Writing happens. Usually it'll probably be little paragraphs/one-shots of random ideas I have. Probably lots of fanstuff, but some original things will come up too. I'll do my best to keep things tagged appropriately.
Absolutely a sucker for the “ARE YOU HURT” once over. The wandering hands, frantically checking for blood or pain just SOMETHING. ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED of what they might find while searching. The panicked look on the face of the person doing the checking, the glossy, confused “I’m fine” from the person being checked. HOO BOY just inject that shit right into my veins
We cultivate riddles
In our languages.
In words,
Out of context.
In touches,
That carry meaning.
In looks that embrace emotion.
In stories that make no sense
When all parties were not present.
All relationships are mysteries,
Nonsensical,
Frustrating.
Until you understand them.
Not every riddle
Requires a resolution.
Many are better off that way:
Left to their own
Cleverness.
Other puzzles
Demand
To be known.
If your story has different points of view, is it annoying to switch between them in a single chapter? Thank you!
I do that all the time, so I hope not! lol
seriously, though - as long as the switches are clear and don’t cause confusion you should be fine. I find it helps to use the horizonal rule in between viewpoints to show the flip in perspective.
Note: don’t use stylistic breaks between viewpoints (or scenes) like a series of asterisks or tildes etc. If someone is using a screen reader, it will read out each symbol that you use. Also using indicators like “Character A’s POV” tend to break up the story and take people out the narrative. Or at least they do for me.
Oh my God, please don’t use asterisks as a line break.
“Asteriskasteriskasteriskasteriskasterisk” is the literal worst. As someone who uses almost exclusively screen readers anymore when I read more than a couple paragraphs at a time, I have quit reading stories because there were too many line breaks with a dozen or two asterisks, or OoOoOo, or underscores, or any assortment of characters. It looks pretty, but it doesn’t sound pretty!
Use hyphens or a coded line break. On Ao3, that is done with <hr >. Those just cause brief pauses in the reading, so they are perfect for transitions and breaks between scenes! Listening to a minute straight of “underscore” without pause is grating.
If you use Microsoft word to write, it will check your document for accessibility (meaning, whether a screen reader can read it) for you, and tell you how to fix any problems it finds! On Mac, it’s under Tools > Check for Accessibility and on Windows it’s under File > Info > Check for Issues > Inspect Document > Check for Accessibility
I had no idea about this, that’s really useful. When I’ve got the time I’ll go replace my scene break indicators on AO3. This may take some time, considering how many works I have on there though.
The mighty nein leave town, as quietly as a group like them can. He begs them not to ask him to explain why, not yet, and for the most part, they don’t.
They ride into the night, and he explains as much as he can next to the fire of their camp. Some of them understand more than others, as always, and as always, he’s not sure that any of them get it. He’s not sure that it matters.
He is selfish, and he knows this, and he is is so afraid for them.
That night, he remembers.
He remembers caring, and reluctant laughter, and being afraid.
He remembers dancing from one person to another in starlight and the dim glow of a house they should be inside.
He remembers falling out of his chair, startled by the reaction of spell components he hadn’t expected to work, and hearing a laugh that almost makes him wish he could do it again.
He remembers throwing the first punch, his target dodging out of the way. He remembers landing and hearing a laugh that makes him burn to do it again.
His hands remember holding others, his lips remember spells and kisses and curses, his ears remember words that he cannot help but whisper into the depths of the blanket he’s crammed his face into to block the same out. Few of them are good.
His feet remember running through a field, splashing through a river, racing down hallways (the feel of a backpack sometimes still sparks his worry of running late), racing down different hallways with an entirely different kind of dread, crashing into--the grass or arms or wall or fear or--something or nothing.
