descendants . lumi/finn

He’s tall, a lot taller than you. And by the time he finishes speaking you’re a little scared. You’re a little more conscious of the sweat beading on your forehead and the black dots creeping at the edge of your vision. You can feel the nausea building in your stomach and you think that maybe staying home might have been the better idea. It seems that today’s treatment isn’t hitting you quite so well.

He’s harsh in the way that he speaks, and you wonder if he’s always been that way. He’s so young that at some point in his life he must have been kinder, maybe even a little gentler. You shake the thought from your head, swallowing quickly, hoping that it keeps your courage tightly in your stomach and right where you need it.

You grab Mrs. May’s hand, giving her an apologetic look as you turn and face the Peacekeeper. After a moment you let go of her hand, stepping in between the frail old lady and the angry man. You’re pretty sure that you and Mrs. May are probably both frail and broken, but you’ve got a stronger voice and a different type of strength that she doesn’t have.

So, you take a step closer, folding your arms over your chest to try and hide the way that they tremble.

“I don’t care if it’s your job,” you snap, the slight quiver in your voice almost giving you away as you furrow your brows. “You’ve got no idea why she can’t pay, do you?”

You poke him in the chest, pressing a finger into the uniform as you step right in front of him. Invade their personal space, your instructors said, make it feel like you’re in control of the situation. It was so dumb to think for a second that you might be in charge. One hit from his arm would send you sprawling into the ground; you don’t think you’d be able to get up.

“Are you just assuming that she’s lazy? Did you check her name? Look up her history before storming down here like you’re better than us?” You drop your finger, anger simmering in your tone, the waver melding away as you found courage in the words.

“If you had- you’d know that she has never once missed a payment. That last month her husband of fifty-four years passed away. You’d know that she’s on her own and that’s just trying her best.” There’s a growl in the words, rage at the system that hurts the innocent and lets the monsters go free. Peacekeepers could be doing so much more and so much better, but no here he was, harassing an old lady for money.

Your grandma said that she didn’t know what Finn was like, or what kind of person he had been. But from the few hours she had watched of him in his games, she had known that he had been a good person. The type of person that stood up for others even if he wasn’t that strong enough. You wanted to be that kind of person.

Your gaze softens, moments of anger melting away as you close your eyes for a brief moment. Letting the queasiness in your belly settle you look back at the boy, trying to speak a little more calmly. “look, is there some kind of arrangement we can reach? Can I pay you part of it? I can pay you in increments over the next few weeks until next month.”

His hands ball by his sides and for a moment you think he might hit you. You flinch, gaze dropping, heart racing in your chest as you fear what kind of damage it might do. The kids at the training centre had a tendency to bully you for being weak, but when it came to fighting or sparring they were generally rather quite gentle. There were a few that didn’t care, bruises littering every inch of your skin like the ocean raging in a storm. But most could sense that there was something there that they shouldn’t hurt, because there was no point.

As much as you appreciate their restraint you hated the pity that lingered in their eyes.

At times, the cruel mercilessness of true careers was almost comforting. Worn like a badge made of gold as they beat you with everything they had.

He doesn’t need to know that you own no money. That every penny you earn goes to the debt you owe to the hospital. He doesn’t need to know that you hide the costs and coins to save your mum and dad from paying. That the few coins and notes here and there that your grandma saves always find their way into your little piggy bank.

“I- I have money,” you stammer, uncertainty lining the words as you set your mouth into a hard line. You’re as honest at this moment as your mother and father are about your cancer. Your nose would grow a few inches longer if this was a fairy tale. But it’s not, and the reality of this situation means that you might get away with it if you can just keep it together.

It seems that this young Peacekeeper isn’t quite so heartless, moments later he’s gently telling Mrs. May that she can leave. The beginning of a grin tugs at the corner of his lips and you think that he might look nice if he let it flourish. Sunflowers do not grow when they face away from the sun and he turns to you, no semblance of happiness on his face.

You swallow, hands ringing tightly in front of you. Suddenly this road feels a lot emptier, the silence between his words hanging in the air. You wonder if anyone would even hear you cry for help if he decided to hurt you.

You can’t let the anger in his words reach you, so you force your shoulders to relax, shrugging as you avoid is stony gaze. “I’m already dying,” not one hundred percent true, but not wrong either, “what more could anyone else do to me?”

Grinning you run a hand through your hair, feeling the sweat touch your skin as it grazes against your forehead. A twinge of worry grows in your belly, and your hand pauses for a moment, fingers touching your forehead. The skin was hot- a little too hot.

It’s not something you have the time to worry about at the moment. You push the nagging concern aside, responding to the peacekeeper,

“I’m Lumi Olsen, and you are?”

His face contorts as the words leave your mouth and you stare, eyebrows raised, shock written all over your own face. What was that? You know your name has history; you know that Finn Olsen had been a tribute, but that was so long ago that it had faded into history. The generation of his story was dead, the meaning attached to your name was clutched in your grandma’s hands. It meant nothing to anyone else.

Then he says his own name.

Officer Cartwright.

You gape, mouth open, lips parted in awe, shock, horror; the emotions swirling so wildly and ruthlessly through your stomach that you do nothing as he turns away. You don’t even hear the next words that come from his mouth, struck by lightning, by the name of a ghost you thought you’d never hear.

You’re not supposed to hear it or see it. They’re supposed to be in another district.

“Cartwright,” you echo, staring at his back as he takes another step away. How many times had you heard your grandma tell you the story about Lumi Cartwright and Finn Olsen? How many times had you been told that you were their legacy? That you were the reminder of an instant and everlasting friendship that had drilled itself into your grandmother’s mind.

You were evidence that they had lived. A mark in stone that their names would not be forgotten.

“Officer Cartwright,” you say, the words finally leaping from your tongue as you stumble after him. Feet flicking up dirt as you try and reach him before the ghost disappears from your view. You’re almost shocked when your hand doesn’t slip through him and you’re able to grab onto his sleeve. “You-“

You falter, words catching, lips stumbling as you stare at his face. His cheeks are burning brightly, anger smouldering in his gaze. What are you supposed to say? What does it matter?

It doesn’t matter.

It’s a connection, a thread dangling in the breeze, forced upon the both of you. Neither of you wanted the weight of this name. To carry on as the descendants of ancient tributes. Your own cheeks burn, embarrassment spilling as the air flees your lungs trying to stop you from saying something foolish. But you’ve never been one to let fear stop you from reaching and pulling at the strings that threaten to tie you down.

You will not let fear or embarrassment stop you-

So, you pull at the thread dangling between you. You pull it taut, shoving aside your embarrassment as you meet his burning gaze.

“Yes,” you say, steadying the words as your hand tightens on his sleeve. “I am Lumi Olsen, you know what that name means, Officer Cartwright.”

Instinct tells you that the redness on his cheeks comes from one reason only.

“What’s your name- your first name?”

You can both bare this unwelcome weight together, he just needs to pull back on the thread.