The conversation surrounding cultural appropriation has been so severely mutilated by white âalliesâ that the original intention behind that conversation has become almost unrecognizable in most social contexts.
To explain what I mean, the conversation around cultural appropriation was started by black and native people to discuss the frustrations we feel at being punished socially and financially for partaking in our cultural heritage while white people could take, I.e. appropriate, aspects of our culture that we are actively shamed for and be heralded as innovators. It was about the frustrations we feel when the same white people who shamed us would take our culture and wear it as if they were the ones who created it while still actively shaming us for doing the same.
The original push behind naming cultural appropriation and having these conversations were so that we as a society could evaluate why we were punished for our heritage while white People were not. It was supposed to be about seeking solutions. The idea was to create a society where we could celebrate our cultures with impunity. It was never about telling white people that they âwerenât allowedâ to do certain things. We did ask that white People stop doing certain things because they werenât doing them respectfully and were not invited to do them, but the primary reason we asked them to desist was to reclaim the things they had stolen and to reassign them culturally back where they belonged.
White âalliesâ saw these conversations happening and instead of trying to aplify our own voices or even try to learn about the complexities behind why we were saying what we were saying, they instead began screaming over us and creating a narrative that was hardly even the bones of what we originally set out to say. It was like they took the conversation we were trying to have, completely decontextualized it, and stripped it of all itâs nuance in order to gain social currency by seeming progressive.
So the conversation around cultural appropriation went from âThis aspect of our heritage belongs to us and we find it egregious that we are shamed for it. What steps can we take to address the racism thatâs creating this situation as well as rehome the things that have been stolenâ to âyouâre not allowed to do that because if you do that youâre racist, we donât really understand why thatâs racist but youâre not allowed to do that and if you do that youâre a klansman no exceptions. So youâre not allowed because becauseâ
At the end of the day, did I like the fact that sally was wearing dreads? No. But my primary concern was not that sally was wearing dreads but rather that sally could wear dreads and I couldnât. THAT was the intended focus of those conversations. It was about addressing the inequality. It was about us. Now the conversation is just about sally and were completely forgotten.
White People are always asking me what they can do to help. You want to know? Stop talking. Aplify our voices and shut the fuck up because you all have pretty much derailed this conversation and many more like it to the point that we no longer are trying to make steps to understand and dismantle the racism around cultural appropriation and instead are just using it as social shaming tactics.
TL;DR: read my post. Most things worth learning about canât be summarized in the bullet points of a buzfeed article. Donât come into academic circles and complain because everything hasnât been conviently summarized for you. Stop pretending that things arenât accessible to you because you refuse to do the intellectual labor that is learning.
These dudes are fucking legit. Â They donât just show up one day in court, either, they actually make friends with the kids and let them know they have a support system and that there are people in the world who care about them and will always have their back. Â And less important, but also cool, is that the few times a couple of them have come into my cafe, theyâve been super friendly and polite and when I told one of the guys that I noticed his Bikers Against Child Abuse patch and wanted him to know how awesome I thought he was because of it, he got kind of shy and blushed and said, âThe kids are the awesome ones, we just let them know theyâre allowed to be brave.â
The source is long, but so, so good. These men and women are available in 36 states, 24 hours a day to stand guard at home, in court, at school, even if the child has a nightmare. Many of them are survivors of childhood abuse as well, and know what itâs like to feel scared and alone.
In court that day, the judge asked the boy, âAre you afraid?â No, the boy said.
Pipes says the judge seemed surprised, and asked, âWhy not?â
The boy glanced at Pipes and the other bikers sitting in the front row, two more standing on each side of the courtroom door, and told the judge, âBecause my friends are scarier than he is.â
Bikers Against Child Abuse was founded in 1995 by a Native American child psychologist whose ride name is Chief, when he came across a young boy who had been subjected to extreme abuse and was too afraid to leave his house. He called the boy to reach out to him, but the only thing that seemed to interest the child was Chiefâs bike. Soon, some 20 bikers went to the boyâs neighborhood and were able to draw him out of his house for the first time in weeks.
Chiefâs thesis was that a child who has been abused by an adult can benefit psychologically from the presence of even more intimidating adults that they know are on their side. âWhen we tell a child they donât have to be afraid, they believe us,â Arizona biker Pipes told azcentral.com. âWhen we tell them we will be there for them, they believe us.â
( Article)
My parents are a part of this organization and they are metal af
They go on runs to protect the child if they feel even the slightest threatened no matter where. If the child needs them to go on vacation with them, they do. Bikers come from across the nation to watch over and take shifts for these kids. And the best part is once youâre adopted into this family as a BACA kid, youâre always one. Even when youâre 40 and the perp gets released from jail, theyâll come meet with you and find your best options for avoiding the person and maintaining the life youâve built for yourself. Once a BACA child, always a BACA child. In Florida, thereâs 100% rate for identifying the perp based on the childâs testimony. Why? Because BACA stands with the child and supports the child so they feel comfortable enough to point out their attacker.
Whatâs better than a badass biker gang being on your side???
NATIVE AMERICAN CHILD PSYCHOLOGIST WHO IS A BIKER AND NAMED HIMSELF CHIEF HELL YES IâM HERE FOR THAT AND BIKERS BEING BAD ASS TO PROTECT KIDS. HELL YEAH.
Guys? This post changed my life. I saw this post. Forever ago. And thought it was only in america⊠and wished desperately that they could help me. But then I saw it again, during a bad episode, and checked their site. They arenât just in the USA
Theyâre in Canada as well and probably other countries. I met and talked with a native guy who runs the place near me. His name is Shaman. I got in, and Iâm considered a BACA child now. Despite being 17, turning 18 when I talked to them. They spent time with me when my abuser was over, they gave me therapy resources. They give you something called a âlevel 1âČ where they go to your house with as many bikers as they can, i shit you not a solid 20-40 bikers came from even out of province, and met me. I got to choose my biker name and I got a vest with patches on it and my name on it. They all hugged a Teddybear before giving it to me, and told me if I ever felt the BACA bear was running out of love, to give them a call and theyâd refill it for me, and then I got a ride on one of their bikes. Just a day or so ago I went to an annual party with them and they we ate food one of them cooked and had a lot of laughs.Â
Iâve never felt as loved as I did being a part of the BACA family. They also gave me dog tags with the names, and phone numbers of my 2 workers. So I can call them whenever I feel scared.Â
BACA is an absolutely wonderful group that will do everything in itâs power to help any child whos been abused.Â
And it doesnât end when youâre 18 either. As long as you get in contact/get your level 1 before youâre 18? youâre ALWAYS a BACA kid. Iâm 18 now and they still invite me to parties, ask me if Iâm okay, and are there for me. Theyâre still trying to find me resources for therapy.Â
BACA has changed my fucking life.Â
I hope you all can read this, and reblog it knowing from someone who fucking been with them, that they are absolutely amazing.Â
Had seen this before, but never realised that this is on an international level - thereâs even a contact address close to where I live (in Germany), very cool (though hoping the only use Iâll ever have to make of it is for donations) â€
Chapter 38 - something keeps trying but i'm not killed yet
Back to the Beginning  < Previous chapter / Next chapter >
AO3
Masterlist
(TW: graphic depictions of violence, blood/gore, panic, minor character death, malnutrition, self-sacrifice mentality)
(The title of the chapter comes from âPsalm 150â by Jericho Brown)
A/N: IMPORTANT INFO! PLEASE READ!
Hey, guys. Sorry for such a long wait for this chapter. Crazy how it took getting COVID for me to finally get my crap together and write this. Iâm still not completely satisfied with how it turned out, but I didnât want to keep you guys waiting.
