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Peregrine hasn’t felt this nervous in a while. The feeling is not entirely foreign to them, as they’re always alert about something, but today they feel nearly afraid.
The Lark has a show today, so nothing new. The only difference be a newly added song; their song. The song they once dug their heels in and fought so against creating, lest they acknowledge their past. Not even to mention telling the tale to a many people whom they know little of, standing on a stage to cry their woes. Yet, they stand here, recalling countless days and nights of rehearsing and reviewing words of such woes. About them.
Many rehearsals they refused to do with the rest of the Lark. It is nothing against their friends, merely the fear of being vulnerable they’ve harbored for years. So, their practices were to be with Mx. Playwright, or alone in the forest for only the animals and trees to listen. It was only the week of their first show with the song had they rehearsed it with the Lark. Even then, they did not look to any of them the whole event.
Alas, one of their fears had come true during these times; acknowledging their past meant it haunted them again. Restless nights became many, images in its mind gaining vividness back as the voices of whom they refuse to name scream in their ears. Burden it be, they wouldn’t be one themself. So, they did not protest once more, not even as they’d sit in their bunk ’til the sun met their face.
Now, they stand behind the stage, eyes heavy. Their vision runs around them, but their eyes remain still, and their body feels as though they may fall at the first word from their mouth. The child hasn’t met rest in some time, and they can feel it growing impatient. The pull is enough to spark this fear they feel kindling within them, only sounds of sharp breaths and their rising heart echo through their ears. It is not their first show to sing their song, but it is still merely the second. Still fresh, still new. Still scary.
Peregrine steps forward, hand daring to move the curtain before them. With a slight lean, they peek. The people before the stage make up blurry shapes as its chestnut eye gazes over them. It stops, as does their heart. Two figures in the crowd make their gut lurch. They cannot see them, merely their turned backs, but they have the same colors as them. Everything stops. They do not blink nor breathe. Not a sound.
“Glory thy stillness…”
A distressed moan escapes their throat, not unlike the creature carved of their mask, and their footing slips underway. It catches itself with hands to a bureau behind them, a loud clatter polluting their ears. Darkness clouds all their vision, only able to see their shaking hands before them. Said hands tear its mask from the top of its head, throwing it across the backstage. They reach again for their head, as they grasp their hair. Harsh tugs and tears through their braids; a feeling they’d nearly forgotten.
“No..” It whimpers breathlessly. “They…they can’t..”
A new sound breaks through their rapid heaves for air; a voice. Someone else’s voice, be it muffled, it be grounding. Enough for the child to glance towards their vicinity, and to see a blurry form of yellow, brown, and white. Its quiet voice carries to them again, sounds of concern and alarm. It only heightens Peregrine’s fear. They try to shout, cry for help, for safety from whom they’d seen. Only air and a lack thereof exits and enters. They tug their braids once more, harder as if to hurt the voice from the depths of their chest. They really are no better than them.
The figure before them hurries off, leaving a cloud of hopelessness for Peregrine to heave.
Come back. It wishes to beg. Help me.
Efforts to plead take mounts of strength. Yet, not a syllable rolls off their tongue. Only wordless cries, accompanied by too much air with none reaching a lung. A new shape makes its appearance known, shades of soft browns and yellows settling before the child. It speaks, deep voice muffled.
Mx. Playwright?
Peregrine would sigh with relief, could they breathe. Rather than a sigh, a hitched intake of air is what they manage. The adult is talking to them, asking them something…
“Eyas, what happened?”
Their ears finally seek the voice, allowing them to listen. The question nearly leaves them frozen as before, staring with trembling hands. Syllables feel like choking.
“I…saw…thought…saw…” Peregrine’s head spins from their tongue catching.
“Easy now,” The Playwright steadies. “You’ll catch the floor should you not breathe. Try to focus on one thing. You can hear my words, can you try looking at my face?”
Peregrine listens, darting chestnut and olive around in a haze, before stilling them on the pale shape before their face. With a gasp of air, their vision clears only a bit to show them a pair of kind eyes behind small windows. In turn, it feels its breaths grow longer, giving them feeling in their body.