He remembers learning dancing lights, the first time. He remembers casting it and his mother and father were so proud--
He remembers casting burning hands for the first time, cutting off the retreat of a man they had cornered and looking up and Ikithon had nodded, just once, and he had been so proud--
He remembers watching Astrid cast blindness/deafness, and seeing her smile as their target fell to his knees, shouting and clawing at his ears. He remembers Ikithon nodding, and she turned back to grin at the two of them--
He remembers Eodwulf stepping up, throwing a shield in front of them just in time to block the knife slung by the deafened man, and Ikithon nodded and Eodwulf grinned at them and he was so proud (and so angry that that man would dare; his hands were warm and itching to bring down that which would hurt his people, but it was hard to focus on that through the shimmering barrier and the voice behind them that came above all else--)
Caleb Widogast holds his blanket to his ears like that deafened man and silently screams and drowns in memories until they sweep him away into dreams that burn more than his past.
The mighty nein are in the Empire, but barely, nowhere near Rexxentrum. Closer to Bladegarden, walking down something of a market. Their guard is, all things considered, down. Nobody’s looking for danger; it’s a nice day, a nice town.
Nobody’s ready for the way Caleb suddenly draws up to a tight halt, reaching out blindly, gripping onto Beau’s shoulder.
A bit down the road, two people are also walking down the street. One shorter than the other, both smiling, apparently haggling with the stall owner. One of them smiles and the tilt of it strikes at him. Not haggling then, asking questions.
“What--who are they?” Beau asks, squeezing his hand. He must be holding on too hard.
He lets go, but only to turn away. His eyes catch on Nott, who’s gone from cheery to defensive, moving to stand in front of Jester rather than behind. “My people.” He chokes out, looking away when she looks at him. “We need to go, now.”
He can’t run. Running is suspicious, it draws attention. There’s a certain pace you go, moving just quickly enough to put off someone who might be following. He goes a touch above that, going tight as a wire until they get back to the place they had planned to stay the night.
Maybe it’s not them. It’s been years, it could be any two people, a man and a woman, a half-elf and a human, wearing local clothes but asking disarming questions nobody local would ask. Could be any two people with dark hair and handsome faces and eyes trained to catalog not just individuals but crowds, to seek out details and patterns, any two people with soft smiles and that little flick in his fingers when he gestured and the way she had learned to tilt her head like--
He finds himself hovering over the chamberpot in their room, too shaken to cry, too afraid to start moving again.
It was them. They were looking for him. They had found him.
It was them. They were looking for somebody else. They didn’t know he was alive.
It wasn’t them. He was seeing ghosts. Who knew if they were alive.
Each option was as bad as the last and he didn’t know what else to do, so he would run. If he was very lucky, the mighty nein would run with him. They had been through enough together, hadn’t they? Would they trust him on this? What would the rest of his trio be like, with another 10 years of experience ahead of him and access to all of Rexxentrum’s knowledge and more besides? No, running was the safest option. They couldn’t risk the likely outcomes, much less his fears.
He had left them and their possibilities behind once, he could do it again.
(Thanks & credit for the extra help from @nottsbuttons and @typehere452! <3)
Timeline:
Future Caleb and Nott (halfling again!) get Time Travel Powers
They decide they’re Gonna Fix Shit
They go wayyy far back; Current Bren (CB), Astrid, and Eodwulf never go to Soltryce Academy.
(Do they maybe kill Ikithon at some point back here? Maybe. They’ve got way more power and he’s not as strong as he was when he left, so… Who knows.)
They hang around for a while
This includes: Sending letters to the isolated members of the mighty nein, letting them know they have friends and offering communication. Doing research into problems they hadn’t solved by the time they left; what’s destroying the Blooming Grove, that sort of thing.
They–carefully!–warn Yeza and Veth and Luke about the goblin attack coming to Felderwin. The attack does much less damage to the town as a whole, nobody is taken captive. Yay!
Time continues forward. They keep to themselves, use even faker fake names, keep themselves afloat as legally as possible.
Astrid, Eodwulf, and Bren leave Blumenthal to expand their magical knowledge, hoping to one day enter the Soltryce Academy, but for now they are self-taught magical adventurers.
