Chapter Text
Peregrine August was a mystery.
Feral child, despite their resting place being the very soil, rock, or pavement beneath their feet, they’d never had any sort of roots to tether them to one area or another, instead finding solace and a sense of a home in the people they cared for, felt a duty to protect, and found themselves wandering from house to house, guardian to guardian, person and place. And so on it went until their feet grew weary and they laid them to rest at their origin: the Lark.
Cole had seen firsthand just how unpredictable the other could be; one moment, Peregrine would exist as the calm before the storm, gentle, firm, the tallest tree in winds beating and brutalizing against any other child, their very stance left no room for change. Stiff, yet inviting of challenge.
That was, until it did.
Have you ever seen an angry moose? One would know from a distance not to so much as tempt the creature with a glance, let alone draw near enough to enrage the beast, a giant with a crown standing ready to crush you to dust if you threatened its life, its peace, security, or appeared to be so. You’d be lucky to make it out with a limb or two after the encounter, a two-ton entity of nature’s rage and agony for her children piled into the form of an animal, or… in their case, a teenager.
Peregrine was the storm to come after such a calm, fury bottled, released in the form of cries reverberating across the Grove for miles ahead; anyone within sight of the cabin would inevitably hear chaos’s kin and their rampage. True child of the Croon, that one is, Cole would often think, just as they were shoved into some wall, usually the target of most grievances or issues easily solved by a simple apology—and it never hurt, not really, the action was more so reflexive, to create distance, and in that distance would linger a gentle feeling of disappointment. Never anything more, never anything less.
Though this case was different. Extremely so.
“I am not going to talk about, I am not going to say anything about it,” Peregrine had snapped with a grumble thunderous in the evening air, cutting Cole’s frantic pleas to quiet down before their caretakers heard them, “I don’t want to so much as HEAR YOU Seymour.”
“I-I’m not asking you to Perrine,” they begged, trying to at least reason with the other, their voice gentle, soft compared to the roaring beast they were nearly cornered by, hands instinctively raised in surrender, “Just please, for our Harker’s sake—calm down! They’ll hear us.”
“Let them,” they snarled, eyes glistening with fresh tears and old feelings of wrath, slamming their hand on the wall above the other with a blaring THUMP: a warning, growled through that of a bitter laugh, scornful in the silence, “Let—I don’t care, Cole. I never have, and that’s something you always seem to forget—did you not find me when…”
Peregrine’s voice cracked ever so slightly, stripping it of its hostility, as they stared into the gray, almost black eyes of Cole, their nose had been twitching sort of like a hare’s, eyes flooded with fear barely recognizable in the face of the other, and it was almost sobering just how frightened they seemed, but they held their ground out of care. Of love. Yet, not bravery—anything but. Cole was somewhat startled and uncertain, shivers of the unexpected running up and down their arms, spine, all with the possibility that their sibling would do… something. Prey standing in reach of a possible predator, or fellow prey. Only seconds would tell which was what.
Peregrine instantly backed away, shock softening their features more with each step out of a dozen, and they bumped their hip on the table behind them, letting out a wince half-noticed as they twisted their face into one of horror, “I-I…” they stammered, picking their words out of an ocean of thoughts glinting bronze and onyx in the light of a now dimming blaze. Prey, Cole concluded, not a predator. Though…
This call was closer than the rest.
They sighed, leaning a hand back on the table behind them, and raising the other to pinch their nose bridge, “We’ll… talk later,” they muttered, glaring at the floor, “I’m sorry, Cole, I-I can’t—no.”
“Peregrine,” Cole desperately began, but the other dashed out of the room, pushing pieces of furniture out of their way, like a bull in a cabin, desperate to escape the walls surrounding them, as the younger attempted to stop them, to say something more, not to leave the two with such a pitiful goodbye, “Wait—please—”
They were gone, having slammed the door behind them with an ear-ringing BANG, causing Cole to nearly jump out of their skin, and painfully deadening whatever was going to come out of their mouth.
The leveret considered letting a swear foul and crude slip through their lips when the growing mutterings and shuffles of their awakened guardians, now stirred and rising from their beds to investigate the noises, the screams of desperation from their fighting children. That wasn’t good at all. Cooper may have had some sort of mercy when it came to causing such a ruckus at the unholiest hours of the night, it was in their nature, after all—but the Playwright would kill them. Simply kill them; they were that serious about curfew. If either of them were to find the child, they were truly done for.
“Ridiculous,” they spat bitterly, exasperated and, frankly, already tired of the entire week and the days to come. If Peregrine wanted to be a stubborn ox walking off a cliff, then what could they possibly do to stop them? That moose was something neither melodies nor muffler could tame, or at least have the nerve to try to. What was Cole to do, then? Sing a song to calm the creature?
They shook their head, solemnly glancing once more in the direction of the door, brows knitted with the knowledge that by now, nothing would be behind it, except for the wind of what once would have lingered, many a year ago, when Peregrine… did care.
Now, however, they didn’t, making sure to make that very clear. And thus, Cole chose to do the same, at least for the night, quickly rushing to their room, praying under their breath that their guardians didn’t as much as hear their breath throughout the whole argument.
