnaturally still, no longer shaking or quivering. No longer feeling.

Perhaps the mortal’s face was the only thing warm left of his body; flushed red with a rushing, oncoming fever. A waterfall of dried blood fell down the man’s cheek, matched with a crooked nose that had obviously been broken. A protective croon drawled from him, with the edge of a growl. With a careful handle of his hand, the bridge glowed a light yellow and straightened itself out with a pop. It made nausea swirl in his gut.

With an astonishing gentleness, the human was propped up and hoisted into a smothering hold. It blocked all outside disturbances, any dangers, by wide shoulders and long limbs.

A quilt of feathers had been wrapped around him by Vanilla, his wing greatly encasing the mortal in a warm sanctuary as he stood. His arms secured the man from the underside of his legs, whose face was pressed against the harpy’s chest. 

When he shifted, the dying man was cradled against him to shield from any harm while having fully accessibility to his wings. As he bowed his head to the human’s face, blushed, snowy and peaceful, the instincts he had attempted to suppress for so long echoed in his mind. It caused his slitted eyes to dilate and his feathers to puff out.

Keyword: attempted.

His grip tightened up by a fraction as he took off, the clothes solid beneath his pads. Vanilla’s wings beat, redirecting flakes and steadily eating up the distance it took to get home. 

Every time the man’s head lolled, he would cup his nape, bringing him back to the heat emanating from Vanilla’s body. The taloned hand was about as big as the mortal’s skull, body easily doubling the latter’s. 

Nonetheless, the creature acted as gentle as a bleating cream sheep. Though, instead of bleats, it was anxious coos and chirps that tumbled through Vanilla’s throat. 

After all, he could only fly so fast without jostling the poor mortal further, who was already getting whipped around as his hair whipped in angry strands. And, on the other hand, the man had stopped shaking, the hypothermia slipping under his skin and into the bones.

There was frostbite as well, relating to the redness of the mortal’s pointed ears. The harpy gently stroked them with the cusp of his hand, as if trying to transfer heat back into them.

As the human was hoisted up, head dropping into the crook of Vanilla’s neck, the latter rested a protective hand resting on the back of his neck. The fabric of his shirt was frozen, but the heat spreading on Vanilla’s face made up for it.

Small, shallow puffs of air were being fanned onto Vanilla’s neck. The harpy’s SoulJam hummed happily as it neared the one secured onto the man. Though, Vanilla was far from happy. His mind only filled with panic as his hand shifted from the mortal’s neck to his cheek, brushing his fluttering bangs aside.

Too cold. Bordering on dangerous.

Wings flew faster, speed climbing and the cliffs below becoming nothing more than a blur. With every beat, his arms tightened as if worried he’d drop him.

As the dainty cottage finally came into view, the distance was eaten up swiftly. The hurtling pace left Vanilla stumbling when he landed at an angle, slipping backwards, back colliding with the ground. As the breath was knocked out of him, gravity pulling him down only to be caught barely by his wings, he made sure to hold the human safely to his chest.

Once he rose, he sprinted all but over to the door with a haste, knocking the door open with his shoulder using once brute strength. Though healing was his specialty, having a bigger form was far from a useless quality.

A sheen of smoke, kindling from the wood fire that filled the room with an orange hue, hit him right in the face. Vanilla’s nose scrunched up as it assaulted his nostrils, eyes burning. He made sure to cup a hand over the man’s eyes to prevent the same, even if his eyes were closed.

Using a simple spell, he channeled a blue-ish magic to his fingertips and added logs to the fore to keep the house warm.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway as he beelined it for the bedroom, the cracked front door forgotten quickly. In the moment, it almost felt like an optical illusion, never ending.

Alas, when he entered the open room, he quickly kicked the door shut with a woollen boot, making the walls rumble. The pillows were set up to mirror a nest, only missing the typical branches and trinkets one may think a harpy would have.

He always went for the more modern approach, preferring a warm home than living in the chaotic outside like Cacao. His friend had never understood why he’d choose such an ‘unuseful’ and 'weakened' sanctuary.

Mostly for comfort, he’d answer, though it was also because if something like this happened to himself or his mortal, they wouldn’t have to wither away in the chaotic conditions of the outdoors.

Settling said mortal onto the plush mattress, he took a moment to make sure he wasn’t in any immediate danger before turning to his dresser. It was dutifully carved from wood and crafted by his own hands, fitted and organized with many shelves to store different articles.