They find Yasha and Zuala and make sure they can escape! Those two start making their way out of Xhorhas on the route that will eventually lead them to the same circus Mollymauk is making his way to.
Current Yeza starts getting pressured by the Empire for research into dunamancy; he, Veth, and Luke leave Felderwin. Yeza makes and sells potions, staying behind with Luke while Veth picks up adventuring jobs where she can, eventually bringing them all to Zadash.
They help Calianna escape! Give her some pointers on where to start her mission.
Jester, Fjord, then Beau meet up and come to Zadash as normal, their threads changed only by mysterious supportive pen pals.
Everyone goes to the circus, accidentally find the only other Competent People there, and combine their forces to clear as much of the circus’ name as possible.
Astrid, Bren, Beau, Eodwulf, Fjord, Jester, Luke, Molly, Veth, Yasha, Yeza, and Zuala, alll look at each other, take stock of the fact that they’re a large group of mostly competent adventurers that did okay there, and decide that they’re probably safer and will have better luck getting decent coin together.
They pick up Kiri! When they go on adventures, she stays with Yeza and Luke. Yaaay!
Adventures continue! These gaps are a large part of why I’m not writing this fic out in its entirety.
The Iron Shepherds *don’t* kidnap the others, and Molly doesn’t die, because future Nott and Caleb are level 20(+???) and ready to stealth kick the crap out of them! They don’t stick around, because You Don’t Talk To Your Past Selves. The current group pick up Nila, now with a little bonus awe from the younger two.
The new Mighty Nein (still ironic, but in the other direction, with… All of them) pick up a Caduceus, who’s rather overwhelmed by all the people but happy to feel like part of a larger unit again. By their powers combined they rip through the remaining Iron Shepherds with even greater ease, get everyone out, and all is well.
The group migrate their way to the coast. Yeza, Luke, and Kiri hang out with free rooms with Marion for a little bit until Yeza establishes a stall to sell more regularly out of, and they move to somewhere a bit cheaper where he can sustain the three of them.
Jester sends messages to him as well as Marion when the group accidentally have to hightail it out of there. On the upside, the adults manage the ship a lot easier on their own once they figure it out, and only have to pick up Orly as a navigator, without dragging a whole confused crew out with them.
They get home largely without incident; the Balleater is still called that, of course, and it’s still given to Orly.
They pool money and get a bigger house in Nicodranas. It’s not ideal, but it’s more than enough for Yeza, Veth, Luke, and Kiri, and can hold everyone else when it needs to.
On shorter/closer missions, and just when Veth’s taste for adventure comes back to her, she goes out with the Mightier Nein. Otherwise, she stays behind, helping settle into a life similar, but distinct from the one she, Yeza, and Luke, had left behind in the Empire.
It stays open to the group, becomes a home base for all of them without homes: When an adventure is too taxing, or being on the road wears on them more than excites them, they can come home as a full group or in whatever set needs the break.
Adventuring continues. This basically concludes “fix-it” territory and goes straight into “idealistic ramblings” territory. You’ve been warned.
Epilogue
Caleb and Nott (from the future; this is a time travel fix-it, remember?) settle down… Nearby. They’re older now, and don’t look quite the same anyway.
Caleb has a bookshop that, maybe, also houses a few cats. It carries magic books–and a few other genres–of almost all levels; he and Nott continue studying magic, and offering lessons to anyone who comes in and asks about them. (The current members of the m9 come to visit, and it takes a bit of practice, but eventually they become the strange magic uncle/aunt that lives nearby and answers all their weird magic questions.
(When he dies, or gets old enough that managing the store is more than he’s up to, or Bren starts settling in more, the contents of the store are (magically lbr) packed up (I’m getting Fantastic Beast vibes from this suitcase) and given to Bren. They’re both pleased.)
Nott watches Luke grow up; a Luke that has never been without his parents, who has always had some promise of safety and at least two guardians at all times. Veth and Yeza take care of him, and he grows older, and she is so, so proud.
