It's been a year and a half. Of course Larkspur still hurts, but constant agony has given way to a dull ache most of the time. There are still moments where he breaks down, sometimes when he's reminded, and sometimes out of nowhere, but for the most part, he's able to go about his life almost as normal.
More and more, he allows himself to heal, to accept his reality. He's no longer jealous of his sister or his boyfriend. He's even been able to tolerate spectating most of the Entrails' matches.
Sometimes, the saddest thing to him isn't that he can no longer interact with his Palisman, but that Lark's loved ones can't. Lark can feel the glow in his own chest, but the same can't be said for his friends and family.
Lately, in his dreams, he senses that familiar golden warmth not just in his heart, but also beside him. It's moved slowly outward, as he moves onward. Tonight, the presence is almost staggering, almost tangible.
Then he feels a small creature alight on his shoulder. He doesn't need to look to know who it is, but he does anyway. Of course he does.
You'll see me again, Flapjack had said to him back then. Lark didn't dare to hope that it would be literal, but at least here, now, in his dreams, the bird is as vibrant a red as he was when they first met.
They don't need to say anything. Their shared love is understood. For a time, in that nebulous dreamspace, they just sit and enjoy one another's company.
When Lark wakes, it's with tears in his eyes and a smile on his lips. The weathered carving he sleeps with is as pale blue and motionless as ever, but this morning, it doesn't sadden him. He runs his thumb fondly over Flapjack's crest before rolling out of bed to get ready for the day.
Some weekends, the squad comes with him to the forest. When he isn't carving, Lark helps Willow and Dell tend the palistrom trees with Plant magic. The rest of the group does what they can physically, planting and watering saplings and keeping the area clean and safe.
Everyone socializes with the older Palismen who've yet to find their witches. It would make sense for their numbers to lessen as more of them bond with their partners, but more and more have actually seemed to venture out of the old forests in the time since Belos' defeat and the fall of the Coven system, almost faster than witches can take them in. Which is fine by Lark, really. He's happy that they feel safe enough to show themselves. And even with their magic helping some of the trees grow large enough to harvest a branch or two here and there, the palistrom forest is still so thin that he feels guilty with each cut he takes.
Once all the trees have been checked on, and the wild Palismen are entertained, he contemplates the latest branch. Having carved a couple dozen by now, he has a good idea of how many he can make while wasting the least amount of wood. He stares long enough that he feels eyes on himself as well.
Someone eventually asks what they're all wondering. Is he ever going to carve for himself?
And, as he has each time he's held a block in his hands, Lark considers it. But today, unlike every other time, he doesn't feel an overwhelming longing to do so. He feels lighter, somehow, as if a long-shouldered burden has been lifted.
"No," he answers with both softness and finality. "I don't think I need to anymore. I just want to help other people find their partners... I want to make up for all the damage I caused. Hopefully... put more kindness out there than all the hurt, you know?"
It makes sense, in a way. They've all been there for him since he lost Flap. They've all seen his growth. Luz and Gus as his siblings and Willow and Nico as his partners all have sad but knowing smiles for him, in their own ways.
Just as he sets the branch down to start his cuts, something in the canopy moves. A figure swoops down toward him, and if it weren't for the color, Lark would swear he knows the silhouette. But the old bird-shaped Palisman that lands on his outstretched hand is blue.
They stare at one another for a moment before Lark lifts his other hand to stroke its head. Come to think of it, he does recall seeing this one among the others occasionally, but it's never approached him before now.
"Nice to finally meet you," he says with a relieved, breathy laugh.
Waffles coos in response, and he understands her.
My little Lark, I've been waiting for you.
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[[ as a note: i had this planned before anything was confirmed. i know her name was confirmed waffle singular and hunter carved her himself. i don't care. :) this is my blog and i do what i want. ]]
Helplessly, Lark watches his own twisted limbs move against his will. Despite the monster's killing intent, his friends deliberately avoid hurting him. He wants to scream at them to stop messing around, to take him out already, but the only words that come out of his mouth are Belos' taunts and insults. It feels hopeless – the only thing motivating him to keep fighting the invader is the thought of injuring anyone.
At least Flapjack is safe from Belos' wrath, he thinks miserably, only seconds before a familiar flash of red catches both of their eyes.
No. No, no, no –
Before he can even finish the thought, his clawed hand is wrapped around the Palisman's fragile body. He feels Belos' malice seep into every fiber of his being, and suddenly, every enigmatic comment and vague consolation snaps into place. Suddenly, he knows what's coming.
It takes all of his willpower to stop it. Lark sets his blood alight, turning Belos' own power against him, harnessing the fury as his own. His left hand spears the right wrist, thumb's talon plunging into the tendons and muscles below his accursed sigil. The pressure forces his hand open, and Flapjack escapes unharmed.
"Thank you," he thinks to no one even as he grapples to keep control of his body. Belos wrestles him relentlessly, and Lark knows he's fighting a losing battle.
He just needs to keep control long enough to grab the vial, to toss it away, to get it out of Belos' reach…
Seeing it sink below the water, he recognizes his own salvation. Belos doesn't even realize that he plays right into Lark's desperate plan, as the boy relents and allows Belos to dive in after the blood.
