#oc: nasar | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

doriwrites · 3 years

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continuation of the continuation, third and last excerpt of this particular... draft? idk. once again, if you don’t read the two other excerpts you WILL be lost... yes this a threat (find them under the tag # where stories go to die)

A few weeks later, he tells her he has to go (“A few days. Maybe more.”) and that he knows just the right babysitter (“Hey!”). The town is lively but she finds it less of a hassle with the cane and the pillowcase and the weird friendship thread. He introduces her to pink threads and says it’s Chinonso! when they say call me Chino! Over tea, they explain how they met Nasar so long ago you weren’t even an idea yet and how they bonded over their dislike for a man named Al. They tell her embarrassing stories and she laughs so loud that she chokes. When she asks if they’re a boy or a girl and they say maybe with ominous pink, she thinks so cool and vows to learn everything they can teach her.

When Nasar goes in the morning the new thread stays. It stays when Chino says I heard you had a thing for swords and throws one at her (“What about a wooden one,” she asks. “Wooden swords are for pussies,” they say. “I don’t think cats need—”). It stays when Chino says hold it up until you can’t and she can’t eight seconds later (“Holler when you’re at eight minutes! We’ll talk!”). It stays when she’s sweaty and shaking and— and maybe she’s crying a little, too. It stays when Chino says you’re hella good at this, kid and she smiles so cheesy and sweet she gets a toothache. It stays even when soon has passed and he’s not back.

“Don’t worry about him,” Chino says, “he’s always been good at what he does. Even being late,” and their threads show a glint of steel and it reminds her of Little Death and a teacher. They’re pink and it reminds her of festivals and eyelids and sunrises or sunsets or both and she can’t remember whi— It reminds her of both the beginning of a day and its end. They’re pink and it reminds her of flowers and how sometimes they’re so thorny they won’t let you pick their petals.

The thread stays and she stops worrying.

When she can hold the sword up for eight minutes (“Eight minutes!”) Chino says good and sheathes it to her back. They walk her to a field where the grass reaches her knees. The wind is in her face and Chino says I’ll do your hair if you find the bells and throws said bells far, far away from her. They say I’ll be back and pink disappears just like green does. It takes a long time and she tries really hard to focus on the sound of tinkling in the breeze. She lets her threads reach out and it reminds her of a time they went up, up, up a leg— She lets her threads reach out and she feels them slither against the soil. It’s damp and it sticks a bit but she can feel a snail and doesn’t care much. She falls on her butt sidestepping the biggest slug ever and she cackles like mad. It takes a long time but she finds them. She finds them and dances a little before she realizes she has to find her way out.

For half a minute, she’s scared because. Because she’s all alone with the bells and the crickets and the wind bites a punishing cold against her skin— What if she wandered so far, far away in the field Chino never finds her— and what if she never sees the other end of the funny looking thread— What if she has to fight and the orange threads crushcrushcrushcru— feel like blood for days and. What if she has to fight and they don’t.

For half a minute she’s scared, but there’s something like a sunset or a sunrise or both— yes, both. There’s something like the sun and how it feels on your skin on a summer morning. There’s pink threads and it reminds her of how a book sometimes needs a bittersweet end. She grabs a bunch when they’re within reach and wraps, wraps, wraps from her neck until it covers her ears. She’s shaking and thinking of oddly specific scenarios and how they always end with deathdeathdeath— “Kid,” she hears the sun, and she wants to say yes, I think I am one, “Bendis."

Hands are so heavy on her shoulders that she wonders if the world feels the same on Chino's, "Did you know," they say, "that there's a festival for the moon, here?"

"Wha—," she chokes around a breath, "why."

"The founder of this place— this village. It's not that old, and he's still alive and if you— ah! if you ever were to meet him! Would tell you all about how the moon guides lost souls here, just like it did him. It's a charming story. And so many people have corroborated it now that it became fact."

"Did— did it guide you?"