(If she sends the family presents sometimes… Well, nobody has to know.)
Eventually, slowly, the rest of the Nein settle there as well. From the adventures they had been steadily sending coin from, they end up with most of a street to their collective names.
On the far end, a cemetery and garden. Flowers on the grave-side, food directly behind the house. Caduceus was not the youngest or oldest child, merely the softest-spoken. When they fixed the plague that had been encroaching on the Blooming Grove, his family had drifted back to its care. He had new faith, now, in himself, and his goddess, and this new family. A new place to bring care to! Yasha and Zuala learn about burial care, and all of them grow flowers and tea that decorate and fuel their homes and stores. It’s a big garden.
Next to it, the main house. The family’s kitchen and dining room and group space for when they needed nothing more than to be together. (Most of the shops probably have smaller spaces above them? Because, look, most of these people were introverts at some point or another. Rest is necessary and good!)
Yeza gets a Proper Store again! The Brenatto Apothecary has discounted starter healing kits for new adventurers. Lots of experimental stuff as he has the time and resources to try stuff out! Luke, Kiri, (and others? do he just sort of pick up apprentices? maybe!) help out here the most.
They have a joint teahouse/bakery that’s connected to the bookstore, called the Mighty Dine. There’s a line; books can go in either directions, but the food stays on the bakery side. The cats go where they please. Eodwulf and Jester do most of the baking, Bren manages the cats and bookstore. There’s a window seat, and lots of comfy chairs. Some of them have swingy desk things.
Molly and Astrid are travel buddies after the rest of the group has settled; not as adventurers, but simply to live in as much of the world as they can. When they come home, they bring new decorations for the shop, new kinds of sweets and drinks, new kinds of magic and potions, sharing bits of the world with their family and those that would visit.
Fjord also spends a lot of time at sea; sometimes Molly and Astrid hitch rides across the water. He and Orly have fun adventures and eventually maybe just carrying cargo/crew around until Fjord decides he’s good with living near it.
Every now and then, Eodwulf and Jester will clear the bakery side, put down a lot of spare sheets, and run art classes.
People can sign up to teach small classes on just about anything there, inside of the family or not.
Look there’s probably also reading nights (poetry, smut, etc.) that happen there; general public social spot.
At the other end, leading into the city, is the two-story building Beau and Jester live in. The first floor is one large, mostly padded, room. Beau teaches self-defense classes, mostly to kids but open to all ages, and sometimes general self-improvement based teachings around other monk stuff to people she likes. “Stop Being An Asshole Club” becomes more popular than she was expecting, and it’s great.
Again, if we’re being honest, everyone pitches in at everyone else’s area. Their skills and interests overlap, and it’s not uncommon to see Fjord helping out at the SBAAC (acronym pending), Yasha helping with self-defense classes, Zuala at the apothecary, Caduceus in the bakery, Veth is… Everywhere? When did she get there? Don’t worry about it. They have a place to grow and learn and share, to settle into the lives they worked for.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“Life, Merle? Existence, Merle? Is–Horrible.” Davenport laughs, empty and hollow. He had long since discarded his coat, shirt sleeves rolled up to avoid brushing against cards as they played. In another life, the tattoos that peeked down around his elbows would tell stories of adventure and hope. Here they are dark shadows, bruise-colored and twisting. The pad of his thumb brushes over one extra long tendril, as if reminding himself of the shape of it.
Lots of headcanons ahead, probably canon compliant but… Phew. Format: [Age range of the start of the phase]: [Description of phase] [Alignment of phase, because why not I guess]
~13-15: Sets off from home to sail with his older siblings and cousins. They do mostly river deliveries, guides, and crossings. Comes out as trans. True neutral.
Davenport sits perched on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands. They're still streaked with gore--the remaining crew had flown into an almost unheard of level of ferocity when Lucretia had fallen--and he knows he should go wash up. Except that it feels wrong, somehow, to wash away this evidence of her sacrifice and their retribution. Or maybe it's just that he's still in too much shock to do anything, now that they're orbiting safely in the sky again.
