Chapter Text
Peregrine didn’t fully get the Playwright.
Well, they didn’t get a lot of people, but the Playwright was harder to understand than most.
They were hard to read, for one. They had a severe face, often half-hidden. With their cap pulled down over their tousled hair, they had a way of angling their spectacles to cast a glare before their eyes. This obfuscation projected a menacing image as they loomed behind rehearsals, posture stiff. When they spoke, their low, soft voice injected an ominous inflection into even the most pleasant of compliments. The effect was one adjacent to human, almost fae-like—a fairytale that would snatch children away in the night.
That they existed at all was baffling. They were a walking set of contradictions that jingled with every step, marked by the bells fastened to their wrist. They stared at the world like it exhausted them, and yet they had taken four strange children into their home—no child-snatching required. They spent their life behind a paper-laden desk, and yet they had found the time to get married—to Ser Cooper, happy, fun-loving knight, of all people. How they had pulled that off remained a mystery.
To sum up, the Playwright was illogical. They’d written an entire play because those four strange children had asked them. They fed and clothed those children, who were not theirs—who were not anyone’s—without hesitation, complaint, or payment. Sometimes, they let the eldest of those children fall asleep against their shoulder on the train.
Had the Playwright not been open with their kindness from the beginning, Peregrine never would have stuck around long enough to form a decent opinion of them.
Still, they didn’t understand them. The only difference between now and the beginning is that, now, Peregrine was far less hesitant to voice that lack of understanding.
“But it doesn’t make sense to change the song now. We’ve already performed it.”
“A public performance does not prevent future adjustments. I can name several reasons why this one would make sense.” The Playwright ticked off their fingers. “One, it would be more thematically befitting. Two, it would be kinder to your voice—”
“But you changed the choreography too. I’m going to be more out of breath no matter what.”
“Exactly my point. If we stuck with the original arrangement, you’d be gasping between every line.” Count interrupted, the Playwright laid their hands on their desk. “I thought you liked the new choreography.”
Elbow braced on their wrist, Peregrine thunked their knuckles against their brow. “I do. I’m just trying to understand.”
“And I am trying to explain. What more would you like me to say?”
Wordless, Peregrine flicked their hand. That they didn’t know was the whole issue.
The Playwright exhaled heavily. “Look,” they said, propping their elbow up on the desk, “the changes are not set in stone. They are simply a suggestion.” They twirled their wrist with more grace. “An experiment, if you will.”
“The current version works.”
“And perhaps this one will work better. Since when have you been opposed to change?”
“I’m not. But why do you want to change it? Because you’re wrong about the theme. If it’s supposed to be about the Croon, the first version is better. The vibrato in the opening alone—”
“August,” the Playwright warned, a sure sign Peregrine had crossed a line. They weren’t sure where.
The Playwright’s annoyance didn’t make sense either. Peregrine wasn’t arguing. They truly weren’t. “I’m only saying—”
The Playwright put their head in their hands. “No, I hear what you’re saying—”
“No, you don’t.”
“—and I would like to hear more at a later time.”
Peregrine felt their lip jut into a pout. They twisted their mouth into something less childish, settling on a grimace. “I don’t want to drop it.”
“I’m not asking you to drop it. I’m asking you to table this discussion until I can give it my full attention. I have work to do, and I am, frankly,”—the Playwright massaged their temples—“too tired for this.”
“Fine.”
“Where are your friends?”
There was a static charge to that question, albeit mild. Less a sign of an impending storm than it was of an impending dismissal.
Peregrine would have preferred a storm. “Outside,” they muttered, knowing full well the conversation would be shut down in three, two…
“Then go outside.” One. “Go play. It’s a nice day.”
The dismissal zapped their skin, unpleasant, though they had been ready for it. They didn’t have their mask on hand to cover whatever pathetic expression crossed their face, so they turned away. The value of their opinions had been made clear.
They were used to it. Or they had been, before the jingling illogicality had confused things.
“Peregrine,” the Playwright called, halting Peregrine’s trudge towards the door. Their voice grew gentle, ever a creature of contradictions. “We will talk later, alright? Give me until at least this evening.”
“Fine,” Peregrine repeated, doubtful.
Because that was how these conversations always went. Not just with the Playwright—with anyone who was supposed to know better. Peregrine’s negative effect on authority figures was basically a superpower. A really stupid superpower. They didn’t have to try; they just had to open their mouth and watch irritation or offense or plain old exhaustion creep into the frown of whoever towered over them. Or sat before them with their head in their hands, in this case.
For a while, they had stopped opening their mouth at all. Now they were beginning to remember why.
They left the study more frustrated than they had entered it. They hadn’t even been allowed to finish their explanation. Typical.
