#stray pages

[wickedwritings]

Nott, the Bravest

Nott the Brave, Nott the Daring, Nott the Loyal and the Noble and the Caring.  Nott, who is so many things she did not think she could be.  Nott, who cares so much for the people she once separated herself from.  Nott, who cares far too much for the people she has known for so little time.  Nott the Thoughtful, the Watchful, the Stealthy, the Quick, the Deadly.  Nott the Companion, the Hero, the Protector.  Nott the...  The Mother.

Caleb has not held anything like religion in a long time.  For the first time in even longer, he wishes he could bend his faith in something other, something larger, into magic.  He can cast spells, modify them, even, with enough time, enough research.  It is not the same thing.

She braids his hair, sometimes.  When they are in dangerous places, during rests or watches.  When he is injured, as he so often is.

He braids her hair less often.  It seemed a little foolish, the last time he tried.  He is so out of practice, her hair so different, the memories just a touch too painful.  He regrets that, now.

He keeps trying to pull his awareness out of his own head just a little bit more.  Down to his hands, so carefully looping little protective flowers into braids in Nott’s hair.  Down further, watching her face as she sleeps for signs of discomfort.  She’s still alive.  Burned, badly, but alive.

He swallows again.  Her hair is soft in his hands, the flowers wilted but the forced delicacy helps bring his focus away from where the sight-smell and sound remainders linger if he lets his mind drift too long.

Jester is still putting slow healing into Nott, now focused on making sure her legs are bandaged.  She says Nott should be fine by tomorrow. He believes her, mostly.

Fjord, talking to Yasha and Beau, trying to distract her far more conscious self from where Caduceus is making sure her arms won’t suffer any lasting damage from the close call.

The bubble is up, around them, and Caduceus’ camouflage of earth above that.  If he tries hard enough, he can pretend it feels safe, and not entrapped.  At least it’s just earth now.

Jester stands up, stretches as much as she can in the confines of the bubble.  Her mouth twists a bit as her horns pass through it and come back with bits of dirt, but she shakes it off when she sees the attention on her.

“Don’t worry you guys!  We’ll all get some sleep and Nott will be just like new!”  Jester’s smile goes a little bit softer, a little more concerned, as she looks at Nott. “I hope...”

The medicine kit is packed away.  She comes back, taking up braiding the hair on the other side of Nott’s head, fingers even more careful and practiced than his own.  But also shaking, just slightly.

He can’t think of anything to say.  Jester tries, then after a few minutes he sees her start to cast Sending, but quickly drops it.

They sit, quietly, until Nott’s hair is all braided into a neat tiara along her head, flowers and bits of Caduceus’ colorful lichen tucked in like gems.  Jester even manages to fish up two ribbons, one for each side.

“A crown well earned.”  She says, as the last bit of braid is carefully tied off, and Nott herself put gently onto a bedroll.  Caleb draws the blanket up over her shoulders, tucks her in.

Tomorrow they would have to keep going.  Tomorrow maybe he would try to impress again how he felt about Nott, something that seemed more important now than ever.  He could not let her die.  Not like that, not like all.  She deserved her happy ending, deserved her husband who loved her and a child that was not a danger to her.  

Tomorrow, they could...

“Caleb?”

Jester’s voice, startling him from his thoughts.

“J-ja, what, what is it?”

“What are you thinking about?”

He pauses, blanking, then his mouth moves without him:  “A charm.  Or a protection, of some sort.  She is always putting herself in danger, and I thought, something that could help keep her out of it...”

Jester nods, clapping her hands together.  “Oh, yes!  Something super cute that she’ll like, then she’ll have to wear it!  Only...  I’m a little short on spell slots right now, and I’m not sure how to put a spell into a charm anyway?  Do you know how?  We should figure out what sort of thing to do, then maybe make it tomorrow or as soon as we can get the pieces for it!”

It maybe hadn’t been what he’d had in mind when he’d first looked up, but the sudden enthusiasm makes him smile a bit.  Maybe it is something she could use, a physical token of how important she is.

“That sounds like a good idea, ja.  Let us move away a little, I don’t want to wake her.”

“Oh, yes yes yes!  Okay come here, I’m thinking we could maybe put it in a little ring or something?  Or maybe a pin that she could put on her shirt?”