Pulling new clothes onto himself, Vanilla bundled up in a nice sweater with slits to fit his wings and fluffed bottoms. For his own damp ones, they were carelessly discarded onto the floor, making a wet squelch. A few other pieces of clothing returned with him to the bed, which was much bigger than a normal one was to accommodate his wings. Almost double a human’s so-called ‘king-sized’ one.

Vanilla’s digits never lingered too long after carefully removing the man’s frigid clothing, which wettened the blanket below. He’d have to change that. Unlike his own clothing, the human’s was dutifully folded and set aside for later care.

In fact, his fingers barely graced his skin at all. He took care that only his pads and not his talons would ever make contact. And that was only when he spotted them, almost spontaneous scars littering his mortal’s body, making a soft anger rise.

When removing the man’s leather boots, filled with holes and dirtied from top to bettor, he found a dagger wedged into it. Vanilla carefully removed it, settling it into the drawer to rest. He was in no place to judge, with all of the rumors and tales of his kind that circulated within the mortal planes.

Once bare, he slipped his own clothing onto the human as quickly as he’d been stripped. Though, his eyes caught on the SoulJam embedded on his chest before ripping his gaze and flushed face away. Vanilla’s instincts were on ultra-drive. He couldn’t let them go haywire.

The large knitted sweater and pants practically dwarfed the man. The hems came way below his feet and sleeves below his hands. The harpy’s hands itched to hold him and never let go again, no matter the fear, but he just curled his fists and moved to the bathroom.

A towel was stolen from the restroom, his talons barely unable to cut through its many layers.

Rolling the mortal onto his side, Vanilla took the long hair into his grasp, cutting the band easily to unleash its knotted curls. It spilled over the barrier like an overflowed dam. Hm. He’d have to get it untangled on a later date. Maybe a wash, too, with how greasy it felt to the touch.

Filing the thought away momentarily, the cloth was patted through the dark hair. It soaked up any ice that had softened and squeezed the locks until mostly dry.

The towel was barely folded and set down when Vanilla took the human into his arms once more, ripping the damp blanket off the bed before returning a new one to replace it. It was white and as soft as they come, fluttering like waves as it was fanned out onto the bed.

Both of them went down, this time. Head propped onto the top pillows, he gathered the man into his arms as they settled onto their sides. Vanilla’s wing fell over the human, leg curling around the other’s own. It caused the mortal to be only visible by him as he tilted his head down.

Sure, he’d seen the man before, but not like this. Not at this proximity.

Thick lashes covered the bags that hung from his eyes, dark and lush. His nose was straight and high-bridged, like a scholar, flushed red at the tip just like his sharpened cheekbones. The man’s lips… his lips were slightly parted to breathe, bent at an angle as his cheek was pressed into the bed. They were thin and dry, but—

His cheek.

A bruise lingered there, making his eyes narrow and pupils slit into lines. It had gone over his head earlier, being cast aside as yet another fall injury. But, now that he really looked at it, it resembled a shape.

A hand was formed in a soft but vibrant ring of purple.

Vanilla’s chest tightened, hands subconsciously fisting in the man’s, well, his, clothes. He felt his nails pierce them ever so slightly. Witches, he wanted to kill whoever did that, whoever dared to–

“H—nn..” The man hummed softly, face twisting in a confused and sleepy discomfort as the cold lingered underneath his skin. It was slurred, not an actual word or noise with any meaning. All he did was shift his head ever so slightly, never actually, fully stirring. Vanilla’s heart stopped, pausing to check if he was awake or not, which he wasn’t. Just recovering from the strain on his body as he swam in the depth of unconsciousness.

Sighing, the harpy sat his chin onto the mortal’s crown, shushing him softly. The sound seemed more like a ‘tsh’, though the point was still the same. Almost as if he was trying to imitate a mortal’s way of comforting.

After pulling the soft quilt over his human’s form, his thumb moved in a motherly motion up and down his back. Vanilla’s leg bent over the man’s’ like a bridge, his body easily out-sizing him.

Eyes fluttering to a close, he kept the mechanisms going, sometimes hushing his sleepy groans, sometimes humming quietly.

Vanilla didn’t dare sleep until he was assured that the man was safe. Warm and (mostly) uninjured in his arms. He needed to stay alert to make sure the mortal didn’t go into Rewarming shock from Vanilla’s haste.

Though, only one thought ran through his head as he finally held what was his.

Mine. Protect, protect, protect.