Chapter Text
The play shouldn't have continued
But silence began to feel like surrender. Quest had already rewritten the original text once.
Twice.
Thrice.
They’d tried again. Less blasphemous, maybe. No—gentler this time, or so they’d told themselves. Their hands shook more than usual, as their head screamed with danger.
But their voices. Oh their voices..
Cole carried the determination of the past, always seeking a new future.
Clémente spoke a voice of persuasion, one to change tomorrows.
Kingsley demanded justice, a balance of what was lost.
And Peregrine promised wrath.
Chaos to those who speak unfair
“If they see the Harkers in a different light, maybe they’ll stop hating us.” Cole spoke
And Peregrine, always the realist, only said, “They’ll never listen until something breaks.”
Quest should have listened to that one.
Felicity, a town still coming down from smoke remained still, a noise unaware to be filled not by cheers, nor celebration, but by a rage.
It started as just heckling. An exclaim of someone shoved, loud conversations full of hatred—the kind the Lark learned to ignore. But then it turned
A bottle shattered on cobblestones.
Someone shouted.
Someone else instructed “BURN THEIR MASKS”
And all hell broke loose.
The Playwright felt it, the same beats to a cruel rhythm looped.
The Lark was only instructed to one scene. A short, quiet verse that never stayed quiet for long.
Cole was halfway through their introduction when a stone landed too close. The next one didn’t miss. A sharp thud. Then screaming.
Kingsley stumbled on a loose floorboard.
They tried escaping a quickly approaching mob,
in a rush of adrenaline Cole moved without thinking—faster than anyone could react—as a second stone hit.
Peregrine coughed.
They could not recall when the clear sky turned to ash, nor when their lungs began to burn.
A bright light.
No—multiple of them widened their eyes.
Torches set the stage ablaze, anger of a hundred of those who remain unfair.
Hooved shoes clacked against stone paths as they desperately tried to find someone. Anyone.
Clémente was lost in the fog of smoke and splintered wood.
And in the distance, Peregrine could vaguely hear Bin shouting orders—“Get them off! Now!”
They were closed in, Cole and Kingsley.
The heavy smoke limiting breath, clouding the air when they fail to see the burly man approach them.
Engulfing Kingsley in a tight embrace of protection, Cole heard a sound that didn’t belong to the fire—a sharp, wet crack that silenced everything else under the kick intended for another child.
Cooper broke through crowds, sword in hand. Chasing away danger to their best accord,
nearly slicing Peregrine, panicked in a way no one has seen.
Though they remained unharmed compared to the others.
Quest’s knees gave way before they even realized they’d moved, stumbling through the smoke. They found Kingsley, with Cole still in their embrace, frozen in the chaos.
The light of the fire engulfed something else.
Clémente was sobbing—“He hit them! He hit them—” The once stoic Playwright lost all composure when their eyes finally drifted down to Cole, who was gasping for air, blood trickling down their chin, mask cracked down the middle.
Quest's ears rang again—that same awful toll from years ago, when their blood had stained the stage for the first time.
They tried to lift Cole but froze when the child screamed in pain.
“Don’t move them!” Bin shouted, pushing through, as they finally made it through. “Their ribs—”
Cooper appeared, sword drawn, eyes wild. “Who did this?! WHO?!”
“Cooper!” Quest’s voice was sharp enough to cut through the noise. “Get them home. Now.”
“But—”
“NOW.”
They had to move quickly—the fire certainly would be attracting guards, who would search the streets. So they split apart. Cooper and Bin drew attention, leading the mob away from the remains of the performance. Peregrine and Kingsley disappeared down the side alleys, an escape route learned from a time when they could play freely among streets once so accepting.
That left Clémente—ten years old, trembling, crying—carrying Cole, bridal style, in their arms.
Cole’s breathing was shallow, gurgling. Every step made them whimper, then quiet, then whimper again. Clémente spoke to fill the silence.
“It’s all right. It’s all right. We’ll be home soon. You’re okay, okay? You’ll be fine. Just—just breathe with me, please—we have to rehearse, remember? For tomorrow? F—for—”
They said it even when Cole stopped answering.