When they had gone down to the plane below to negotiate for the light, everyone had been prepared for a fight; the people who had it had been clear on their combative stance. Still, no one had been prepared for how much force would be brought against them, an overwhelming amount for six people, mages and a fighter though they were. Only Merle had stayed behind, prepping the medbay just in case. That prep had saved Barry's life, and one of Magnus' arms, had gotten the other three down to manageable injuries. None of the survivors had escaped without injury, but at least everyone had survived. Everyone except Lucretia.
*Lucretia.*
He had been behind them, *behind them,* when the monster had come up too quickly for Magnus to react to, too quickly for any of their spells or his own knives, for anything except Lucretia, who stood firm even as her half-formed shield crashed around her. The rest of them had been helpless to do anything but watch her fall under the weight of the monster's club.
His hands aren't shaking, they're just, still. He wonders if he's in shock. It hasn't happened in a while. Or maybe it's just that he hasn't stopped being in shock? Either way. When his attention turns inward, he finds the barrier of his floating emotionless state, the whirlpool lurking just underneath it, looks a little further out and finds the edges of his physical body and where his mind seems to be drifting out and away from it. That's probably not helping. He starts collecting the wisps of himself, barely aware of the distant part of himself that's counting. Up to nine, breathing in. Down to one, breathing out. His fingers tap along to that rhythm until his mind is more or less settled in his body again, and he can feel his lungs, his hand, his leg where the tips of his fingers make contact.
The whirlpool is tricky. Without the pressure of an emergency to quiet it, to compact it to something that can be put aside for later, he won't be able to move until he's sorted it at least a little bit.
Lucretia. Lucretia, Luce, Lucy, Creesh, Brightquill, Biter, Greenfell. The youngest of their crew, their chronicler. His daughter--ah. That thought makes the tapping of is fingers skip. Distantly, he's aware he's missed a finger, the pattern will be off. It's unimportant. When did he start thinking of her as, as that? Not just her, but the rest of them. Magnus especially, the second youngest. The twins and Barry fall on a more complicated spectrum, Merle even more so. One way or another, they've somehow become more than crew to him. How had he allowed that? When had it happened?
A memory floats up out of the whirlpool; a request for lessons, about the stars. Lucretia had asked him to teach her about one of the only things he hadn't had to restrain his excitement for. He taught her what he knew, what he learned, and they had filled in the rest. New constellations every world there was time for it, stories to go with them. Cups of tea on the deck, or in the nest when the air wasn't any good, or in his room and office when she found him there instead. Others follow: Questions for details on events she had missed, both quills moving quickly, face reflecting both the mood of the topic and, frequently, how much detail he was able to give. Her giddy laugh as Lup drags her out for another dance around a fire, when Magnus scoops her up, pulling his sister away from her work for some time. (Deeper, memories he doesn't look at often if only because he doesn't know what to do with them: Magnus, facing another death, him scrambling to bring down enough of the venomous monsters to let the others get away. She had shouted for him, not with his title or his name, but with a "Dad!" It had startled him enough that he had missed his next jump, had fallen. She had stayed behind just long enough to make sure he survived. Later, when he woke up, she was there next to him. Had used, had called him that again. Dad. She hadn't been the last one to do so, either. Gods, had he ever even replied in kind? Allowed himself to acknowledge that bond as it formed? Apparently not.)
He notices some of the colors on his hands starting to run. Right, the blood. Wet again? No, he's crying. Why? A stupid question, with an obvious answer that rises right up from the core of him.
Every single member of his crew, including himself, has now died at least once. Without the bond engine reforming them at the start of each cycle, none of them would have survived this journey. He had failed every single one of them, in several ways, with this only as the latest of those failures.
It was his fault she was even there. At the fight, in whatever limbo they existed in until they were reformed, on this hellish, seemingly endless, cyclical mission--was it even a mission anymore--that they had somehow become trapped in. Whether it would have been better to have died to the hunger on their home plane over being trapped like this... He didn't know. (Would it have been better to have never gotten to know her? That thought is a cold splash on the heated cycle of his thoughts.)
