you and me, to the sea — will v storm
Aug 2, 2022 1:33:22 GMT -5
Post by fox on Aug 2, 2022 1:33:22 GMT -5
W I L L E M
He sees him at the anthem.
Charlie Gallows, with those steady hands, so unfaltering he could shepherd a pack of wolves.
Charlie was a good person.
And it's a good thing that he's dead.
And on those mountains, Cachi had this look on his face, like he hated Will a little bit for saying it, like there was something both soft and brawling inside him when he declared to the sky, "I hope Cordelia's still alive. And Charlie, too."
But how can he explain –
The way he's seen his older cousins change, how Johannes came back from his trial a little more withdrawn, both there and not there at the same time, a piece lost to a silver current. How Inga seemed weathered, raw, two weeks on that island to grow a new bone called pain.
His family called it growing up. But growing up is violence too. It's a knife, it’s a thing that kills a person, some kind of murder into adulthood. And good people don't stay good when they change like that, elbow-deep into their own death, hands on the throat of the body of who they used to be.
He meant what he said.
The fire flickers off Nehalennia's wings, a spray of gold on the ground, and Will places a hand over the spots, lights dancing on his palm like petals in a breeze.
His face fades from the sky.
Will thinks of field flowers, yarrow and goldenrod and milkweed. He thinks of the long stalks of grain in the afternoon, the sunlight, and a sky that goes on forever, shades of blue and lilac and cream. And he has no boat here, no fire, no sea, but that's not Charlie anyway –
A spear, a hand on his cheek, earth and blood and bones, softness and wind in the grass.
Goodbye Charlie of Ten.
He hopes it's very beautiful there.
The ash settles in his stomach. There's no more fire.
The rain is warm, water sliding down his cheeks and he can taste the weather in the air. He likes the rain, but he's got Lux's journal in his bag, pressed to his chest and it's something to protect.
He remembers this place, the first night where they settled at, and in the downpour he makes out the silhouette of the tall oak tree, dead and ghostly, all the purple flowers turned to glowing mushrooms. Up close, the sign's all bled away, ink in gray washes on the paper. He looks up to the bare branches. The sunglasses are gone.
Rain comes with a flood of memories. There was Lux peering over his shoulder, and there he was lying in the grass, propped on his elbows with a brush pen, practicing his calligraphy, tired of being called mom and determined to prove that yes, he was fun too –
Lux with the flowers, crouched over this spot just a few days ago.
He touches the sign. It withers in his hand.
The rain soaks him and fills up his chest. He's turning, he's backing away, and then he's running, running until the earth blurs, until his legs burn, until he reaches the mouth of the caves, lungs heaving so hard it feels like it cracking in half, and it's funny that their stupid little trap is the thing that makes him want to cry, hand clutching his chest as if he could shove whatever's spilling from him back down.
Nehalennia glitters in the dimness, her back arched as she peers into the long tunnel before them, a sound coming from her throat like a chirping, and he realizes this is where he found her too. The beginning of everything at the end of everything.
Maybe he's taken her home.
The thought feels like a tide that hits too hard, crushed against his ribs. He reaches for her, pauses, halfway there, halfway holding another piece of grief.
He waits.
She stays.
And he might really cry now.
It's like hurricane season, the thunder roars and branches of magnolia snap in the wind. He'd find them the day after, cleaning up their gardens, touching the jagged ends, thinking of the hand of a giant brushing over Four. He drops his bag, inhaling, exhaling, hands curled into fists against his chest, because he can't cry now, and Neef's journal tumbles out.
He reaches for it.
Kabouter was their word for it. Their father would always read them stories when they were kids, shy folk, tiny people living underground who were older than all the world. And he would say, Willem, they don't like these roads and buildings. They like trees and flowers, and maybe if we grow them a garden big enough, they'll live here someday. He holds the spine of the book like it's a fragile thing, eyes burning.
Stupid story. Stupid boy who believed him and grew up tending to the trees and the flowers.
He looks up at the sound of footsteps. The thunder's so loud the shadowy figure is already at the entrance when Will realizes.
It's like hurricane season.
It's a –
"Storm."
Deep and violet, Storm looks like another death.
And Will moves for his sword resting by him, reaching, branches for ribs splintering, breaking, the taste of blood in his mouth, a burst of flames singing in his veins – and then reaching over, hand placed on the ground beside him instead.
He can't.
He swallows the embers, a lingering war from yesterday.
And then Storm looks like a boy again.