They talk about it a little longer than they should, until Beau shushes them for mere necessity of the rest.  It isn’t ready yet, but they begin to assemble a plan for something that might be worthy of aiding Nott the Brave.

[wickedwritings]

Running

The realization snuck up on him, slowly then all at once, when he glanced up from the page he was reading from to see the expressions on the kids’ faces.  Mookie was glued to the illusion he had cast, grinning at the figures moving slowly through their duel.  Mavis watched the illusions he made, but she also looked up at Davenport, smiling content and fond or excited and curious depending on the mood of the story. Maybe they were reaching an age where bedtime stories were no longer necessary, but really all that meant was that they could read more complicated books together, giving him a chance to use small illusions in the place of pictures.

It's the smiles that get him.  The piercing realization that he didn't just like these kids, he loved them, similarly and differently from the way he had once come to love Magnus and Lucretia.

That pang of warmth and the following surge of fear makes the illusion next to him flicker, go fuzzy and indistinct.  When they look up at him, confused and concerned, he pulls it back into being with a careful smile.  The rest of the chapter is thankfully short, a blur to him with the way his character voices suddenly fall flat.  He wants to run then.  Take off with no further shows of emotion.  But they have a routine, and if the panicked tugging in his mind is right then he owes them that much.

He tucks them in, hesitates then carefully kisses the top of each of their heads, as he had started doing a few weeks ago.  As he turns to go, Mavis catches his sleeve.  He turns back to her slowly, trying not to catch Mookie's suddenly solemn gaze.  They'll have their own rooms soon enough, as soon as the renovation of the back room is done.

"Dav," she says, carefully.  It's too close, but it pulls his attention back to them and the moment.  "Is...  Is something wrong?"

"Yeah you finished the chapter weird!"  Mookie pipes up from the other side of the room.

He's forced to take a deep breath, tries to summon a smile that looks genuine.  He knows he fails by the expression on Mavis' face, the way her hand drops off his sleeve, and suddenly guilt is added to the dangerous cocktail brewing in his chest.

"Yes, but...  It's not you two.  I, you're..."  Half a dozen words, phrases, come to mind and are dismissed.  "You're very good.  It's alright."

She still looks apprehensive, but nods back when he nods to her.  He turns for the door again, gets it halfway open when he hears, quiet and hesitant:  "You deserve nice things too."

Davenport's eyes close.  He swallows and managing a soft "Goodnight" without turning back around.  The door closes gently behind him.

It takes the remains of his self control to not run to his room, knowing they'd hear his retreating footsteps if he did.  But once he gets there, closing the door quickly but quietly behind him, all bets are off.

Suddenly in a rush, he pulls his pack from his closet, tosses it onto his bed along with his thick rainproofed coat and good scarf.  He's made it to his dressser, almost slipping on the wood floor in his socks, before he's still for long enough to pause.  He's back in the best shape he's been in in years, but it still takes him a few moments to realize that his heavy breathing is not from the bare seconds of rushing, that his binder is restrictive for emotional, not physical, reasons.  It shouldn't be a shock, but it is, a douse of cold awareness over the rush of panic.

He's still standing in front of his dresser, drawer half open and hands still tucked into the handles, staring off into the distance long past the socks and binders and underwear waiting within, when there's a polite knock at the door.  Merle steps in without waiting long, takes a moment to survey the scene; the travel supplies on the bed, Davenport standing fully dressed with his top drawer open, wearing one unlaced boot.

A long sigh leaves him before he says anything.  "They said something was wrong.  Both of them.  You're losing your touch, man.  Left the light on and everything."

Guilt and concern flicker over Davenport's face, but his hands only cling a little tigher to the drawer, the rest of him otherwise unmoving.

Merle shuts the door behind himself.  Leans on the inside, takes a moment to listen to the trembling of Davenport's earrings.

"What happened?"  He asks, quiet and tight.

"I don't know if I can do this."  Davenport replies, voice shaking as much as the rest of him.  Merle is silent, so he pushes forward, hands taking over when his words falter.  "They're--you're...  *I love,"* he hesitates, especially as Merle's eyebrows raise.

*"Being here."* He finishes, ears pulled tight and embarrassed against his head,

*"But they're too good.  I care about them too much."*  His hands start shaking more as he shifts his weight, leaning heavily against his dresser.