“Now, what did you see?” The Playwright asks.
“Them.” Finally exits the child’s throat, taking form of a sob more than a word. Like a drop of bitter medicine has been piped on their tongue as they’re forced to swallow. Air leaves their lungs again, and they beg to have it back. Its hands grip tighter at the roots in its head and tug again, begging to burst free of these feelings. Bigger hands find their way to its own, barely pressing down, yet holding enough power to guide them away. Their hands are held before them, feeling gentle thumb strokes on their palms.
“Now, Dear,” The elder soothes. “Easy does it. Follow my lead, yes?”
The Playwright proceeds to inhale greatly, holding the air in for four seconds, before slowly releasing it. They repeat, encouraging Peregrine to mimic, each thumb stroke marking seconds. The child follows, choking in their first attempts, but improving each try. Its head begins to clear of the fog, allowing the shapes before it to turn vivid. All that remain are their trembling hands cradled in the Playwright’s, a bone dry throat, and a lingering weakness throughout their limbs. Four figures enter behind the Playwright, making Peregrine tense. It’s the Lark, accompanied by Cooper, all displaying concerned crevices among their faces. The Playwright seems to feel the child’s tension, turning to peer at whom have entered.
“Darling, may you direct the children to the stage, please?” They request of their spouse. “I’m to care for our calf here.”
“What are we to do without Perri?” Cole asks, fiddling their thumbs.
“We’ll figure that out.” Cooper assures already ushering the children away. “Bin and I shall take care of things.”
“Oh no..” Peregrine whimpers. “No, the show…I’m not ready, I-“
“Breathe, dear,” The Playwright hushes. “All is well, we shall postpone.”
“B-but, Mx. Playwright-“
“My children are far more important than any show.”
Those first two words send an unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome feeling to swell within Peregrine’s chest. They slow once more, feeling a stiff ache forming in their back. They take a moment to stretch their neck, and the elder hums thoughtfully.
“Oh my,” Their tongue clicks. “You must be most uncomfortable in that, Aust. Would you prefer to remove your collar piece?”
A silent, shaky nod.
“Okay, eyas, I shall help you.”
It is but a silent moment, only soft shuffling and whispered directions fill the quiet as they stand while the Playwright helps them out of their collar piece, cuffed gloves, and boots. Now in its long sleeved undershirt, pants, and socks, Peregrine feels a sense of ease in movement and breathing. It stumbles slightly from exhaustion, and its teacher sits back down and opens their arms to the younger. On normal days, these arms would be met with hesitation or refusal. For, the child has found familiarity in fear of another’s touch, nonetheless an adult’s. Yet, Peregrine allows themself to collapse into the Playwright’s arms, being encased and cradled by warmth and gentle rocking.
“There you are, calf.” The Playwright whispers. “You’re safe here.”
Time passes with no exchanged words, only breathing and rocking. The floor creaks of footsteps being made, but Peregrine pays no eyes, keeping their face buried in the Playwright’s shoulder. The footsteps grow louder before they stop, followed by the shuffling of one sitting down.
“How is it going here?” Cooper’s whispered voice reveals who the footsteps belonged to.
“Much better,” Their spouse replies. “We’re very tired from the panic, and unwell nights I presume. How did it go out there?”
“The other children are with Bin now. We postponed the show, however Kingsley did attempt a backflip to entertain the crowd anyway.”
The Playwright lets out a quiet snort.
“Any serious injuries?” They ask.
“None, this time.” Cooper chuckles. “Though, I’m sure their tailbone is to be sore.”
The two laugh quietly together, in tail of synchronized sighs. Peregrine feels a calloused hand gently pet the back of their head. They can hear the couple whisper incoherently above them, only making out some words. The two are discussing itself, and possibly what it said to the Playwright earlier.
“Peregrine?” The Playwright calls their attention. The child shifts their head slightly, giving a strained hum in acknowledgment.
“Coop has a query for you.”