Iâll be posting a new work to my COTN extras series right after this chapter drops with a bunch of new worldbuilidng stuff (for all you nerds out there, like me). Included is a map of the Witchlands. Due to changes in the cityâs layout, Iâve gone back and changed the descriptions of the city in past chapters (specifically, section 3 of âheirlooms from sea funeralsâ, and section 3 of âmake it make sense to make it betterâ) but nothing plot-altering. So you arenât confused with this new chapter, basically: there are trains on bridges throughout the city now.
(also also: I won't be making these changes on the past tumblr posts, so if you want to read the updated versions, follow the AO3 link)
Two weeks later...
Roman slipped inside the blessedly cool interior of a tailorâs shop and leaned against the wall, wiping his face. Each day in the Witchlands was as hot as the last, like the dead of summer back in Wakeby, but far more humid. Thankfully, he was in the East Market, an organized, well-to-do grid of sixteen square blocks just south of the Djel Triba where the arcane districtâs newest trinkets often made their first stop before the mass market. The source of the cool air was a thin wooden ring set up on a stand in the corner. Roman stepped up to it, sighing as a stream of cold air washed over him. Carved on the inside were four lines of alchemy, equally spaced apart around the ring. Roman couldnât decipher it, aside from a few letters and numbers he recognized.
âYou know, if I wanted my shop to smell like sweat, Iâd invite the Wall Guard in here,â a voice said, and Roman turned. A man in all black stood behind him wearing a very stylish black scarf and circular glasses tinted a few shades darker, arms folded across his chest. It was the closest thing Roman had seen to normal sunglasses since arriving in the Witchlands. The tailor looked Roman and his gray uniform up and down, pausing on the gold insignia on his left shoulder.
âWorking for Val, huh?â
He shrugged. âCommunity service, actually.â Roman riffled around in his satchel for a moment. âIâve got a letter from the Chief Judge to⊠Rait?â he said, reading the name next to the address.
The tailor cocked an eyebrow. âYou got a problem with my name, messenger boy? Iâll have you know itâs a family name going back ten generations.â
Unsure how to respond, Roman held out the letter. Rait plucked it from his hand and, unsheathing a pair of ornate metal scissors, sliced the envelope open. Roman waited politely, as was his duty, in case the recipient wished to send an immediate reply.
âThese are all the same,â Rait muttered as he slipped a folded piece of parchment from the envelope. âThanks, Rait, for designing me world-class outfits, even though I refuse to wear anything but that scaly suit ofâŠâ he trailed off. His face drained of both humor and blood as he scanned the letterâs contents. Romanâs interest piqued. Indeed, most of the mail he delivered for the Chief Judge consisted of complimentary thank-you notes to government officials or business owners. Only the truly sycophantic took time to send anything back.
Rait took a steadying breath, his expression carefully neutral. His quick glance at Romanâs hand, however, betrayed at least part of what heâd read.
It was about Roman.
Valerie had agreed that adding gloves to his uniform would keep him from getting mobbed in the streets by curiousâor in some cases, piousâwitches, though the ones he wore now were fingerless. Roman still wasnât completely sure what his position as the Last Heir entailed, and Valerie only answered him with vaguery. Some thought he was destined to overthrow the Djel Triba and become a monarch. Some revered the old Witch Queen herself as a lower deity or handmaiden of Kaia, and considered him a sort of demigod. Roman tried to avoid these witches as much as possible. They tended to get weepy and try to grab his hands or arms. One man even started singing in the middle of the street. Thankfully, Roman had dashed off before too many people took notice.
Regardless, it seemed gloves would only hide his identity a short while longer. Rumors were spreading.
âRight. Well, um,â Rait said, pocketing the letter and composing himself. âI wonât be needing to send a physical reply, if you wouldnât mind telling her my answer is yes.â
âOf course. Kaia cas de,â he said, giving a slight bow alongside the traditional farewell Valerie had taught him before heâd started his job. Kaia with you, it translated.
âO de,â Rait replied automatically, lost in thought.
Roman turned to leave.
âHey,â Rait called, and Roman stopped with the door half open. The tailor fished around in his pocket, then tossed him two silver shils. Roman caught them and tried not to gape.
âI⊠Iâm not supposed to get paid,â he said. âItâs kind of the point of community service.â
âJust get yourself something to eat, kid, witchgods,â Rait snapped, looking supremely uncomfortable at being openly kind. âYou look like youâll blow over in a stiff breeze. And donât mention this to Val. Sheâll never let me hear the end of it⊠because it goes against your sentence. Obviously.â
âRight,â Roman said slowly. âThanks.â
âYeah, whatever,â Rait muttered and disappeared into the back of the store.
Roman stepped out onto the street, a little stunned, pocketing his new wealth. He had seen little aside from gold shils, the lowest currency, since Valerie had sent Virgil and him clothes shopping when theyâd first arrived. Roman looked down at himself. Sure, heâd lost some weight since being here, but he wasnât sickly⊠right? It was probably from running all over the Capital six hours a day. Nevermind that the only meal he got was at the end of the night at Goldfire. Valerie hadnât said anything about it, and Roman wasnât about to. She was a busy person. He doubted she was deliberately leaving him destitute. Besides, he was getting by just fine.
Unfortunately, being âjust fineâ rarely kept his stomach from growling. On any other day, Roman would have snagged himself some nonperishable food to keep a stash of. Today, however, the small fortune would have to go to clearing a debt that had been looming over him ever since heâd taken it out to buy that muhlteâanother gamble heâd had to take to make ends meet with no income coming from his messenger work, and the reason Virgil had insisted on taking up a job of his own as a clerk for that same clothing shop theyâd visited on their first day in the Witchlands. He was just thankful he was a quick learner. Amaryllis taught him to play well enough to serve as nightly entertainment for Bodbynâs patrons and earn himself dinner each night, as well as continued boarding once their two-week window from Valerieâs favor ran out.
Roman kept a hand in his pocket, fingers tight around the two silver shils, and glanced at his satchel. He had a handful of letters left to deliver. Thumbing through them, Roman found their destinations were around the south end of the West Marketâa sprawling market district nestled inside the ruins of walls from when the Witch Queen had still been around, and the Capital had been a much smaller kingdom. If Roman hurried, he could finish his deliveries and run an errand of his own before reporting back to Valerie.
Content with his plan, Roman buckled his satchel closed and jogged to the nearest boarding station.
* * * * * * * * * *
The trains were, oddly, made of pale stone, rather than the hulking metal locomotives Roman was used to. Here, people called them railcars. There werenât any seats either. Bars lined the ceilingâand the walls for those too short to reachâas handholds while the machine moved. There was a gap in the handles, forming a kind of aisle between people so passengers could exit more freely at stops, but otherwise, they all crowded together.
Roman stood near the exit alongside three other similarly gray-uniformed messengers in their designated seating area, one arm above his head as he gripped the support. Thankfully, messengers were exempt from rail fees, which meant there was one less thing he had to worry about paying for. The patches on their shoulders indicated which judge or noble family they ran for, though Roman was still having trouble memorizing them all. He glanced at the messenger to his right, who was about his age. The gold insignia on her left shoulder depicted an open book with a pen and a chisel crossed above it. She noticed him looking and gave an awkward smile.
âSorry,â Roman said. âIâm still trying to learn all the crests. Thatâs Oberon, right?â
âOh! Yeah, it is,â she replied, brightening. âWhoâre you running for?â
For a moment, Roman considered lying. Too much of any kind of attention was precarious, for him especially. Unfortunately, the patch on his shoulder would reveal the truth no matter what. âThe Chief Judge,â he admitted.