The moment he submerges, Lark makes an effort to breathe deeply. He can’t be sure that he does, given that both his body and mind are already aching and exhausted, but by Titan, does he try.
At least this way, he can take Belos out with him. He can feel the weakening Emperor’s hatred melt into nothingness as his rage does the same. If he had any control left over his muscles, he would smile, but everything goes numb at the same pace his vision darkens. The moonlight reflected on the surface seems miles away before it disappears entirely.
“Thank you,” again, is his last thought in the black emptiness. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking, but it feels right.
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Lark.
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Lark.
Suddenly, he’s conscious. Awake, but still numb, staring up at a hazy pink sky. Dawn? But that could only mean he failed.
He shoots up, eyes darting around. The cemetery is out of focus, and void of his companions. Void of all beings, he believes, until he picks out silhouettes on the very fringes of the island; at least a dozen, perhaps two. These figures, blurry as they are, he recognizes from dreams.
His first thought is terror.
Then a bright, golden warmth, the first thing he’s felt since diving, approaches, and all his fear is gone. He knows instantly that no harm will come to him here, and his hands reach out to form a perch for the source of his comfort.
“Flapjack,” he breathes with equal confusion and relief, “you’re alright.”
There is a painful silence. Amongst the overwhelming joy and love, he can feel Flapjack’s sadness; he would even if it wasn’t etched on the little bird’s brow.
I’m sorry.
“What do you mean, you’re sorry?" Lark's voice breaks. "I was supposed to protect you. I never wanted him to hurt another Palisman, and – I could've killed you. ”
Flapjack nuzzles his head against Lark’s trembling fingers, quieting him.
None of this is your fault, witchlet. I chose to find you.
Lark wants to argue that, but can’t. If this is the last bit of time he gets to spend with his soulmate, he can’t waste it with frustration.
“You shouldn't stay here. You need to go back,” he pleads just above a whisper. His vision blurs once more, tears welling up as Flap hangs his head and closes his eyes.
You should go. I can take you back, and keep you alive for a time.
Realization dawns on Lark after a moment, and he cries out in horror.
“Flap, no! I can’t do that! I can’t do what he did – hurt you, trap you, just so I get to live a life I – I never deserved in the first place!”
The image of his own limbs flickers and dims under Lark’s gaze; what little vitality remains in him is fading.
Flapjack gazes up at him, steady and calm and sad, as he begins to emit a familiar bright green mist.
Lark cradles the bird to his chest in a panic.
“Please don’t go,” he begs. “Don’t leave me.”
The Palisman presses himself gently to his witch’s still heart.
We will go together, one way or the other. I will never leave you, or force you in the direction you do not wish to go. All I ask is that you trust me. Trust that I will be happy and safe, not caged, here. Trust that there is a better life waiting for you, full of wonder and knowledge and fulfillment, of such joy you’ve yet to know, of family and friends who will love and cherish you. Will you trust me?
For a few seconds, all Lark can do is sob. He feels sap weep through his fingers as Flapjack gives more of his spirit, and reaches with one hand to desperately wipe at his eyes.
“Of course I trust you, Flap. More than anyone. I trust you.”
Thank you. Relief washes over Flapjack, and through to Lark. This is now more than just a shared feeling, but also a glowing golden light. You’ll see me again. I love you, my little Lark. I will always love you.
Lark squeezes his eyes shut in silent tears, unable to watch as the light fades. By the time he opens them again, his hands are cupped around the colorless, lifeless carving of a bird.
He stares off amongst the graves once more, not knowing how to feel. The numbness is returning, and the world is fading fast.
Remaining on the lawn is only one figure, one he knows more intimately than any of the others, that from which they were all derived. Lark has been terrified of that spirit since he first gazed upon his portrait. But before his vision fails once more, he could swear he sees the man smile at him.
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When feeling returns to him, it is all at once. He feels a horrible ache from head to toe, but also the lack of Belos, a small wooden weight, and the presence of a staggering warmth in his chest.
There are half a dozen gazes on him, all concerned and horrified and sad. It’s almost comforting, how awkward it is, and how normal a feeling that awkwardness is for him. It brings a shaky smile to his face.
incoming delivery!!! not just one, but TWO hot, fresh, famous Disneyland churros wrapped in a paper sleeve, along with a souvenir pin featuring Cinderella's castle and the year 2033 in front of a wheel of several iconic Disney Mascots that spins in a satisfying way with a finger flick.
[TWO churro?! And a fidgety thing... Why is this so pleasing... He will not set this down for... a while.
Anyway, thank Titan. Now he can give Vash a whole one instead of just a half.]
How long has he been asleep? What time is it? Oh, he’s so hungry and ow!!! His head throbs. His hands raise and he clasps either side of his head, squinting up at the ceiling above before closing his eyes tightly. Slowly the throbbing fades, and the second time his eyes open he’s more or less got a grip on himself and reality.
“I’m just at Kiid’s hive,” he mumbles to himself. When he sits up and looks around properly he finds that he’s alone in the room, and while it does make his chest ache just a tiny bit, he’ll get over it. The fact is, he’s awake now. And he’s starving, so the best thing to do is get off his ass and find last light’s leftovers.