"... I think so. Yeah. It guided Nasar and I here, so long ago. Dragged us, even. Yeah," the pink threads feel both fond and mourning. "But. The point. Nasar will always, always find a way here and—"

"But! But I won't! There's no moon here," she hits her chest clumsily, harshly, "only colors who don't look like ones and— and emotions too big for me!"

"Ah...Do you want to talk about it?"

She does. She talks and talks and talks. She says she's scared sometimes when candles and fires have gone out. She says it's stupid ("I don't even see the difference.") and Chino agrees ("Fear of the dark transcends us all," they say. "Why?" They shrug, "We've all lost things to the night." "...what does transcends mea—".) She talks about the threads. She says she's scared sometimes. When they're here and when they're not. When they feel louder than words and when they're not-even-a-color white— and when they don't. She says she's scared sometimes when they kill.

In a small voice, she talks about the new thread. She tells them how it’s always warm ("This one… is kind.") and how it feels like both Nasar and her (“Like— like everything is safe and I’m brave again.”). She tells them how it feels selfish (“Because it’s ours.”) and quiet (“Because it’s us.”). Chino says it can be your moon and she tells them I think it already is.

But, "what if—", what if it goes. What if the blade leaves and the orange loses its edges. What if it turns to dustdustdustdeath— "What if— when. What when it's not here anymore?"

"Ah, kid," Chino sighs and their threads soften, "you're breaking my heart." They sigh again, deeper, longer, shakier, "Listen. The moon— its metaphors, it’s all just that. Made up things people say to describe a feeling, yeah? Because the moon doesn't need to be seen, Bendis. It demands to be felt. And you— my cute little student, above all, know how that goes… The festival? It’s not a celebration about beauty. The moon is a fucking rock, yeah? But, it’s a celebration for bonds. The bonds people made here, in this village, where the moon led them. Let them, maybe. I— what I’m trying to say— yeah, believe me, I am— I am trying to say something. This thread thing going on? It’s all about bonds. And, yeah, Nasar and you have this disgustingly adorable one and— if you want to make it your moon, go right ahead. Your moon, your home, your— I don’t know, this little something that will always be above everything else? Go ahead, make it that. And the day it’ll be gone. That day… that day the bond won’t. The bond, its love, its light— it stays with you. I can’t believe I’m saying that but— yeah. Shit, symbolism works better in small sentences…”

She realizes she’s not afraid anymore. Instead, she thinks about Paprika and Miss Cynn. She thinks about a boy and his wolf. She thinks about Nasar and Chino and a man she’ll never meet. She thinks about the moon and its threads. “Should I make more?”

“More what?”

“More… bonds.”

“I mean… yeah. Yes. Make them. And— and nurture them. You water them like a damn plant. And when it roots into your chest, that’s it. It’s yours now. Can never be undone.”

She realizes she’s not afraid anymore. Instead, she thinks about bonds. She thinks about Paprika and wonders where in her orange she is. She thinks about Miss Cynn and wonders what colors are her threads. She thinks about the wolf. Remus. She thinks about him and wonders if he’s a moon, too, for the boy who’s like a tree. She thinks about Valko— about green and not-even-a-color white and institutes. She thinks about him and regrets. She thinks about Nasar and Chino and a teacher named Ringo. She thinks about them and the metaphorical moon who led them— let them, here. She thinks about pink and its glint of steel. About silver and its sharp softness. She wonders if they’re Ringo.

“...was that a Good Adult Talk?”

The next day, Chino does her hair. They're on the porch and Chino's humming along the song that plays inside. The street’s facing them and the people are loud— their threads even more so. For the first time, she finds it all more intriguing than scary. The pink wrapped around her feels so… casual. It hums, too, along the song of Chino. With a sort of comfort one truly ever finds in thunderstorms or crackling fires. When you let the world move you. When you let yourself be. And she melts against it.