The messengerâs eyes widened. âReally? I thoughtâwell, no offense, but Iâve heard she only lets the most powerful witches run for her because of all that classified information⊠and youâre so young!â
Roman fought a blush. âItâs really not that big of a deal. Just thank-you notes andââ
âYou never know, Maizeâ one messenger from behind said, leaning forward between them, âhe could be a warlock. I hear theyâre allowed de-aging spells.â
âWhatever, Fentril,â Maize said, rolling her eyes. âIâm pretty sure those spells are illegal, even for warlocks.â
âYou guys all know each other?â Roman asked, glancing behind him. There were six other messengers on the train. All eyed him with curiosity.
Fentril snorted. âDo you know how many runners there are in the Capital? Hundreds.â
âMore like thousands, Fen,â one of the runners from behind them corrected.
âWe know most runners from our own patronage,â Maize explained. âMaybe a few here and there that we see on the same routes,â she said, glaring pointedly at Fentril. âHow long have you been running? I havenât seen you around before.â
âIâve seen him,â a different runner from the back piped up before Roman could respond. He turned. It was a tall woman, taller than him, with thick braided hair done up in a top knot. She leaned on the side of the car, almost sitting against it. Roman was sure if she stood, sheâd have to hunch over. He was surprised he hadnât noticed her before. The crest on her shoulder depicted two hands grasping overlaying a star of Kaia. The crest of Alecto, that daunting, all-white witch from the trial.
âRuns the noble neighborhoods and both markets. Pretty easy to recognize, wearing those strange gloves all the time,â she said, eyeing him. Romanâs chest seized, and it took everything in him not to hide his hands and make his secret even more obvious.
âHey, a witchâs entitled their secrets, Hava,â Fen said, then stage whispered to Roman, âDonât let her freak you out, kid.â
Roman cocked an eyebrow at the nickname, given Fen didnât look that much older than him, but didnât argue the point. Blessedly, before they could ask more questions about his gloves, the train arrived at his stop. He waved a tentative goodbye to his new acquaintances, muttering a quick, âKaia cas des.â
âO de,â Maize and Fen said. A handful of runners exited the railcar alongside him, including Hava, who had to duck through the doorway. Standing to her full height, the woman looked at least seven feet tall, towering above the crowd. The boarding station was a fully roofed building encasing a section of the railway, arching up over the passing trains and letting down to the ground through an enormous spiral staircase inside the leg of the railbridgeâs arch. There were alchemy-based elevators within the core pillar of the massive stairway, but those were reserved for emergencies.
Hava gave him a sort of saluteâtouching the side of her fist to her lipsâand bounded down the stairs, out of sight. Roman had run up and down so many boarding stations in only the first two weeks of him being here, he couldnât imagine how many the other runners had. He broke out into a jog, spacing his stride so three paces landed on each of the wide steps, careful not to trip. Runners like him kept to the inside of the stairway, making tighter turns, but traveling less distance overall. The crowd of ascending and descending witches recognized their uniforms and knew to keep out of the way.
In all his time here, he only seen other messengers stop running when they were on a train or at someoneâs doorstep. Roman wasnât about to look lazy in comparison. Besides, he quite enjoyed the runningânow that heâd started acclimating, of course. The first few days, heâd nearly vomited.
By the time he reached the exit at the bottom, Hava and the other runners were long gone. Compared to the East Market, the West Market was a bubbling stewpot of taverns, merchants, shops, and the occasional street performer. The crowded streets made random, illogical turns, and most witches he asked for directions simply said heâd get used to it eventually, and gave him landmarks to look for instead of street names. Checking the last few addresses once more, Roman had a general idea of where to find their recipients.
Eyeing the setting sun, Roman ran down the street.
* * * * * * * * * *
The sun had long since dipped below the city walls, the sunset giving way to twilight. Roman strode through the still-crowded West Market, enjoying the cooler air. Nightlife in the West Market lasted well into the night, and the streets would likely be full for the next three or four hours. Heâd finished his deliveries at last, wending his way along the ancient stone wall bordering the south end of the market. Normally, Romanâs assignments never took him this close to the noke slumsâwhere the badge on his shoulder was more a target than mere identificationâbut it was a risk Roman would have to take.
My shiftâs over. Iâll be heading back to Goldfire soon, Virgil said suddenly within his mind. Roman nearly jumped out of his skin, garnering a few odd looks from passersby.
Jeez, Virge, he thought back, slowing his breathing. Scare me half to death, why donât you.
Sorry. I keep forgetting you arenât used to it.
Itâs fine. If you see Bodbyn, tell her Iâm running late.
A hint of trepidation shot through their connection. Did something happen?
No, Roman assured him. I ran into some extra shils and thought Iâd clear my ledger sooner than later.
Alright. Just be careful.
Always.
Their connection faded, though not completely. If he focused, Roman could sense Virgilâs emotions. Speaking through the bond had taken Roman a good few days to get the hang of, and it still wasnât as natural for him as it was for Virgil.
Amaryllis spent most of her time at Goldfire. After one day cooped up in their room, sheâd ventured out while the two of them were gone and somehow made friends with Bodbyn, the owner. Though unexpected, the friendship certainly helped smooth things over with them not technically paying for the room and all.
Roman passed a shop selling pigment pipes as contracted brownies scampered down the street, activating the alchemical streetlights as they went. Through the storeâs front window, Roman could see clouds of multicolored vapor swirling near the ceiling. A patron exited and Roman could smell sharp spices and cinnamon as the man exhaled a deep purple mist through his nose. Roman held his breath as he passed. He wasnât sure if someone could absorb the effects secondhand, but he wasnât keen on finding out.
Turning a corner, Roman moved away from the well-lit streets and into the shadows. Climbing a set of questionable wooden stairs on the side of a rundown tavern, he approached a lone door on the second floor and knocked.
Nothing.
Roman knocked again, cursing his luck. Had he gone all this way for nothing? Trying the handle, he found it unlocked and slowly opened the door. It stopped after a few inches, as if blocked by something. Roman pushed harder, hearing something heavy scraping against the floor as the door gradually opened wider. He peeked his head in to see an enormous iron hammer hurtling at his face. Roman lurched backward, saving his skull by a hairâs breadth.
âOh, itâs just you,â a cheerful voice said from inside. Roman put a hand to his chest, trying to calm himself, as two slender hands appeared from behind the door and pried the long-handled hammer out of the hole it had smashed in the wall.
Linda poked her head out and grinned at him. âCome on in, Roman.â
* * * * * * * * * *
Logan puffed as he ran down the sandy beach, watching the morning sky lighten out of the corner of his eye. His shoulders and back ached from hauling water down to campâan early morning exercise Mikhail had integrated into his trainingâthough the pain wasnât as debilitating as it had been during the first few days. It wasnât getting easier, per se, but rather Logan was simply growing used to the physical discomfort.
Mikhail jogged next to him, not even slightly out of breath. Both the water hauling and the running were methods, according to Mikhail, of increasing Loganâs stamina and endurance. Logan didnât know the exact distance they ran around the islandâs perimeter, but it was easily upwards of ten miles. They ran barefoot, as the homemade sandals werenât robust enough to handle such treatment. It wasnât much of an issue, though. They simply had to skirt around the rocky portions near Eudoraâs cave.
Loganâs breath had steadily grown harder, and he began wheezing as they approached the driftwood log that marked the halfway point. Mikhail put a hand on his shoulder and slowed to a stop, holding out the canteen before he could complain.
âItâs not about speed, Logan.â
He fixed Mikhail with a look, taking the canteen from him. âSays the man who could run this three times over in under an hour.â
âWe both know Iâm no mere man,â he chuckled.
Logan took a swallow of water and handed the jug back, fighting to calm his breathing so they could start again. Running got ten times more miserable once the sun rose and began heating the sand. Despite his fatigue, he noticed Mikhailâs eyes glaze over a bit, a reaction that had been imperceptible to Logan at first. He was speaking with the abomination.