With help, Peregrine turns enough to pay attention toward the knight. Their freckled skin wrinkles as they give a smile to the younger, furrowed brows betraying their attempt to hide concern.
“Perrine,” they prompt. “May you describe whom you saw in the crowd?”
Peregrine freezes, receiving a hand moving up and down their back for comfort from their holder. It tries to speak, opening its mouth to paint the picture that made them spiral. The people whom had given them this pain they harbor, boiling it to anger. They want nothing but to turn them in, to send them consequences. To give them what they deserve. Yet, their tongue twists at their efforts to explain and suddenly, they are a child. They are small, they are weak. They fear.
A quill and paper are distributed into their hands. It glances up to see Cooper holding a jar of ink out for them, wherever they got the items a mystery.
“You may write it if it is most difficult to say.” The knight says. A look of only understanding adorns their face. Peregrine wishes to scream.
However, they do not scream. They rather write what they can, hand trembling still, but trying their best. It is a comfortable silence as they scribble, grateful to Cooper holding the ink for them. Before long, they are crinkling the sheet into a roll, handing it to Cooper without looking at them. The adult takes it, and stands.
“I’m to return in a minute.” They assure, giving a kiss to the Playwright, and another to Peregrine’s temple.
The knight exits, leaving the two alone. Peregrine sits in stun, taken aback by such affection. It slowly reaches its hand to hover over where the kiss had been planted. The arms around them squeeze ever so slightly.
“What says your mind?” They ask.
“I…” Peregrine stutters, remaining stunned. “I..I have never been kissed before.”
The Playwright audibly frowns, pulling it back into their embrace, tucking its head beneath their chin. The child feels shock melt into something warm, exhaling fear from their chest.
“Ne’er shall they hurt you again.” The Playwright whispers into their hair. “Should they dare even stand before our doorstep, I will make them meet my boot.”
Peregrine cannot help but let out a giggle, unused to their teacher speaking such aggression. The Playwright chuckles with them. The minute is soft, a rare occurrence for the two. It hurts as Peregrine recalls debates they’d engaged with their teacher in past times, often challenging their will to speak out and fight for the right things. They admit they’ve turned trust into a hard earned currency for many, yet the Playwright would persist always.
“I do mean it, Perrine.” The elder affirms. “We are here to protect you should anything threaten you. Nobody is to hurt our little calf.”
“I second that statement!”
The Playwright and Peregrine look to the voice as Cooper returns. The knight makes their way over and sits back next to their spouse.
“T’was a quick word with Bin,” they say. “They said they could recall every audience member they’d greeted, including two whom matched your description, Perrine.”
Peregrine tenses with a hitch of breath, bracing for the worst they could say, to hear that they’ve come for it.
“Musn’t worry, Aust,” Cooper immediately reassures them. “They were far too young to have been them.”
As if it had not been hyperventilating before and, instead holding its breath, Peregrine lets out the heaviest sigh flooded with relief. Every muscle in their body unwinds and allows them to fall nearly limp into the Playwright’s hold.
“Th-thank..you..” they croak, all energy gone from their voice.
Time falls slow, yet quick, as the three continue to huddle on the floor. The Playwright runs their hand through the child’s hair as Cooper leans against their shoulder. Almost immediately, their fingers tangle in the strands of deep forest, and Peregrine near flinches at the tug. It does notice it when its teacher flinches as well. The adult inhales, readying to say something, but is interrupted by the other.
“I’ve got this.” Cooper whispers.
Before it realizes, Peregrine feels its braids loosen slowly with each second, calloused and painted fingers do their best to untangle each knot with care. In strides, they feel their hair unravel and become smoother. The gentle and tedious brushing from the adult’s hands is foreign to the child, familiar with harsh tugs and breaking strands. They rather welcome this new approach. Cooper’s fingers brushing their hair, the sound of the Playwright’s heartbeat in their right ear, and the feeling of being cradled and held, it all makes Peregrine feel the safest they’ve felt in years. Safe enough to close their eyes, letting themself be at the mercy of their holders.
Should tonight be cold, Peregrine knows where they will go.