She thinks of when Miss Cynn did her hair and told her just how untamed they were. She remembers how she agreed every time. But now, she isn’t so sure. Because Chino says, “Nah. They just need loving,” and she believes them. There's a lot of oil and water and time. It takes so long her bum feels numb. But she watches threads without the fear. Because she focuses on Chino’s voice(s) until she hears nothing else. She wraps herself in the voices-threads-Chino— she wraps herself in them until she knows nothing else. The hands in her hair are like an anchor. She’s swayed by the waves of colors— so much of it. Oh, yes, she is swaying still. But there’s a song in her ears and a pillowcase over her nose and she’s okay.

She thinks about how she can’t see the moon but the bonds instead. She thinks about the bonds and hesitantly reaches out. But. Maybe it’s a mistake because she’s only known Chino for a couple of weeks and— and yet. Yet it feels safe to reach out. Comfortable, even, and she knows— this won’t hurt me.

"You feel like a ship," they say quietly. And she thinks she understands.

The next day, there's a new thread. It hums with a song of hair and home. When she touches it, the pieces that make Chino-and-Bendis leave her with the feeling of sunlight on her skin. They leave her with a melody of curls and care. They leave her pink.

Her head is now full of braids and she likes it. They're big and short and she wonders if it looks great with the color she remembers being somewhat like the orange of her threads. Darker, maybe. Miss Cynn had taken to twist it into a knot at the top of her head for lack of known alternative. When she met Nasar, she had let it loose and felt better about everything. Now, Chino had taken care of it like— like it was important. And even if she liked it natural, she loved it like that, too.

She spends ten minutes of every hour shaking her head really fast. She gets a mouthful of braids each time and laughs for reasons she couldn't name. She laughs, too, when Chino sends the bells so far she can't even hear them land. She laughs when Chino says well, kid, we don't have all day and pink threads stay for all of it anyway. She laughs when she finds the bells— so loud and so free she doesn’t even notice him.

But Nasar— his threads (the sword) are there. And she runs so fast she falls twice. She doesn’t care. She throws herself at him and he stumbles a few steps. His arms close around her and she might be crying a little but still, she laughs. Loud, free, and happy about everything. She wishes she could put more of him in her arms and her threads oblige. She lets them. When they wrap around his shoulders and his middle and his legs. She lets them when they wrap around his soul again.

They don't let go when she does. Just a bit. Her tiny hands are on his face and she notices the beard first. It's longer than usual and she wants to braid it like her hair. Then, his mouth. The corners are up but not enough for her taste. She puts two fingers there and pushes until she's sure his teeth are showing. She reaches his crooked nose and kisses the bump.

Nasar brings a hand on her head— the one that could have crushed her but didn't, so long ago— until their foreheads are touching. She laughs again and squishes his cheeks. He huffs but the silver buzzes with warmth. She feels his I missed you and hopes he can feel hers.

She wants to keep clinging. And so she does. Chino gets their hug with her squashed in the middle. She doesn’t let go— they go back to the house, they eat and they laugh some more, but she doesn’t let go. When it's time for bed, she trades Nasar for his threads and wraps, wraps, wraps until there’s nothing left of her.

The next morning, a second thread starts from her chest and ends in his and it feels like a happy place. Nasar is a little bruised and Chino says —tells him, really— that he should rest for a while. When he stays in bed all day, she is right here with him, little hands all over his face because he’s real and she missed him. She missed him so much she cries a little when he tells them about his journey (“There were some… things to work out.”). How close he came to death (“A healer found me… yeah… a good one, too.”) Chino is in the bed with them and they listen, stroking her hair when everything seems like too much. Pink, silver and orange intertwine and she’s so very happy to be here that she cries again.

The next day, and the day after that, Chino attaches garlic to the bells. They put a second sword on her back and she can’t help but feel like Nasar’s delay caused some worry. Like it had made the unstoppable force turn into the immovable object. Or like— like it had made the unstoppable object turn into the immovable force. She remembers learning the word baffling not so long ago, and Chino’s behavior is it.

She doesn’t complain because she’s learning something. Chino says focus on the smell and she does. She sits on her butt a long time, trying to smell garlic and hear bells. There’s a headache around her eyes and she decides she hates garlic. The swords are heavy on her back when she finally stands and she decides she won’t rest until she can run at her swordless pace with them on.