His daughter is dead.
His hands are still, breathing quiet and shallow.
Whatever he may have wanted to think, to trick himself into believing, to slide around as if distance could save him this pain or make any of his decisions easier, nothing will change the facts. The crew of the starblaster is his family now, probably more so than any he had had before. He loves them. He's failed them. Lucretia is his daughter. Lucretia is dead.
It takes a long time for him to stand up again, physically, pulling the rest of himself up with his body. The rest of his family--of his crew--is still alive. He needs to get cleaned up, in more ways than one. He needs to check on them. Needs to see them safe. Needs them to know that he's... What, there for them? The thought makes him wince, but that's fine for now. Next cycle, he'll tell them. He'll tell her. He'll learn a new way to lead. He's done it before. Next cycle, he'll see her again. Next cycle.
From Washington, D.C., the rings would only fill a portion of the sky, but appear striking nonetheless. Here, we see them at sunrise.
From Guatemala, only 14 degrees above the equator, the rings would begin to stretch across the horizon. Their reflected light would make the moon much brighter.
From Earth’s equator, Saturn’s rings would be viewed edge-on, appearing as a thin, bright line bisecting the sky.
At the March and September equinoxes, the Sun would be positioned directly over the rings, casting a dramatic shadow at the equator.
At midnight at the Tropic of Capricorn, which sits at 23 degrees south latitude, the Earth casts a shadow over the middle of the rings, while the outer portions remain lit.
In which Davenport muses on the merits of elf practice. Or something like that.
Taako and Lup talk about elf practice, sometimes. Davenport knows it's so very different than Gnome practice, and no one is watching him close enough to see the way his fingers twitch the first time it comes up in casual conversation on the Starblaster.
Still, the thought comes back later, when he's sitting alone in his empty, *empty* room. Elves are children who were lost. They practice for secrecy, beauty, lethality. Gnomes have their own children, of course, but they are also the children who were found. They practice for community, joy, life.
He doesn't know what elf practice is like.
But gnome practice? That's long naps under cool earth turned warm with the body heat of a hundred pieces of family. That's listening in near-silence until your breath flows with a hundred others, until your heart beats in the same, even, calm, beat. Gnome practice is losing yourself to the *oneness* of not just those around you but of the earth, of the planes of flesh and body and, soul. It's getting lost until you feel found, until the fear itself of being untethered is lost and all that's left to find is peace. It's knowing that you're never alone and that the strength of your family is always there, right there. Just stretch out a hand, a thought, a feeling. Right there.
Gnomes are a race of bonds in a way few others are. They are known for being friendly, for having a cheerful disposition and finding a way out of any problem. What problem, what unfriendly circumstance, could stand against the comfort of your family, with you, always, soul-deep and inseparable?
It was only supposed to be a few months.
They should have been inseparable.
Davenport stares at the far wall of his room, hands clasped between his knees. He relives again (and again) the feeling of everyone he could ever remember knowing dying one by one then all at once, then the half-feeling of their ghosts until the Starblaster had raced its way out the wobble between the planes, then the feeling of that boundary between planes snapping shut again. Cutting him free of a web he had relied on for so long.
He thinks, the twins are lucky, that they skipped so much elf practice. He thinks, that they're lucky to have their souls. They're lucky to have each other.
For a moment, he wishes he hadn't been to quite so much gnome practice, that his soul was his own and nothing more. For a moment more, he wishes he had been to more, and that he had less of this broken ache in his chest. Mostly, he wishes he wasn't alone.
(Insp. by/spin-off of anonymousAlchemist’s elf practice series! Like, wow. Real good shit. Idk how you got here without reading it if you haven’t yet.)
annaxmalina
baratheonpilled
tangentwithtanner
pixelskylines
dededos
vaporwave
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
janainaart