Mikhail blinked, eyes refocusing. âOnce you can run the entire way without stopping, weâll move on, I think,â he said. âHopefully, by then, we could spar a few rounds before youâre tired out. Have you thought over what I asked yesterday?â
âYes. Though, Iâd like your honest opinion as someone far more experienced in this field.â
âAlright.â
âAssuming the battery theory works,â he began, âIâm fairly confident in predicting our escape from the island occurring within the next month or two. Of course, this is a best-case scenario, but Iâd rather be ready sooner than caught under-prepared.â
Mikhail gave a nod, though his expression hardened. None of them enjoyed bringing up the escape, as if they still didnât quite believe him. Patton was the one exception.
âI figure any martial discipline will take a significant amount of time to become proficient in, let alone master, and due to my lack of magical abilities, I believe it would be more practical for me to learn the use of some kind of long distance weapon, magical or otherwise.â
âI agree,â Mikhail said. âA bow, then?â
âExactly.â
âI do have experience with archery,â he admitted, rubbing his beard. âYouâre planning to use this weapon against the dragon witch, though. Arrows wonât do much to someone like that. Whatâs stopping her from forcing the bow away from you?â
Logan grinned. âI thought of that. When Jorryn located iron deposits for the batteries, we didnât have Eudora extract all of it, right? There could be enough to forge a bow.â
âAn iron bow? Doesnât sound very practical. It would be extremely heavy, not to mention youâd need a bowstring that could handle that much tension.â
âThatâs where alchemy comes in. I need iron for its antimagic properties, not its hardness or weight. Iâll have to ask Killian about the specifics, but assuming we could counteract the weight and rigidity of the iron, it could work.â
âAnd the arrows? They could easily be diverted with magic.â
âSame principle as the bow, hypothetically,â Logan shrugged. âWeâll know more once we make them and can run tests.â
Mikhail eyed him. âYou really thought this out, huh?â
âWeâre already building the forge to cast the battery casings,â he said. âAnd Killian was a blacksmith before becoming a carpenter, so he should be able to help us. ItâŠâ Logan noticed the sun peeking over the watery horizon. âI spoke too much,â he said, shifting on his feet. âWe should probably get going.â
âNo, letâs head back to camp. We can cut through the middle. I want to hear more of this idea of yours, teâkundi,â Mikhail said, smiling.
âWhat?â
âItâs witchtongue. A title we give to those smarter than ourselves.â
Logan flushed, following him into the trees. âI really donât thinkââ
âTake the compliment, teâkundi,â Mikhail chuckled, slapping him on the back. âWeâve got work to do.â
* * * * * * * * * *
Linda held the two silver shils between her fingers, lifting them up and admiring them like a jeweler, letting out a low whistle. She leaned precariously in a chair, feet propped up on her desk. Her infamous iron hammer lay across her desk. Its thick square head tapered down to a wickedly sharp point at the other end, the handle about the length of Romanâs arm. Iron weapons were expensive and Roman rarely saw one outside of the iron-spear-wielding Court Guard, but they were some of the most effective weapons against witches. For a non-magical witch like Linda, it was the main reason she kept her more powerful clients under her thumb.
âWell, you were right. Thatâll just about do it for your loan,â she said with a sigh, tossing the coins up and catching them in a fist. Linda eyed him with a grin. âSure you donât want to borrow some more?â
âNot at the moment. Iâll be sure to call on you again should the need arise,â he said with a bow and flourish.
Lindaâs grin split, showing her teeth, and she sat up. âThat uniformâs taught you manners, I see. Shame to see you go. Youâre one of my best behaved clients,â she pouted, glancing around her office. It was a wreckâlike someone had tried to rob her. Or kill her. The heavy object blocking the door had been a chest made of dark wood with brass fittings. Framed maps lay shattered on the floor, drawers hung at odd angles from dressers as if someone had yanked them open, and Roman was pretty sure that was blood spatter in the corner, though Linda didnât look injured.
âThank you, Linda. Kaia cas de,â he said sincerely, ready to put as much distance between him and this woman as possible. She was nice, yes. But something in that smile told him if he didnât part ways with her now, he never would.
Lindaâs face softened, but before she could so much as utter a reply, the door slammed open and three people rushed into the room. Roman whirled, only to get tackled to the floor by a short, burly man. Linda leaped atop her desk, swinging her iron hammer at one of the two, cracking the woman in the head with the flat end. The other hesitated.
A fist met Romanâs face. He saw stars as the man pinned him to the floor with surprising efficiency, clamping a grimy hand over his mouth.
âYou just be nice and compliant,â he sneered. âDonât try anything, and we might let you live.â
âYou killed her!â the man left standing screamed, kneeling by the one Linda had struck. He was leaner than his companion, with a purplish birthmark across his face. He reached out to the bleeding, unconscious woman with trembling, hesitant hands.
âYouâre both trying to kill me, Dossen,â Linda said, rolling her eyes. âItâs basic self defence. Now, Iâd thank you to leave and tell whoever sent you to come themselves next time.â
Romanâs mind raced, trying to orient himself. The right side of his face throbbed, and the manâs fingernails dug into his cheek, keeping him from opening his mouth. They donât know if Iâm non-magical or not, he figured in the back of his mind. Heâs keeping me from using witchtongue. Not that he would have used it, anyway. Heâd only started learning more witchtongue from Amaryllis a week ago. Roman didnât trust himself not to overdo it again if things got ugly.
âYou know that isnât how Kildev works,â Dossen sneered, retreating from his friendâs limp form and unsheathing two curved knives.
Lindaâs flippancy wavered. âKildev? Since when do you work for him?â
Dossen shrugged. âSince he pays more.â
Roman? Virgilâs voice filled his mind. Whatâs wrong? Where are you?
Lindaâs. The man squeezed Romanâs arms to his sides with his legs. Romanâs breath picked up through his nose even as he fought for calm. He couldnât afford to make a scene here. He just had to wait it out and hope, for their sakes, they didnât attack him.
Roman felt scales. He shivered, cringing.
âVero Kaia,â swore the one holding him down. âHeâs one of the Chiefâs runners.â
Dossen backed toward where Roman lay pinned, not taking his eyes off Linda or her hammer. âLooks like Iâve got a hostage, and a pricey one at that.â He pointed one of the knives at Roman.
âLeave him out of this.â
âDrop the hammer.â
Roman, Iâm coming. Iâm coming. Hold on.
Linda charged, and Dossen yelped, clearly expecting her to have hesitated with his new leverage. Against a hammer, his close-range knives were practically useless unless he threw them. And he did. Linda barely dodged the one soaring at her face, though it scored a nasty gash from her cheek to her ear.
The other sank hilt deep into Romanâs thigh. One last-ditch effort to pull the hostage card.
Roman!
The sudden pain tore through any semblance of control he had. Romanâs ears began to ring. The man atop him gasped and yanked his hand back, like heâd touched a hot stovetop. Roman surged upward, toppling the man backward. He pressed a hand against the manâs chest. Through the haze of pain, every defensive spell Amaryllis had taught him since theyâd arrived fled his mind, and he growled the first thing he could think of.
âBaesta.â
A deafening crack split the air as the wooden floor beneath them buckled inward. Roman lurched forward, his hand slipping through the gaping hole in the manâs chest. He was dead instantly. Blood ran from his nose and eyes, like heâd imploded from the inside. Dossen was nowhere to be seen. Linda stood with her hammer held limply at her side.
âMother of magic,â she breathed, staring at the horrendous sight. Roman pulled back, hand covered in gore. His glove was gone. Torn apart. What was the word for healing again? He couldnât think straight. He was too tired and hungry.
Something shot through his connection to Virgil. A sudden, far away surge of power. Roman, whatâs going on? Please, talk to me. Iâm almost there.