They fumed in this manner for most of their walk to the park. When it came into view, though, they felt the coiled tension in their limbs ease. It was, they would admit, a nice day. Sunny but not too hot. Pleasantly breezy but not too windy. As that breeze stirred up the jasmine and honeysuckle bushes along the path, the study fell to the back of their mind.
On the outskirts of the city, there was a spacious grove of trees, perfect for climbing and playing hide-and-seek behind their thick trunks. Picnic tables crouched in their shade, comfortable places to rest and eat lunch. It was never very crowded—the Lark rarely saw other children—and that made it their favorite spot to stage their adventures.
The younger three were there when Peregrine arrived. Cole sat cross-legged beneath a tree, head tilted to listen intently as they tuned their guitalele. Clémente swung their wooden training sword around in the open space, clumsily mirroring the steps they had seen Cooper perform. They parried against an invisible enemy, adding their own sound effects to each thrust and riposte (“Shing! Clang! Shink!”). Kingsley lorded above the scene, barefoot on a table top, a high ruler in their wall-less tower. Peregrine made a mental note not to eat at that table.
Kingsley spied Peregrine’s approach from their tower. Pointing, they raised the alarm. “Dragon!”
Peregrine lifted their arms over their head with a mock growl. It was easy to growl, to make themself grow bigger.
“Oh, no!” Clémente mimed drawing their wooden sword from its nonexistent scabbard. “We must defend the princess!”
Cole looked up warily. “Can the princess finish tuning their instrument? Just this once?”
“Grr! I seek to devour a grander prize than a princess. I shall devour the heart of a king!” Peregrine swooped in.
With a thrilled shriek, Kingsley leapt off the table and darted away. Peregrine gave them a five-second head start. Any longer and Kingsley might actually outrun them (they were the only one who could).
“Flee, sire!” Clémente called. “I’ll defeat it!”
“Too late!” Peregrine taunted. Dodging Clémente’s attempt to block their path, they gave chase after Kingsley’s fluttering cape.
They let Kingsley weave them around tree trunks, zigzag between bushes, and wind circles through the grove. Peregrine purposely stayed a few steps behind, close enough to spur them onward, far enough to make them think they could get away. Every couple turns, Peregrine lunged, prompting Kingsley to screech in laughter as Peregrine let their cape slip through their fingers.
It felt good. The burn in their lungs, the stretch in their muscles, the breeze on their face—it felt really good. They had needed this.
When Peregrine could hear Clémente huffing behind them, gaining ground, they picked their moment. With one final lunge, they snagged Kingsley around the waist and hefted them into the air. “Gotcha!”
“Nooo!” Kingsley squirmed, forcing Peregrine to set them on their feet to avoid a kick to the shins. Their protest dissolved into another screech of laughter as Peregrine tickled their ribs. “Help! Knight! I’m being eaten alive!”
“I’ll save you, sire!”
Peregrine blew a raspberry on the back of Kingsley’s shoulder. Kingsley’s shrieks grew deafening as Peregrine moved from tickling their ribs to tickling their armpits. “Your heart is mine,” Peregrine declared. “No one can save you—oof!”
A warm, sweaty weight landed on Peregrine’s back, knocking them off balance. They dropped Kingsley as they teetered to the side. “Clémmie!” they choked. Clémente’s arms were wrapped dangerously close to Peregrine’s throat.
“Spit out my king, dragon!” Clémente ordered.
Peregrine linked their arms around Clémente’s legs for support, reducing the pressure near their neck. “Your mistake,” they said. “You’re going for a flight now.”
Then it was Clémente’s turn to shriek as Peregrine trotted around the picnic tables. They bounced them a few times for fun, citing “rough winds.” Kingsley chased after with demands to return their knight. Cole, realizing their person was being carried off, chose this point to join the game too.
“Jump, Clémente!” Cole exclaimed. “I’ll catch you!”
Peregrine slowed, unhooking their arms from Clémente’s legs just in time. The warm weight vanished from their back with a grunt. Thank goodness. They could feel the sweat crawling down their spine. Air scraped their throat with each inhale. The Playwright might have been right about adapting to the new choreography. Peregrine’s breath control needed a ton of work.
Kingsley retrieved Clémente’s sword from the grass. “Look, they’re tired!” they said, correct. It was almost a relief when they held out the sword. “Now! Finish it off!”
Clémente took up their blade. They swung it gently at Peregrine, not remotely close to making contact.
“My wings!” Peregrine spun in an erratic circle. “I’m going to crash!” The others giggled.
They staggered, swaying as if they were about to fall. Dizzy, they didn’t see Clémente until they knocked into them, eliciting another “oof!” Peregrine caught their balance. Clémente wasn’t nearly as lucky. Down they tumbled, taking Kingsley with them.