When she doesn’t train, she sits next to a bedridden Nasar. They talk about anything and everything until she remembers the book he gifted her on her birthday. About bloodlines. Magical ones. She gets pink in the cheeks when she tells him she forgot about it ("You were gone and Chino turned me into a sword wielding warrior and I was worried and busy and—", "Hey, it's fine.") and hurries out the room without the cane nor the threads to guide her (“Watch out for the door!”, “I know! I’ve been living here a whole month!”).

She opens the door without running into it, walks a dozen steps, takes a sharp right, five more steps, opens the door Chino said was green, walks in, sidesteps a lot of things she put on the floor (she only stumbles over a shoe thrown haphazardly in a sleep deprived state), reaches the mattress, lifts it and grabs for the book. She makes it back to Nasar’s room in under forty-six seconds and both of them are very smug about it (“That was fast,” he says, and she preens over it for two days).

They read. They read and when she has questions he answers as best as he can. There’s some kind of bitterness when he talks about magic. Like it did him wrong. Like it might have been a friend once. They read and she has a lot of questions. Is it like these genetics thing-y Valko talked about and am I one of them are the first ones. Nasar says yes and we all are.

“What do you mean?”

“How many family names are in that book?”

“Hum… about forty.”

“Right. They are… for lack of a better word, they are the original families. Those whose ancestors were the first to awaken. Ever.” He sighs, “The common belief is that they were the first people. That we all are their descendants.”

“Are… we?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Thing is, all those of us who don’t have a last name… Well, we don’t mean much for those families now. We… all we could ever offer them are batarsied versions of their magic.”

“But— they do marry out of the family, right? Miss K always said it was nonsensical to marry a brother to a sister and that it was disgusting and—”

He laughs a little, “No. No, they don’t do marriage between brother and sister anymore… There was a time when… they tried. Thinking it would make the magic… purer. But it was defective. Every single time.” He sighs a little, “They do marry cousins. Fourth and up, though. They don’t want a repeat, right? And they do marry out of the family. They— they estimate, I don’t know, magical… affinities? Between two people. Overpowered babies are a must in these parts.”

She nods because she thinks she gets it. She understands her threads are the result of a genetic mix. She understands she will never know which. Because she doesn’t have blood relatives. Because none of the forty-something families wield anything resembling her threads. There’s something like a fist in her throat. Because she gets it. She understands how she will always be made to feel inferior to them. Because no one sees the way she does. Because no one feels the way she does.

“Some… some people, like you, who’ve gone and awakened something— something useful,” he says and his threads quaver, “They… they take an interest in. It’s not rare, per say. More like, we don’t hear about those few until they… do something really— really fucking grand,” there’s a laugh there, too, but. It’s sad. “like, like saving the world and dying. But nobody cares about them if they just die…” he pauses and she hears his head hit the wall, “And yet. Yet, every time they make a mistake… they’re made an example. And when they’re doing just well enough they— they’re kept in a, uh, frontliner kind of thing, you know? Always the sacrificial lambs.”

She understands. She understands and cocoons in silver. She understands more than his words and lets orange wrap up, up, up one finger, three, five. It wraps up his palm. Up his wrist. It squeezes a I’m here.

She has more questions. About the spells ranked above the letter A. About the families whose magic is called soft. And about families whose magic is called hard. She wants to ask questions but his threads wobble like a lip. Instead, she settles her back against his ribs, hugs the arm around her with one hand. The other is running its fingers on the page.

Inferis. They’re in the intermediate magic section of the book. It says they master illusions. It says their spells are ranked from C to AAA (she knows it’s the highest rank). The current Head is Vog’n Inferis and he has three sons from a mother whose maiden name was Erebus (she remembers reading about how they master darkness and thinking what the hell. She remembers Nasar saying shadows, night, black holes… who knows). It says he has six grandchildren already. It says all of them master spells ranked B and above. All of them but one.