Roman was somehow numb and barely holding it together at the same time. He couldnât meet Lindaâs eye as he extracted himself from the bloody corpse. âIsumani,â he whispered. Heal everything. Just make it all normal again.
Magic burst out of him, filling the room. The floor creaked and shuddered beneath them as it knit itself back together. Blood flowed back into the manâs body, the hole Roman had punched through him slowly healing. His own leg sewed itself shut, the knife clattering to the floor.
And it didnât stop there.
The room began righting itself, shattered glass coming back together, frames rehanging themselves. Linda gave a surprised gasp as the gash on her face closed without leaving a trace.
The woman Linda had bashed in the head shuddered and stumbled to her feet, wound still healing. She took one look around the room and fled. Linda did nothing to stop her, staring in astonishment at the scene unfolding before her.
The man beneath Roman gasped back to life. He scrambled away, shoving Roman away. The stranger was too shocked to scream, but his eyes were full of fear. Roman let him leave, squeezing his eyes shut against the fresh memories of what heâd done. All the healing magic in the world couldnât fix the lingering feeling of blood on his hands. The fear in their eyes.
Iâm supposed to be their savior, he thought numbly.
âRoman. You can stop now,â Linda said, sounding like she was trying very hard to remain calm. Confused, he cracked his blurry eyes open to see leafy branches sprouting from the floorboards and poking through the paint on the walls. Healing magic still flowed through him like an open faucet. Strange golden light dappled the room, flickering across Lindaâs face as she stared at him.
He looked down at his hands and yelped in surprise. Amber splotches of light moved across his skin like air bubbles underwater. Romanâs pulse thundered in his ears as he tried to brush the light off of him, but it just felt like his skin. The moving patches were warm and sent tingles up his fingers when he touched them. Was this some kind of magic sickness? The idea sent a stab of panic through him. He couldnât handle one more thing to worry about. Running for Valerie, and performing for Bodbyn, and learning from Amaryllis, and keeping his identity secret, and saving all his friends, and defeating Ursula.
He was so tired.
A monstrous thud shook the roof, and Linda swore. The building creaked under a mysterious weight that moved down toward the door. Of course, Roman thought half-hysterically, grabbing his head. One more magical beast Iâve got to defeat.
An enormous feline head poked through the doorwayânow nothing more than an archway of curved branches. Roman, Virgil asked, blinking amber eyes the size of dinner plates at him. Are you hurt?
Roman couldnât form a coherent replyâvocal or mental. The branches grew thicker and longer, a multi-armed helix of trees reformed from planks of wood, a crown of greenery blossoming high above them. It all sprouted from where Roman knelt. The trees responded to his thoughts, and at that moment, there wasnât anything Roman wanted more than for Virgil to be close to him. The opening widened, and Virgil padded past a dumbfounded Linda. Leaves sprouted from the handle of her hammer.
Itâs okay, Roman. Iâm here. Youâre safe now. Virgil curled up around him. Roman clung to his fur, trembling.
âWhatâs happening to me?â he breathed, looking at the strange light taking over his body.
Your coreâs showing. Itâs totally normal, Roman. All witches have them. Iâm in my core form right now, and Iâm not too scary, right? he replied, a thunderous purr rumbling through him. Take some deep breaths for me, yeah? Everythingâs going to be all right.
Roman took a shaky breath, burying his face in Virgilâs fur. He could feel Virgilâs underlying fear and worry, kept carefully in control so it didnât freak Roman out more. It was nice, however, not having to be the mentally strong one this time.
âI canât do it,â he whimpered.
Canât do what?
âEverything.â
Youâre rightâand you shouldnât have to. I keep forgetting that none of this is normal for you. Iâm sorry. Weâll talk to Valerie and figure something else out, okay? Trust me.
Roman, finally, relaxed. The lights across his skin faded away, and the trees around them stopped growing. His stomach growled petulantly, and Virgilâs ears perked up.
Have you eaten, yet?
Roman shook his head, exhausted. He just wanted to sleep.
Roman, you need to eat something. Can you climb onto my back?
He swallowed back a sigh and clambered up onto Virgilâs back, grabbing loose fists of his thick fur to keep himself from falling off. Virgil stood and padded to the exit.
âSorry about all of this,â he said as they passed Linda.
Having recovered from her initial shock, she just laughed. âAre you kidding? Thisâll be great for my new business!â she said, gesturing to the massive tree around her. âNow I just have to figure out what that business will beâŠâ
âRight,â Roman chuckled weakly, feeling scraped hollow. âGood luck, Linda.â
She gave him a nod, already surveying the interior, muttering to herself. Roman turned his attention to the street below and his heart sank.
A crowd had formed around the tree. People pointed up at them, most shouting in excitement and wonder, though a thick-armed tavern keep standing atop a root as thick as his own torso looked particularly upset about the impromptu redesign of his shop. What made him the most nervous were the undeniable mutterings of âheir of prophecyâ he could hear even from this distance.
You going to be okay?
Roman took a deep breath. âI certainly hope so.â
The climb down wasnât easy, and Roman had to cling to Virgilâs back to keep from falling as they scrambled down the trunk. People backed away, clearing a spot for Virgil to drop the rest of the way to the ground, landing nimbly without jostling Roman too much.
He craned his head back and marveled at his towering creation. âAt least itâs pretty,â he muttered. The experience sure hadnât been.
A deep growl from Virgil snapped his attention back to the crowd, who had inched closer, curious.
âStay back,â he warned, voice gravely and inhumanâsimilar to Dorianâs. Roman hadnât heard him speak like this since their fiasco in the basement with Remus. It was comforting and unsettling at the same time. Thankfully, the crowd didnât push their luck, remaining where they were.
âIs it true?â a voice from the sea of faces called. âYouâre the Last Heir of prophecy?â
âHeâs too young,â another retorted.
Roman swallowed, his throat dry. âUmâŠâ
âNo, no, look at his hand!â
âThe Star of Kaia!â
âI want to know whoâs paying for damages,â the tavern keeper said, arms folded.
âQuiet!â Virgil said, fur bristling. Everyoneâs eyes went wide, mouths shutting. âThe Heir has arrived, and he is very tired. So help me, if any of you disturb him, youâll be taking your questions up with Kaia herself in the afterworld. Am I understood?â
Most either nodded or looked away, terrified. Resigned as he was, Roman couldnât help but feel for them. They were just curious. He doubted they meant any harm.
âIâm sorry,â he said, raising his voice so hopefully they could all hear him, âfor any damage Iâve caused.â
âSorry wonât fix my ruined business!â the tavern keeper shouted. Several witches shot him dirty looks. One even elbowed him and muttered something. âWhat?â he said, rounding on them. âIâm just supposed to grovel at his feet cause he ruined my livelihood in a flashy way?â
Roman was so tired he wasnât sure if he would start laughing or burst into tears. He didnât know what to do. He was this supernatural hero who could grow mystical trees without a second thought, but couldnât for the life of him fix what heâd screwed up.
Virgil let out a low, warning noise, and the man paled.
âOh, stop your whining, Galphin!â Linda shouted down from the tree hollow, brandishing her leafy hammer. âCut out a new door, or something. This witch just made your tavern the hotspot of the Capital and youâre crying like a Brownie over tarnished silver. Get over yourself.â
Galphin spluttered, face flushing red. A few in the crowd let out soft laughter. âYouâve got no rightââ
âIn fact!â Linda said, that same grin spreading across her face. âIâm the reason Golden Boy was even here to begin with, so looks like you owe me for the renovation.â
âOwe you? This is ridiculous. I let you run your shady little business above my tavern, noke!â
Linda laughed. âOh, please, donât you know the best way to get what you want is to let the other person think theyâre making the deal? Now, thereâs going to be a steady interest on the property tax Iâm issuing, so I suggest you get to work before I call the Guard for substantial debts taken without intent to pay.â She shot Roman a look and winked.