A screech pierced Peregrine’s eardrums, more guttural than before. There was no laughter in that sound.
Clémente clambered upright, alarmed—and visibly unhurt. Peregrine hauled Kingsley up by their armpits. Kingsley stumbled back, stunned.
“You good, King?” Peregrine asked.
Kingsley responded by spitting a mouthful of blood into the grass.
The result was immediate panic. Clémente blanched. Cole hopped from foot to foot, repeating, “Oh no, oh no, oh no…” Peregrine struggled to get Kingsley to hold still, saying, “What’s bleeding? Let me see—let me see. What’s bleeding?”
Kingsley clamped both hands over their mouth, refusing to let Peregrine touch them.
Clémente picked up their sword. Peregrine hadn’t seen it leave their grip. Clémente’s eyes were wide. “I hit them,” they gasped. “I dropped the sword. The hilt—it—when I fell—their mouth—”
Peregrine asked, “Did you lose a tooth?”
Kingsley took a moment to check, feeling with their tongue. They shook their head.
“I’m so sorry, Kingsley,” Clémente said tearfully. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Clémmie, I knocked into you,” Peregrine reminded them.
Slowly, Kingsley lowered their hands from their mouth. “I don’t think…I don’t think it’s bad,” they croaked. Blood dribbled down their chin. The other three groaned in disgust.
“Yep, that’s it. Playtime’s over.” Peregrine grabbed Kingsley’s hand. “Come on.”
Peregrine didn’t knock when they marched Kingsley into the Playwright’s study, Cole and Clémente in tow. The Playwright startled in their chair, looking up from their desk with a bleary-eyed fatigue.
“Peregrine, when I said later—”
“Kingsley’s bleeding.”
The Playwright was on their feet, displeasure forgotten. “Let me see.”
They took Kingsley into the bathroom, shooing the others into the corridor when they tried to follow into the cramped space. The Lark were forced to hover anxiously outside the door, only able to catch snippets of the gentle words the Playwright murmured in Kingsley’s mother tongue. The Playwright directed Kingsley to rinse out their mouth and wipe their face. Then they managed to coax Kingsley into letting them inspect their lip. The whole ordeal took no more than a handful of minutes, but it felt like an eternity.
“You will have a swollen lip,” the Playwright concluded, seated on the edge of the bathtub, “but it will heal. The cuts are shallow, fortunately.”
Perched on the closed toilet lid, Kingsley relaxed. So did the rest of the Lark.
“Did my sword cut them?” Clémente asked.
“Their own teeth did. Which is why it could have been far more unpleasant.”
“So, no doctor?” Peregrine asked, hopeful.
“No. No singing for a few days either.”
There was a round of protests. Kingsley’s wavered with a wince.
“Or much talking,” the Playwright amended. They rubbed their forehead. “Clémente.”
Clémente shied away, taking Cole’s hand.
“It’s not Clémmie’s fault,” Peregrine said, disconcerted. “It was an accident.”
“Yeah!” Kingsley said through another wince. “They were defending me from the dragon!”
The Playwright arched a brow at Peregrine. Peregrine’s face heated. Thanks, King. “They didn’t swing the sword,” they clarified. “I knocked them over. On accident.”
“The sword should not have been anywhere near Kingsley’s face. Why Cooper thought it was a good idea that any of you children should have a weapon, even one made of wood—”
“I’m sorry,” Clémente said. “I won’t bring it next time. I don’t want to upset anyone.”
“No!” Kingsley exclaimed. “My knight needs their sword! How else will they serve me?”
“Kingsley…” the Playwright said, the name drenched in exhaustion. “I know you love your game, but—”
“It is not just a game!”
“King, stop talking,” Peregrine said.
“I got hurt,” Kingsley said, ignoring them. “I say they keep it.”
The Playwright frowned. They pinned their bespectacled gaze upon each of them. Kingsley returned it defiantly. Cole and Clémente stared at the floor. Peregrine held it with some difficulty, rocking their weight from one foot to the other.
“It really was my fault,” Peregrine volunteered. “I should have watched where I was going. Clémmie wouldn’t have fallen over if I hadn’t hit them.”
The Playwright regarded Peregrine. Peregrine felt the strange, cowardly urge to shrink away and grab Cole’s hand too. They didn’t; they stood their ground, but barely.
Then the Playwright sighed to themself, “I need my own knight.” They pushed off the edge of the tub. “We will resume this discussion when Cooper returns. The sword stays here for the time being. Is that acceptable?” This last part was directed at Kingsley, who nodded, expression pained. “Good. Now let’s get you something for the swelling…”