*"My mom--I told you, before.  She fell in--made a home with my father.  Had kids.  Always said she lost the need to travel after that.  Said it would happen to me too someday."*  Counting the century, he's coming up on 200 years old.  Words from before even his 50th year shouldn't be sparking tears in his eyes, but these do.

*"I promised it would never happen, I would never settle like she did.  I Am an explorer, Merle.  I can't let that change."*  He can't let her have been right, can't stand the thought of the way those well-meaning words had felt like chains trying to hold him down, keep him from going where he needed to be.

He had looked at Mavis and Mookie and for a second had seen his mother and it had shaken parts of him he had thought were long since settled.  

He doesn't realize his hands haven't fallen still, are still rambling between anxious words and gestures with no formal meanings, until they're caught up in a gentle grip.  His head and ears shoot up, staring wide-eyed at the dwarf suddenly standing in front of him.

"If you need to go, you can go.  Nobody's going to make you stay or tie you down."  When he's certain he has the gnome's attention, he lets go.  Puts his hands in his pockets and takes a step back, leaving space for him to breathe and move if needed.

"But if you're going to leave, you should tell them first.  They don't deserve another--well.  Anyone they care about, ducking off like that."  Their eyes catch, and both of them look away, guilty in their own ways.

After a second, Davenport taps a foot against the ground, just once, to get Merle's attention.  When he has it, he carefully signs *"I don't want to leave.  But I think I have to, just..."*  He trails off, eyes closed against the way his hands had been shaking.

"Just to prove you can.  I get that."  There's another pause before Merle picks up again with "Can I come over there?"

Davenport breathes, then nods.  There's gentle pressure on his hands again, warm and grounding.  He doesn't open his eyes.

"Nobody can choose your destiny for you, and I certainly won't try.  But, if you would...  Stay the night.  Be there in the morning.  Let them know you're not--well, that they're okay, y'know?  And if you're going to come back...  Tell them that too."  

Now Davenport does open his eyes, searching carefully for any of the disappointment or anger he's expecting.  Finding none, one of his hands turns to squeeze back, and the other lifts to wrap carefully around Merle's waist, pulling him into a tight hug.  It's returned almost immediately, an arm closing around his shoulders and holding onto him.

"Alright," he manages.  "I'll stay.  For tonight, at least.  I can't--can't promise about tomorrow."  

"Eh, tomorrow's tomorrow.  You don't gotta deal with that right now.  Let that be some other asshole's problem for a bit!"

The tension breaks, Davenport snickering until they fall back into quiet.  They stand there for a long while, until a sort of calm fills the cool night air of the room.

[wickedwritings]

Coping, sort of

On the first day of what they would later call Cycle One, Davenport of the IPRE, Captain of the Starblaster ship and mission, maintained his rank as befitting of the kind of person that would be chosen to run the first true interplanarsystem mission.

That night, they followed the procedure for entering a new system. Really, this had been the goal of their mission: Travel to new systems, learn, record, return home with the results. The fact that they couldn’t return home was merely a hitch in that plan. They had found a way to leave their system, they would find a way back. In the meantime, they would proceed as expected.

This is what he told the crew. He told them his expectations, and he remained firm in the face of doubt and fear, and he told them with no uncertainty that they would fulfill their mission and return home.

The first night, they took turns keeping watch with him. He found himself glued to the helm, to the readouts. He didn’t sleep, but he was used to that. Strangely, it didn’t seem to affect him as much as it might usually. He would learn more of that later.

The second day, they explored. They tested. They determined a seemingly safe area to begin contact. They proceeded according to the structure that had been laid out ahead of time for a plane they could live on without issue.

The second night, reassured slightly by the day of things going largely as they should, and seeing some of the same reassurance building in the crew, he permitted himself an early rest.

The second night, he found himself on his bed, in the dark, clutching his head and keening soundlessly. He found himself overwhelmed by the doubt and fear he had so carefully tucked away, let everyone believe that he didn’t feel at all. He drowned in the concepts of what they had found and what they had not yet found, in the unfamiliarity and the loss of direction and the knowledge that very soon he would run out of pre-written procedures, that the rules he carefully tied his actions to would fall short of the situation.

That they already had.