Roman nodded his thanks, patting Virgil on the shoulder. The familiar started away from the tree, the crowd silently parting around them. He noticed a few cheeks wet with tears, and Roman desperately hoped no one broke out into some kind of religious preaching. Thankfully, they all kept a respectful distance. Roman did his best to sit up straight, despite wanting to pass out, and even managed a weak smile.
An adolescent, perhaps fourteen, reached a tentative hand out, brushing Virgilâs leg with their fingertips as they passed. Virgil looked down at them, and they instantly retracted their hand.
Be nice, Roman admonished, scratching his fingers through the fur between Virgilâs shoulders.
I am being nice, he said, tail flicking. We can be a parade attraction some other time, though.
Agreed.
It was a long walk from Lindaâs place to Valerieâs estate. Nearly across the entire city. Roman couldnât guess the distance, but figured at the pace they were going, itâd be at least an hour before they arrived. Thankfully, it was late enough now that the streets were somewhat empty. Roman couldnât imagine having to make this trek in the middle of a bustling market. While the crowd that had formed around the tree incident had indeed remained respectful and quiet, Virgilâs threats hadnât kept them from trailing behind as they made their way through the city.
The ride wasnât very comfortable either, despite the softness of Virgilâs fur. Felines werenât exactly meant to ferry around passengers, no matter their size. The bumps of Virgilâs spine pressed uncomfortably against him, and despite the fact that heâd removed his messengerâs jacket and bundled it up into a makeshift cushion, Roman was sure heâd be regretting it in the morning with bruises in unsavory places.
Still, he silently enjoyed the distance it put between him and the people, and despite the aches, the gentle swaying motion as Virgil walked lulled him into a kind of half-awake daze.
You should try sleeping, Ro. Itâll be a while before we arrive, Virgil said, glancing over his shoulder at him.
Yeah, he said absently, but made no move to lay down. This form isnât⊠hard for you to keep up, is it?
Witchgods, Roman, just let me take care of you, he laughed, exasperated. After a moment, however, he conceded, explaining, I could stay like this as long as I wanted. Itâs the transformation itself that takes magical energy.
Right, Roman said. Howâs it going with Amaryllis and your talisman? They worked on Virgil using his powers without the talisman while Roman was busy playing muhlte for patrons at Goldfire, so Roman rarely saw the training himself.
She says Iâm making progress, he admitted after a pause.
Romanâs head bobbed as he struggled to stay awake. Thatâs good⊠Iâm proud of youâŠ
Virgil said nothing, plodding along at a steady, hypnotic pace. Roman slumped forward, which distributed his weight and relieved some of the pain from sitting up on Virgilâs back.
He let out a tired sigh, and, at last, let his mind slip into unconsciousness.
* * * * * * * * * *
Most of the crowd had dispersed when Virgil reached the edge of the West Market, the last few stragglers only trailing behind for a few minutes more as he followed the rail lines through the arcane districtâthe most direct path back to Valerieâs estate. The Djel Triba came into view, and Virgil felt a measure of relief. Heâd kept his worries in check as well as he could manage, not wanting to wake Roman up. But walking alone through a potentially hostile city at night, despite his current size, was paranoia-inducing. The scuttle of various city-dwelling fae in the shadows kept him on edge.
Weâll be fine, Virgil, Amaryllis assured him for what felt like the hundredth time since theyâd picked her up from Goldfire.
We donât know how Valerie will react, he said. Some of the judges wanted to throw him in prison. What if what just happened convinces her they were right?
Somethingâs got to change, Virgil. Roman has to master these powers in three months, and weâve only covered the basics of witchtongue in the past two weeks. Iâm sure Valerie will understand.
What if she doesnât?
What if she does? she countered. Virgil sighed, dropping the issue. Roman snored softly against his fur, completely asleep. He had to be careful not to shift his weight too much, or heâd risk Roman sliding off his back.
Passing the Djel Triba itself, they made their way down a long cobble drive that split off every half mile or so, sectioning off the different judgeâs estates. Valerieâs was in the back, a stately building of skilled stone masonry with tall, well-lit windows. Not nearly as big as Virgil had anticipated.
The two guards stationed at the front door looked at each other, confused.
âYouâre⊠the Heirâs familiar. Right?â one of them asked.
Virgil turned a bit, revealing the sleeping Roman. He didnât like speaking aloud in this form unless he had to. Reminded him too much of Dorian.
The two guards stiffened.
âIs he injured?â the other asked, stepping forward.
No. Let us in, Virgil snapped in both of their minds. The two of them jumped, startled.
Amaryllis floated ahead of Virgil, shooting him a chastising look that he met with defiance. âHeâs perfectly fine,â she amended. âJust asleep. However, we have some pressing matters to discuss with the Chief Judge, if you would be so kind as to escort us.â
These guards, thankfully, didnât look at Amaryllis like she was the undead scum of the earth. One nodded to the other and led them inside. The doorway wasnât quite big enough for Virgil, but he was agile enough to slink through without displacing his sleeping witch. They were handed off to one of the house staff, who bowed silently to them and guided them down the hall. The servant was a short womanâor, at least, she looked short from Virgilâs perspective. She kept shooting glances at Romanâs limp form. He followed her line of sight and found she was interested in the gold mark on Romanâs hand hanging over Virgilâs side.
So was everyone, it seemed.
Virgil kicked himself for not realizing how overtaxed Roman was getting earlier. They shared a mental link, for Witch Queenâs sake. He still wasnât sure what exactly had happened at Lindaâs. The echo of Romanâs pain heâd felt still haunted him. Whatever had occurred, Roman had erased with healing magic. Maybe once he was awake, Virgil could pry the story out of him.
They stopped outside another large pair of doors. The servant pressed a hand against a small panel in the wall inscribed with lines of alchemy, and it sunk inward about an inch. The massive doors swung open of their own accord, revealing a spacious, but noticeably empty, sitting room. The servant strode inside and squatted near a fireplace on the left side of the room. Muttering a soft, âMerint,â a fire burst to life from her fingertips.
She stood, facing them. âThe Chief Judge is in her personal quarters at the moment. Please wait here while I inform her of your presence,â the woman said with another deep bow to both Virgil and Amaryllis before exiting.
Virgil ducked through the doorway, once again careful to keep Roman balanced across his back. Amaryllis trailed throughout the room, looking at the artwork on the walls. A row of tall windows lined the back wall, revealing a lush garden lit by amber lanterns. Virgil positioned himself between the sitting area and window, giving him a good view of the entire roomâdoors included. He slowly lowered onto his stomach, resting, but ready to get up and run if he had to.
Amaryllis looked over. âYou know, heâd probably be more comfortable on one of the couches.â
Heâs fine where he is.
She conceded with a shrug. Truth was, Virgil wasnât sure heâd be able to keep his anxiety in check if he didnât have the comforting weight of his witch on his back, his soft puffs of breath across his fur, or the occasional shifting that reminded Virgil he was still alive and well.
His ears swiveled, picking up steady, clinking footsteps growing closer to the sitting roomâs open doors. Valerie appeared in the doorway soon after, in her typical suit of scaled armor. Her smile disappeared when she saw Roman unconscious, and she stepped into the room.
âWhat happened?â
Heâs just asleep.
She relaxed a bit, folding her arms. âWhile Iâm glad to hear that, Virgil, it doesnât answer my question.â
Virgil vacillated on how much to tell her. He still didnât trust the woman, though he liked her more than the other judges. There was another incident. Similar to what happened with the Captain of the Guard when we arrived.
Valerie paled. âIs anyone injured?â
I donât think so. I wasnât with him when it happened, but if anything, he healed things a bit too much.