They hadn’t seen Peregrine for another two days.
On the first of their disappearance, the Lark had been preparing for the fresh, crisp spring morning of rehearsals and relief that smelled in the breeze of apples and adventures to come. It would be the last of preparation in regards to any later performances, and the children were allowed a break from all the hustle and business for about a week, just to be children again, not solely the Lark.
“They weren’t in their room today,” Clémente had mentioned through a mouthful of a tart they had managed to snag from a still-sizzling baking tray, hissing against the counter the Playwright was leaning on, sighing with a mixture of fondness and irritation.
“Is that so?” They’d considered carefully, spectacles glimmering in the golden light of the morning hours as they slipped off their oven mitts, expression firm with thought, even with the others not being able to see their eyes, due to the glare their glasses often reflected.
“Yeah!” Kingsley chimed from their seat at the dining table, arms just barely able to rest atop the scratched wood as they kicked their legs back and forth under it, not too bothered with their sibling’s sudden lack of presence, as most kids their age were, “I didn’t even see them outside! It was so weird, ‘cause usually Perrine wakes me up, but Cole had too.”
Speaking of which, Cole had been sulking the entire day, guilt weighing heavily on their shoulders as they continued to sink deeper into their seat with every passing second, “I… didn’t know they would just… run away like that,” they murmured to themselves, silently hoping no one would hear. Then there would be questions, lots of them, more than there already was, further seeping the black, inky stain of guiltiness into their being.
“Huh?” Kingsley looked up from their hunched position over their drawing, and from what Cole could see, it appeared to be none other than Peregrine, mid-performance in a song, something reminiscent of a halo around their form, as if they were some angelic being blessing the masses with their voice. Oddly enough, Cole thought it had fit them, considering they had the vocals of something with that power, “What d’you say?”
I wish I were as oblivious as you, “Nothing, Kings…”
Kingsley shrugged and resumed their doodling with no trouble, as Clémente scooted next to the two in a chair much shorter than the others, putting them at eye-level with Cole for the first time in ages, though neither of them seemed to be all that bothered by the height change. In fact, Cole found it easier to lose themselves in the silver eyes of their partner when they weren’t nearly towering over them. It was usually a bit embarrassing to gaze a tad upward at the other, who was only growing in height by the day.
“It’ll be alright, Honeysuckle,” Clémente close to cooed, grasping the other’s hand in a firm, yet comforting manner, reassuring amongst the chaos, and gifting their sight with a warm smile showing dimples of affection, adoration shining in irises of silver.
“Will it really??” Cole couldn’t help but whine, worry trembling in their voice as they buried their face in their free hand, catching a glimpse of the cerulean dye on their pinky nail, fresh and slightly staining its cuticle, and squeezing the fingers intertwined with their own, shaky ones.
Clémente shushed them, the sharp sound perking their ears and opening their shut eyes, only to see the other offering them a tart, the scent of baked gooseberries and vanilla as enticing as they were sure they tasted, the smell wafting in the air that blew gently through the kitchen window.
Cole quickly bit a piece off, only a little, hastily wiping the crumbs off their face with a hint of a cheeky smile lifting the corners of their mouth and a giggle. They had to admit, the food did help a bit, even if it hadn’t set completely due to just coming out of the oven, but at least this time, the roof of their mouth hadn’t been scorched to ashes.
A huff of displeasure could be heard from behind the pair, and the Playwright had scoffed in disbelief, “Clémentine!! Another one?!”
Clémente shoved the remaining tart into their mouth, innocently smiling through hefty chews of pastry and sugary fruit, “What?” they chortled shamelessly, “It tastes better fresh anyway.”
“That’s not how—Clémmie,” the Playwright tried to explain the concept of how the pastry was supposed to be made a certain way, as their partner simply continued to munch away, somehow managing to sneak a third tart, and their guardian seemed to groan in lowercase, an irritated, exhausted sound that bubbled a chuckle to Cole’s throat, though they stifled it and simply smiled with contentment, almost forgetting their current troubles—the lack of a fifth voice in the room. It was supposed to be there, yet it wasn’t.
And suddenly, the space felt empty.
Eventually, the Playwright sighed, adjusting their fogged, slipping glasses as they tapped the youngest on the shoulder, briefly interrupting them from scraping the fraying paper with a dull colored pencil that didn’t seem to be adding any sort of pigment to the piece, “Stickbug,” they said, casually using the nickname as if they had for years, despite its more private use, “Are you feeling hungry?”
Kingsley whipped their head around to stare in shock at their caretaker, features twisted into a frown of confusion, “What’d you just say?” they asked rather harshly for a nine-year-old.
“Hmm…?”
“Only Perrine calls me that,” they stated matter-of-factly, raising a brow, “How’d you even know?”
The Playwright only hummed, an audible shrug to the question as they grabbed a plated tart and set it next to the bewildered child, “I’ve heard them mention it once,” they reached into a bowl and sprinkled a little sugar on the pastry, tone as sweet as the substance, but only subtly, “And it fits you, Kingsley. Extremely. And I could’ve called you ‘stinkbug’, but that would have been unfair.”