The crooked house came into sight—mockingly tall, with how small they felt. Clémente’s arms were shaking so badly they couldn’t undo the latch. They kicked the door open instead and collapsed inside.
When did they get wet?
Was that water?
Water isn’t red.
The world after that blurred.
A silent chaos burning through hearts
Through minds
Through Cole’s chest
Cooper was able to reach them first. The sight stopped them cold, heart louder than any war drum.
Thud thud
“Put them down.” They spoke to the still shaken Clemente.
Thud thud
Their lips were blue.
Thud thud
Cooper stumbled, dropping to their knees beside the child.
Thud thud
Too soft
Too quiet
To uneven
Okay, okay.. Get it together. The children. Where are the others?
Bin’s gone.
No—not gone.
Not dead.
Not dead.
Cooper reminded themselves
Where’s Quest?
Thud thud
Blood. They’ve seen it before
Staining
Soaking
But not a child’s.
Never a child’s.
Not their child’s.
They heard a wheeze
Breathing. Okay, Cole was breathing
Thud thud
Were they?
Every exhale was a battle. Every inhale was a knife.
Thud thud
They needed a doctor. A real doctor. But which one would accept them?
SLAM
Cooper jumped, looking around the cold room, as the world rid itself of the fog.
Quest scrambled around the house, their patchwork vest charred from the fire that burned away the last hope of peace.
Hiding scripts.
Packing food.
Storing water.
Tucking clothes.
Just in case.
Safe.
Kingsley was trapped. Trapped in the solemn panic remaining in the place it should never have grown. They curled in on themselves under Quest’s desk.
Trembling
Too silent
Safe.
Peregrine was too still, expression unreadable, eyes dark and deep as a pond that swallowed stones. They were sitting cross-legged in front of the unlit fireplace.
Unmoving
Helpless
Safe.
Clémente stuck to Cole like glue. Akin to when the children first met. A loving gaze unknown to most, yet held dear amongst two who learned to embrace the present.
But this was not the present they wanted to embrace.
Nevertheless, safe.
And now Bin. Soot stained. The only thing Cooper trusted to remain bright were the colors that painted joy on their face, and even that had been darkened.
“The guards closed off roads east and west of town square.” They panted.
Cooper’s mind raced, running a hand through blonde hair. “We could.. Try northern. T—There’s a clinic by Rightriver. They owe me one from this time I—”
“No.”
The silence was colder than the autumn night air.
“..Quest?” Astonished, Cooper asked.
“No?.. NO?” Bin cried “Knells of the Bellringer, Cole is STRUGGLING to breathe and you hesitate?”
“I am not hesitating.” Quest crouched by Cole. “They won’t survive the trip.”
Cooper blinked, confused, desperate. “We can’t just—”
Quest lightly grazed a hand to the child’s side. “Look.”
When Cole inhaled, their chest barely lifted. When they exhaled, it sounded like drowning — a low rattle, blood-flecked foam at the corner of their mouth. Their skin was ash-pale, sweat slicking their forehead. The breath between each gasp stretched longer, thinner.
Clémente clutched Cole’s hand, whispering, “You’re fine. You’re fine,” but their tears said otherwise.
Bin, breath stuck in their throat, grabbed the cleanest cloth they could find.
One
Two
.. Three
… Four.
Pressing the cloth to the wound, Bin hissed.
“Their lung’s collapsing.” Quest rubbed at their temple “The ribs are broken inward — one’s punctured it. Though I don’t know how many—”
“Four. Four broken ones.” Bin’s voice broke “Cooper… you trained in the field, didn’t you? You know how to—”
“I—” Cooper swallowed. Their throat burned. “That was years ago. In battlefields. Adults, not—”
Their eyes darted to Cole — the way the child’s chest barely moved, the small, trembling hand clutching Clémente’s sleeve.
Not a child. Not one of theirs.
“Then do it.” Quest said, voice low but commanding “Please.”
Cooper’s sword hand had always been steady. But the knife they held now felt like an enemy.
Their armor was still on, blood and dust streaking the plates, and in the candlelight they looked less like a knight and more like a butcher trying to remember mercy.