Alekto Inferis is the youngest of three. Her brother, Nim, is the oldest and the only one on the page to have a little… star? Right beside his triple A (she scans the page again. At the bottom, beside another star, is written go to page ten. She finds two pages on Crafters. It says they are the one who make spells. It says they’re rare. These days, an awakening often bears similar magic. She reads new mutations and rare again.) The other one is named Sandor. Spells rank from B to A. But. Alekto Inferis.

Their mother’s maiden name was Papillon.

It says Alekto’s spells don’t go higher than a C. It says she didn’t inherit anything from her father’s side. It says she has soft magic… And it reminds her of a boy with green threads. (It reminds her of how quick and quiet their skimming of the Bel family page had been. Shifters. None of them said anything when they didn’t read Valko’s name on the Head’s family tree. None of them said anything when they read hard magic at the top of the page. None of them said anything when she turned the page before finishing it.)

She lays awake for a long time, wondering if she's like Alekto Inferis and Valko or if they’re like her.

The next day, and the day after that, she trains. She searches the field while Nasar’s reclining on a rocking chair and Chino’s spread out on the ground. She searches for bells and garlic with two heavy swords on her back.

She trains. She trains even if she’s sweaty and shaking and crying. She trains even if it hurts. She trains so well Chino says okay, level up! and they give her a third sword. She’s lamenting about having to carry one more and how it’s unfair and ugh because— There’s something sharp under her chin. Something very, very sharp and— “Focus.”

Chino teaches her how to fight. They teach her how to evade and faint, how to defend and— It’s hard. Because she needs to focus on the sound of Chino’s sword and their footsteps all at once. They teach her to block and attack. They teach her even if she’s a bit bloody and scratched and nicked. They teach her for days. And she starts using her threads on the fifth.

They wrap around Chino’s sword. She doesn’t— she doesn’t really want to wrap them anywhere else. But the world’s moving along the sword. It spins. It feels like she’s always about to trip. She doesn’t really want to wrap them anywhere else. Not while fighting, even if— if it's training. The last time she did… Two lives. Two lives for three. But she needs to get better. Way better. Better as in the alternative is probably dying or worse like Nasar dying and you can’t— She needs to be good.

So, uncertain but cautious, her threads edge along open shoes (“I’m about to wrap my soul around your toes.”). They wrap up, up, up an ankle and two (“Are you doing it?”) and settle around them with a squeeze (“Holy shit— you’re doing it!”).

The world has an axis again. And the sound, a provenance.

She doesn’t see Chino move. She feels them. She feels them in such a way that she mirrors them instinctively. She feels them in such a way that she thinks they might mirror her… Which is— impossible. But she feels their feet and their steps and— She remembers meeting a ma-ri-o-ne-tti-st once, who made wooden dolls come alive with strings. Is that how it feels like? she wants to ask now (because— because she just has to pull—). But now, she feels like both the puppet and the puppeteer at once.

When Chino takes a step forward, she takes one back. When Chino takes a step back, she takes one forward. She finds herself moving along the song of Chino once more. She doesn’t grab at pink threads because her hands are full of sword but. She feels them, too. She feels them curious and intrigued and wondering. She feels them watching.

That day, Chino doesn’t attack. They feint and twirl and sidestep and— and it’s like they’re dancing. Bendis follows along. She synchronizes. And she finally hears. She hears Chino’s steps and how they’re different from hers. Louder. Surer. She hears the swords’ quiet cry when they touch. Quick. Sharp. She hears Chino’s breathing— she hears it because of how different it is from her own. Slower and calmer. She hears the rustle of a fabric she knows is not her sweater’s wool.

That day, she learns to hear again. First, she realizes, I need to know the noises that make me. Because— because sometimes she forgets about bodies. About her own, most of all. She thinks maybe she needs to hear herself to hear others. So, she listens to all the sounds she doesn’t make.