A pause, though no actual tension crackled in the space, “Whatever,” the child muttered dismissively, biting into the now set tart with delight, much to the mild jealousy of Cole. If the Playwright were to call them something like “Honeysuckle” or “Coleton”, they’d physically and mentally die from the inside out of hot, fiery shame, not brush it off as if it were nothing. Nicknames were special, specific. Weren’t they?
Clémente cleared their throat from their seat at the table, standing on their feet in a newfound sense of determination, and… unfortunate tallness, “We need a plan!” they proudly declared, the smallest trace of seriousness only boldening their voice in the once gentle quiet, a rare occurrence for the household.
Both Cole and Kingsley proceeded to look between Clémente and the Playwright, waiting for the adult’s approval, who coughed a light, “Continue, dear.”
Clémente took the opportunity with buzzing excitement, practically seconds away from climbing on the table itself, “I say,” they began dramatically, ever the enthusiastic, “We call a search!! Each of us will scout an area of the woods where Peregrine is most likely to be, from the park near the willows and bees, to the giant oak tree they used to hide in. You know, the one with the burrow big enough to fit all of us?”
The three of them nodded along in understanding as the child explained a few ideas, as the plan didn’t seem all that bad, though… something did lurk in the back of Cole’s thoughts. Eventually, they did have to bring it up, or it would eat them from their gut to the edges of their core, ripping through if not vomited in a moment of haste, like a poison taken by either accident or intent. Maybe I should take something like charcoal, so I don’t feel as sick as I do.
“And then, we search the fields—”
“Clémente,” Cole hesitantly interrupted, expecting some kind of upset from the other, but was only met with a pleasant look of patience, much to Cole’s breath of relief, a gesture in their eyes to go on and ask.
“W-What if we… don’t find them? What then??” they whispered, dark eyes widened with worry far too familiar to make sense to them now, that looming feeling of dread a cloud of smoke over their head, rumbling with an oncoming storm that never truly rained, never drenched them with wild water stinging to the eyes. What if they never found Peregrine, the wild child, the Croon’s kinfolk, the runner, one to flee and never return if necessary?
The Playwright rested a grounding hand on the child’s shoulder, consoling when things often grew bleary, speaking in a tone only belonging to them, where they talked as if the children were adults that they tried to converse with, not just comfort, and not like newborn babes, as most adults they knew would treat the Lark as such. “I’m sure you all are frightened at this mess, this… chaos,” they began, exhaling, as if huffing all anxiety out of their soul if only for a moment.
“But pandemonium will only worsen such thoughts. We need to settle on a plan, which we now have a clear vision of, thanks to Dearworth, but we also need a set course of action if we do not find our falcon. One solution,” they went on, taking to pacing around the room in thought, not exactly rambling, but letting any possibility at the moment loose for all to see, “would be contacting the police. Of course, we don’t want to immediately set our minds on the chance that such action would be necessary—actually, it would probably draw them further from home. And they don’t need such a scare, do they?”
“No,” Kingsley piped from their new position by the counter—Cole hadn’t even noticed them move—grabbing another tart but pausing for a millisecond, as if reconsidering the choice, “But… maybe we should give it a day or two? They could’ve gotten lost, or maybe they want to be missing. If they know their way,” Kingsley finally snatched the still-warm pastry from the tray, returning to their seat at the table, moving the finished drawing aside to avoid damaging it, “then they’ll come back when they’re ready. If Peregrine doesn’t know…”
It seemed the sweet didn’t seem so appetizing anymore to the youngest, as they squinted at it, like something had been off about the gooseberries. “Then we take action. We search, we look, we call—anything to find our moose again.”
“Agreed,” the Playwright approved.
“O-Okay,” the Leveret acknowledged with a stammer.
“YES,” cried the Kid, slamming their hands on the table in utter agreement, “A plan in its finest!! Worthy of a knight, if I say so!”
Peregrine wasn’t anywhere near lost, no matter how much they really wished they were.
The night before, questions were left unanswered, thoughts abandoned to stir and fester, rot into remnants of flesh and vermin crawling around the cavities of their dying, cold mind. It had built up into an infestation of mold and larvae, too much squirming and not enough release, so the pressure left the acrid stench of decay. Deterioration at its finest form, a representation of just how disgustingly beautiful the earth had come to be in their eyes.
Too bad they couldn’t seem to fully handle it. That constant state of rotting.
Sure, they could hide it, but only for so long—that very night, Peregrine had almost done the unthinkable. Hurt their sibling. It didn’t matter how, nor did it matter whether or not they actually went through with it. In all honesty, the child couldn’t remember fully what happened that night. They just remembered the aching pressure in their head, and that they had to run. To leave, and possibly never return.
But to where was the question, and the answer wasn’t as clear as they first thought it was. Those once keen instincts of direction were now faded with the fog blurring their sight in the forest, blinding, yet not an issue, as they simply pushed past trees and ferns, vines and moss, careless dash yet careful footing, but all pulls at their gut seemed to have a source:
Their once home, now left as the ashes of the past.