âWhat do you mean?â
I mean youâve got a giant tree growing in the south end of the West Market, now.
âOh, itâs gorgeous,â Amaryllis said. âI could see it from Goldfire.â
Valerie began pacing around the room. âAs long as no one was injured⊠Wait, why werenât you with him? Arenât you two inseparable?â
Virgilâs tail whipped back and forth. Thatâs why weâre here. You realize you left us destitute, right?
She stopped, staring at him. âWhat? Did you not contact Bodbyn? She should haveââ
She fulfilled her favor to you and let us use a room, but food was never a part of the deal. Virgil tensed, fighting to keep his anger in check in case he woke Roman. It wasnât working very well. Roman wasnât making any money from running for you, so he took out a loan to buy an instrument so he could work for one meal a day. I had to get a separate job just to help pay off his loan. Thatâs why I wasnât with him.
âOne meal aâwhy didnât he tell me?â Valerie said, running a stressed hand through her hair. âI saw him every morning! I thought⊠I had no ideaâŠâ
He didnât want to impose, Virgil sneered. And now, because heâs been so busy running all over the city for you, heâs wasted two weeks where he could have been learning to control his powers instead. You have no idea whatâs at stake here.
Amaryllis came between them, holding out her hands. âThatâs enough, Virgil. Valerie is aware of the situation now.â She turned to the Chief Judge. âWeâve come to rework the agreement. Roman needs time to study and practice using his powers, otherwise incidents are going to keep happening.â
âI agree. Iâll speak with the other judges. Hopefully, this wonât turn into another trial.â Valerie bowed her head in Virgilâs direction. âRegardless, I apologize for my ignorance, joka iskaia. It will not happen again.â
He nodded back to her, blinking slowly.
âI will have my staff prepare quarters for you immediately. You are welcome to the meals as they are served during the dayââ she glanced at Romanââbut you may help yourself to our kitchen tonight, though the cook has retired for the evening. Myla, the woman who showed you here, will take you to your rooms once they are ready. Ask her for anything you may need.â
âThank you,â Amaryllis said. âIâm sure Roman will thank you once heâs awake.â
Valerie shook her head. âHe doesnât need to. Iâm simply doing what I should have from the beginning. Goodnight.â And with that, she departed.
Amaryllis turned to Virgil with a smile. âThat went well!â
Yes, Virgil admitted. He may not trust Valerie yet, but this might have been the first step in the right direction theyâd taken since arriving.
I enjoy listening to Brandon Sanderson and Dan Wellâs podcast for all the writerly things they talk about, but Iâd be lying if I didnât find Brandon arguing that he could realistically beat a horse in a fight by chucking rocks at it until it fell in a hole endlessly delightful.
Dream tried to stop Wil from creating L'Manburg, Phil tried to stop him from blowing it up, BOTH value people over items and builds, Phil has said that they're replaceable but people aren't, Dream traded spirit for his best friends fishes (we kno he's not someone to talk abt feelings:[) BOTH were kind and selfless but used by almost if not everyone, BOTH were ready to be THE VILLAINS if it meant everyone else could live better after. ONE of them always had someone there, ONE didn't. Intentional?
aaaa sorry for the really inconsistent posts ,, im gonna try to post a little more in the next few days. i have a few things written up, so look out for them? maybe? for now, have this *gestures vaguely* thing ,, itâs kinda a mess but *shrug*
phil is such a fun character, anon, especially for all the reasons that you mentioned in the ask!! heâs a really fun character with a lot of complexities that go (sadly) overlooked by a large portion of the fandom, but heâs super cool even tho i havent analyzed him too much. hope you enjoy (and i hope my interpretation of c!phil isnt too ooc lmao)Â
When Techno first brings Dream back from the prison, Phil doesnât quite know what to think.
âI donât trust him either,â Techno assures him, but thereâs a flickering anger in the backs of his eyes, one that had emerged ever since he came back from the prison with the other man in his arms, and Phil knows his friend well enough to know that the words are empty in the face of the piglin hybridâs particular brand of to-the-death loyalty. He shakes his head in reply, refusing to voice his thoughts for Technoâs sake, at least, but the look that the other slants at him suggests that heâs caught onto them all the same.
At first, the work is thankfully mindless; even if Phil has reservations on the man that Techno has more or less dumped into his house, he would hardly wish the clear suffering heâs been through on anyone. The first few days pass in a flurry of brewing potions, wrapping and rewrapping dressings, stitching up cuts and setting broken bones straight. The damage is extensive; Phil has to take more than a few breaks to just leave the house and breathe - heâs far from a stranger to blood and carnage, had received the title of âAngel of Deathâ for a reason, but even he had never been particularly familiar with this form of cruelty. Torture was a level of violence that extended beyond what even he was willing to bestow - his hands may have caused many deaths, and the weight of each one would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life, but even those had the mercy of being a quick end. The wounds and scars that ripple over Dreamâs skin, thin and stretched tightly over his bones with little muscle and fat left to cushion them, speak of horrors that were anything but merciful.
âI didnât know they were capable of all of this,â Techno says, once, as they huddle of Dream, wringing towels in cold water to wipe his feverish skin. Technoâs hand reaches for the ribboning gold-filled scars that remain from the execution - carefully, Phil raises his hand to let his fingertips brush over them as well. âI mean, I knew he was dangerous and all, but-â
âI know, mate,â Phil looks back at Dreamâs face, tight even in unconsciousness, at the darkened, hand-shaped bruises that remain around his throat, at the scar that runs over his left eye, clearly meant to mirror the same one that makes its way down the duck hybridâs own face. âYou said that Quackity and Sam were working together?â
âYeah,â Technoâs expression darkens, eyes focused somewhere on the wall, seemingly very far away. He said that nothing happened to him in the prison, and he seemed relatively unharmed when Phil activated the stasis chamber, but ever since he came back, sometimes heâll have moments, and Phil canât help but - wonder. âQuackity does the dirty work, Sam gives him the way in and out, probably also the tools to do it. Itâs-â he huffs a short, self-recriminating laugh. âItâs bad, Phil.â
âMate-â
Techno shoots him a look, and Phil cringes, knowing already that heâd used the wrong tone. Even with the execution, Techno had been adamant to hide all traces of his own terror and fear away from him, masking it all with fury for Philâs own sake. He knows, just from the way his old friend looks at the ribboning scars that remain sometimes, that he is far from as over the whole ordeal as he acts, but Techno never wants to talk and Phil never knows the right time to ask and they smooth it all behind plans and explosions and hope that the TNT can blow apart the trauma, too. Heâs got a sneaking suspicion that the same thing is going to happen, here.
âAs soon as we can,â Techno starts again, pointedly shifting his eyes away from Philâs face, âweâre calling a Syndicate meeting to figure out what weâre going to do about the prison. Like- come on, man, you couldnât make a more transparent abuse of institutional power if you tried, really-â he looks over, uncharacteristic uncertainty warring over his features. âIf you think thatâs good, I mean-â
âWhenever heâs ready,â as it turns out, is easier said than done, becoming even more evident when their charge wakes up from his days long spell of unconsciousness. The worst of his injuries have, under their careful care and the benefit of many potions, healed enough to no longer directly threaten his life, but the vast majority have quite some time to go before being healed completely. Being as the goal was torture and not death, most of his injuries werenât made to be life-threatening, but rather to cause as much pain as possible - from the grimace that twists Dreamâs face when he struggles to force himself awake, theyâre doing their jobs.
âHey, mate, slow down,â Phil murmurs, pressing the man down by his shoulder when Dream weakly tries to push himself up and off the bed, and his struggling only lasts for a few more minutes before he gives up and slumps against his pillow, eyes cracking open and seeming surprisingly lucid.