"Hi. Come–Come sit. It's drier in here."
Charlie Gallows, with those steady hands, so unfaltering he could shepherd a pack of wolves.
Charlie was a good person.
And it's a good thing that he's dead.
And on those mountains, Cachi had this look on his face, like he hated Will a little bit for saying it, like there was something both soft and brawling inside him when he declared to the sky, "I hope Cordelia's still alive. And Charlie, too."
But how can he explain –
The way he's seen his older cousins change, how Johannes came back from his trial a little more withdrawn, both there and not there at the same time, a piece lost to a silver current. How Inga seemed weathered, raw, two weeks on that island to grow a new bone called pain.
His family called it growing up. But growing up is violence too. It's a knife, it’s a thing that kills a person, some kind of murder into adulthood. And good people don't stay good when they change like that, elbow-deep into their own death, hands on the throat of the body of who they used to be.
He meant what he said.
The fire flickers off Nehalennia's wings, a spray of gold on the ground, and Will places a hand over the spots, lights dancing on his palm like petals in a breeze.
His face fades from the sky.
Will thinks of field flowers, yarrow and goldenrod and milkweed. He thinks of the long stalks of grain in the afternoon, the sunlight, and a sky that goes on forever, shades of blue and lilac and cream. And he has no boat here, no fire, no sea, but that's not Charlie anyway –
A spear, a hand on his cheek, earth and blood and bones, softness and wind in the grass.
Goodbye Charlie of Ten.
He hopes it's very beautiful there.
The ash settles in his stomach. There's no more fire.
❀
The rain is warm, water sliding down his cheeks and he can taste the weather in the air. He likes the rain, but he's got Lux's journal in his bag, pressed to his chest and it's something to protect.
He remembers this place, the first night where they settled at, and in the downpour he makes out the silhouette of the tall oak tree, dead and ghostly, all the purple flowers turned to glowing mushrooms. Up close, the sign's all bled away, ink in gray washes on the paper. He looks up to the bare branches. The sunglasses are gone.
Rain comes with a flood of memories. There was Lux peering over his shoulder, and there he was lying in the grass, propped on his elbows with a brush pen, practicing his calligraphy, tired of being called mom and determined to prove that yes, he was fun too –
Lux with the flowers, crouched over this spot just a few days ago.
He touches the sign. It withers in his hand.
The rain soaks him and fills up his chest. He's turning, he's backing away, and then he's running, running until the earth blurs, until his legs burn, until he reaches the mouth of the caves, lungs heaving so hard it feels like it cracking in half, and it's funny that their stupid little trap is the thing that makes him want to cry, hand clutching his chest as if he could shove whatever's spilling from him back down.
Nehalennia glitters in the dimness, her back arched as she peers into the long tunnel before them, a sound coming from her throat like a chirping, and he realizes this is where he found her too. The beginning of everything at the end of everything.
Maybe he's taken her home.
The thought feels like a tide that hits too hard, crushed against his ribs. He reaches for her, pauses, halfway there, halfway holding another piece of grief.
He waits.
She stays.
And he might really cry now.
It's like hurricane season, the thunder roars and branches of magnolia snap in the wind. He'd find them the day after, cleaning up their gardens, touching the jagged ends, thinking of the hand of a giant brushing over Four. He drops his bag, inhaling, exhaling, hands curled into fists against his chest, because he can't cry now, and Neef's journal tumbles out.
He reaches for it.
Kabouter was their word for it. Their father would always read them stories when they were kids, shy folk, tiny people living underground who were older than all the world. And he would say, Willem, they don't like these roads and buildings. They like trees and flowers, and maybe if we grow them a garden big enough, they'll live here someday. He holds the spine of the book like it's a fragile thing, eyes burning.
Stupid story. Stupid boy who believed him and grew up tending to the trees and the flowers.
He looks up at the sound of footsteps. The thunder's so loud the shadowy figure is already at the entrance when Will realizes.
It's like hurricane season.
It's a –
"Storm."
Deep and violet, Storm looks like another death.
And Will moves for his sword resting by him, reaching, branches for ribs splintering, breaking, the taste of blood in his mouth, a burst of flames singing in his veins – and then reaching over, hand placed on the ground beside him instead.
He can't.
He swallows the embers, a lingering war from yesterday.
And then Storm looks like a boy again.
"Hi. Come–Come sit. It's drier in here."
willem attacks storm | Bancroft Saber (Sword)
EzHk_fIZc2sword
miss