For hours he held his head, rocking silently on top of his standard-issue blankets, and let the screaming of his thoughts overlap into a long line of incoherent static fade into screaming into recognizable shouts into long quiet sobs that finally escaped to whispers muffled against his sleeves.

Then, still shaking, he pushed his body to the floor, stood up one careful step at a time, and moved to his desk. He pulled his chair out, sat down, pulled out paper and pen and began to write. He fell asleep, still writing, putting down the start of what would become the revised regulations for the Starblaster mission which would become The Stolen Century.

[wickedwritings]

Brother Care

Barry bangs his head against the notebook on his desk, groaning quietly.  His hands have been shaking for the last hour or so, but he said he'd get food when he figured out the last problem. He hadn't figured the problem out yet. It didn't matter that there were equations swimming through his head in tight knots, or that he could barely get through three words without getting distracted.  He would eat when he figured it out.  He hadn't figured it out.  It could wait. There's a knock on his door.  Probably-- "Hey, it's been like ten minutes and everyone else has started eating.  Come get lunch, I know this one isn't time sensitive!"  Magnus.  Barry loves the kid that's become his brother, but there are times like this when he really wishes he didn't care so much. "Just, gimme another minute, Mags, I'll be right there."  Barry says instead, of getting up, rubbing at his face and drawing a line through the last sentence he had written.  It had been even more garbled than the one before.  He needed to try again, maybe shift the components around a little... There's a sigh outside that he misses, then the door opens. Magnus, for his part, knows opening the door is fine.  There's no warnings up, none of the containment runes are lit, Lup had rolled her eyes at the idea of their current project being time sensitive, more than anything they did.  When all outside signs fail, it's probably a Barry Thing. Magnus closes the door behind him, ignores Barry's protest that he really will be just another minute, then pulls his chair from the corner to plop down next to him. "So!  What's the problem?  Is it brain gerblins or stubbornness or both?"  Magnus asks, reaching over to tug the notebook closer. Barry frowns at him, puts a hand on it to keep it from sliding too far.  "Neither.  I'm, uh, I'm nearly done, alright?  I'll eat when I've finished this."  He starts pulling it back towards himself. Magnus leans to drape his arm around Barry's shoulders, the other arm resting across the desk to block off access. "Yeah, I think not.  You're going to agonize over this until next cycle--" "Just until I get it!" "If nobody stops you.  Come on, bear, you'll think better when you've gotten food, don't tell me you won't."  Magnus starts to stand, nudging his own chair out of the way. "Magnus, come on, just--" "Don't make me carry you." "You know I can't eat until I finish this," Barry says, leaning his weight back into his chair.  There's a tone of frustration in his voice that gives Magnus pause, makes him stop and look at Barry. "Why not?" This is a conversation they've had before.  It's likely that they'll have it again.  For now, Barry gestures vaguely at the notes he's written and the components scattered around the desk, then sighs and lets his weight lean a little more into the chair and arm both. "It's...  I said I'd eat when I was done.  I'm not.  I don't d--I don't...  Need to yet." "You deserve to eat whether or not your work is done."  Magnus says, as firmly as he can without being harsh about it.  Barry flinches anyway, but it's less than the first time they had this conversation. "But, this--this is my job Magnus.  The only reason I'm here is to figure this kind of stuff out."  He gestures again, pushing his exhaustion into frustration, trying to sound as stern as his brother. "What, so when somebody dies or gets hurt I shouldn't eat for the rest of the cycle?"  Magnus says, sarcastic.  A similar conversation.  A different one.  Not as different as it should be. Barry winces again, reaches to squeeze the hand on his shoulder.  "Of course not!  You're always trying your best, and--" "You tried!  Look at this, you've been trying!  And I know you'll come back to trying when you're done.  Take a break.  Come eat."   He lets that sink in for a moment then stands again, squeezing the arm around Barry's shoulder gently as he does so.  This time, Barry sighs, rubs his face one more time, then comes with him, capping his pen and leaving it on top of the notebook. "You gotta stop doing this, you know."  Barry says, leaning his head against Magnus for a moment.  Then he pushes his chair in and starts making his way to the door. "What, caring about you?  Never."  Magnus grins, bumping their shoulders together as he passes Barry to open the door for him. "Yeah, yeah, you're made of warm fuzzies and puppy dogs.  What's for lunch?"  Barry nudges Magnus out of the way, closing the door behind them.