âWhere-â his voice is wrecked, and Phil reaches for the glass of water at the bedside as Dream coughs. âWhere am I?â
âYouâre at Technoâs house,â Dreamâs eyes widen and then slip closed as he processes the information, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows as they knit together. âWe broke you out, after Techno escaped with a stasis chamber with your book. Do you remember?â
Dream gnaws on his bottom lip. âUm- yeah. I think.â His head turns as his eyes crack open again- âTechno-â
âHeâs out, right now. Heâll be back in a bit.â
âOh.â Dream falls back into the bed, strength seemingly sapped from the short conversation. His breathing stutters, then steadies. âOkay.â
Recovery is slow. Phil doesnât actually find himself seeing the man very often; now that he doesnât need around-the-clock care anymore, heâs moved back into his own house, letting Techno do most of the work when it comes to rehabilitating the escaped convict crashing at his house. As he begins to spend more of his time awake and aware, he brings a whole slew of new problems; Phil catches him screaming one day, blurting harsh, angry words as Techno reads, unbothered from the other side of the room, and he stops in his tracks standing awkwardly in the doorway.
âUm-â he winces when Dream curses, smashes something against the floor, and then curls into himself at the sound. Techno doesnât even flinch. âAm I interrupting something?â
Dream stomps away, face flushed, arms wrapped around himself. Techno raises an eyebrow.
âYou lookinâ for something, Phil?â he asks, and the unpleasant knot in Philâs chest refuses to unwind.
The episodes, unfortunately, donât seem to get much better. Though heâs rarely outright violent, Dream looks constantly murderous, usually muttering underneath his breath about something or another while he stalks the grounds of Technoâs house. Itâs not too long before Techno sends him out to work around the house instead of just moping within the cottage, which also means that Phil sees him a lot more - tending to a small farm behind the house, feeding the dogs, hacking away at mobs, and usually complaining the entire time. Itâs unnerving, even as injured and unarmored as the man is, to see him walking around like this; despite his rather pathetic appearance, swamped in sweaters that dwarf him thoroughly and thin enough to look like the slightest breeze will knock him over, his eyes are flinty and intelligent and bubble with promises of revenge.
âFUCK!â Phil turns to see him slamming a shovel into the snow, stomping away into the woods, and his hands tighten around his cup of tea. Next to him, Techno shrugs.
âNerdâs got a few issues,â he drawls, and Phil laughs shortly.
âThat seems like an understatement.â
âHeâll ease up in time,â Techno sounds surprisingly confident, completely content despite the muffled curses that come from the woods next to them. Heâs probably used to it, with Chat and all, but Phil canât quite seem to find the same calm.
âI just donât know, mate,â Phil shakes his head. âYou sure having him around is the best idea? He doesnât seem...stable.â
Techno looks up at him over the rim of his cup of coffee. His head tilts, considering, but thereâs a small smile on his face that tells Phil that Techno, inexplicably, doesnât share the same sentiments. There was always a part of him that was, for the lack of a better word, softer than the rest of the server for his self-proclaimed rival, a sort of understanding that Phil could hardly hope (nor would really want to) understand.
âDonât worry, Phil, if he tries anything I can always just tie him up in the attic or something,â Phil huffs a small laugh, amused, and nods to concede the point. âAnd- well, call it intuition. You could really try talkinâ to him, you know. He reminds me of you, sometimes.â
The words stick in his head despite his best efforts, rattling in his skull when he tries to sleep, lingering when he catches glimpses of the green-clothed man stalking around their properties. He canât imagine what wouldâve prompted his old friend to make the comparison, canât think of a single thing (besides their affinity for the color green) that would mark him as similar to the - from what heâs heard - deranged menace with a particular penchant for destruction (not that his rants and fits of anger are doing anything to correct that impression). Even so, Techno had sounded so sure when heâd made the comparison, the words offhand like heâd thought them a million times before, like it was a simple observation that held no more weight than commenting on the color of the sky. Phil watches as Dream lugs a pile of logs behind him, huffing at one of Technoâs dogs that comes to chase and nip at his feet and grumbling loudly before faceplanting into the snow. He just...canât see it.
Days later, Wilbur comes to visit, a grin on his lips as he dramatically recounts his newest exploit: a nation by Las Nevadas, a supposed safe haven away from the glitter and glory of Quackityâs city; it sounds brilliant, it sounds lovely, and more than anything it sounds stupid, and Phil tells him as such immediately.
âYouâre being reckless,â he rants at his son, wings flaring outwards and only barely noticing Dream watching from the corner of his eye, âWhat are you doing- picking fights with Quackity? Starting another nation- didnât you see what happened to the first two you made? Youâre going to get yourself killed, Wil!â
âWell, Iâve already seen whatâs on the other side of death, and itâs really not that bad-â
âYouâre my son!â The words are angrier than Phil wouldâve liked, and he knows that he looks ridiculous and overbearing, criticizing the actions of his fully grown son, but all he can see is Wilburâs face, slack with pain and grief, stained with ash and soot as his eyes flutter to half-mast in the midst of the rubble of a country he loved and destroyed and destroyed him in turn. âI canât lose you again, Wil!â
Wilbur doesnât quite storm out, but itâs a near thing, leaving with a clipped goodbye and leaving Phil seething on his doorstep. He spends the rest of the night pacing around the house in a sort of mad frenzy, wings stretching and folding over and over. Not for the first time, he longs for the sky, to feel the air through his wings and let the world fall into pinpricks below him; itâs this that leads him to the roof of his house, staring stubbornly at the clouds as the sun sinks down to the horizon.
âHey.â
Phil startles; there, down below him, is Dream. He rocks back on his heels, seeming awkward, before clambering up the wall (Phil rolls his eyes at the ease with which he scales it, the feeling in his chest almost fond) and settling himself on the shingles at Philâs side.
âHey, mate,â Phil shakes his head. The fondness leaves, and the irritation that had risen at Wilburâs words, earlier, comes back full-force. âSorry- Wil came to visit, we talked. I just needed some time to think.â
Dream hums in acknowledgement, and they fall into a comfortable silence, watching as the sun dipping down past the mountains in the distance.
âYou know,â Dream starts, sudden, âI told him the same thing.â He looks up at Phil, eyes faraway with old memories. âWilbur, I mean. When he made Lâmanburg- I told him he was being reckless.â He shrugs. âI guess he never listened.â
Phil pauses, Technoâs words ringing in his ears. He reminds me of you, sometimes.
Dream looks surprisingly normal up close - face no longer reddened with fever or pale from blood loss, even the scars fail to really take from the boyishness of his face. He bites his lips, eyes falling away at Philâs scrutiny, golden blond hair flopping over his forehead, newly trimmed to be something a little closer to his old length, at least in the front, the back pulled into a small ponytail. Heâs young, and shockingly awkward, teeth worrying his lip, hands fiddling with each other, shifting his weight from one foot to the other several times a minute. He looks like a kid.
âHe never does,â Phil lets himself smile, watches as Dream smiles back, almost like theyâre sharing a joke. He wonders how well he really knows the man behind the mask. âWant to come in for some tea?â
Dream smiles wider, and something old and worn in Phils chest, knocked loose ever since he felt his son fall limp in his arms with his own sword shoved between his ribs, falls back into place.
âThat would be great,â Dream replies, the words almost hopeful, and they go inside.
I wanna wish a good night to everyone who thinks their trauma wasn't "big enough" to warrant their mental illness, and let you know that it's not true. No one's gotta live in your head but you, friend.
I canât get over how the Himbo Squad (read: Adolin, Kaladin, and (admittedly) Veil after too much Horneater white) over the course of four books went from âWhereâs Wit? Someoneâs gotta make a quippy joke to lighten the moodâ to âWhereâs Wit? We all need intensive therapy sessions.â
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