One night, when she’s in the room with the green door, she hears Chino and Nasar talking. He’s been out of bed for a few days but his pro-sthe-tic bothers him. He knows where to go to get it fixed, but… he seems unwilling. And she doesn’t need to hear the “...it’s too dangerous,” to know it’s because of her. They speak of the free cities and a market. They speak of debts and hotels and secrets. They speak of books and— they speak of magic.

She hears a what if they find out and the answering they won't. "A simple ID check— it's all it takes. It could lead to— to a registration and it's not what she needs. Ever."

"But—"

"And what if she crosses paths with someone— someone who wants to hurt."

"Listen—"

"There's no telling how her magic will react around so many others—"

"Nasar," the scream is whispered and the following sigh swallowed. "Your leg hurts, we can tell. The mechanic can't make it? We go to them. And— we'll be there for the kid. There’s two of us, remember? And people we can trust to look out for her."

There's a long pause and a long sigh, "...I guess we could introduce to the Librarian and—"

In the room with the green door, she combusts, "I want to go!"

And they’re going the day after.

#dori writes #well...#oc: bendis #oc: nasar #oc: chinonso #oc: alekto #...maybe #where stories go to die

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doriwrites · 3 years

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okayo so continuation of the excerpt i posted wayyy back about bendis and nasar, IF YOU HAVEN’T READ IT YOU WILL UNDERSTAND NOTHING NADA RIEN DU TOUT (find it under the where stories go to die tag) (+completely IGNORE the shitty worldbuilding you’re just here for the feels) (++ this is still somewhat relevant since even though the story has drastically changed, the characters are still the same so i guess i could almost call that a AU) (+++ it gets violent at the beginning)

One day, when she’s practicing touch, she notices the scars. There’s one on her stomach and one on her chest. There’s one on her cheek and one on her ankle. She’s happy— no, at peace with them. Because they’re a reminder. Of what she lost and what she gained. They’re a reminder that she survived. A reminder that she lived and that she will keep living. They’re a goal. They’re a promise.

One day, when she’s practicing sound, she hears something she doesn't like. At all. Nasar left this morning and she’s alone in the forest where everything but the trees and the birds is quiet. He told her to stay put but. She hears it and she can’t unhear it.

“...from the institute… bad shape but good batch.”

“Boss will be pleased… the Bel kid and his…”

“...magic users? Damn, kids these days.”

“Right? Look at all the good it does them.”

There’s something like a struggle, a harsh sound and a whimper. And she knows. She just— she knows. But Nasar is not here and she can barely walk ten minutes without falling face first on the ground. And this is a forest with trees and roots and— and there’s nothing she can do and it’s been a while since she last felt so helpless she almost forgot the hows and the whys.

The footsteps and the voices get clearer and— and she does something stupidstupidstupid but she can’t. She can’t help it. She hopes Nasar will get there before they get close enough but he doesn’t. She thumbs at the little blade he gave her (“To protect yourself.”) and wonders how he’ll feel when he finds her dead body. When they pass by the trees she’s hiding behind, she lunges. Her war cry is cut short when a foot hits her in the chest and she hits a trunk. It hurts but she gets up and focuses on the sounds. There’s a harsh laugh, nothing like Nasar’s and she doesn’t have time to separate and analyse and compartmentalize because there’s a hand in her hair and it yanks. She’s dangling from the ground and trashing and snarling and— and maybe she’s crying, too, because her scalp is burning and it hurts.

“There’s a wild one. Look at that. Very… feral,” someone says in her face and she doesn’t think and just— She doesn’t know how because she’s a kid and they’re a grown adult but. She didn’t let go of the blade and they don’t seem to care and. She plunges it in flesh. Again and again and again and for as long as it takes for them to let her go. “Fucking… hell. What— What the fuck,” the voice says, and then, seething, “What the fuck.”

The threads— she thinks there might be four people. She’s not sure. She doesn't now because there’s a fist in her gut and she falls to her knees. Someone is laughing and it’s mean. She wants Nasar. She wants. She wants. But there’s a fist in her face. Again and again and again. And she can’t hear anything but the blood in her ears and her bones breaking and. And she thinks about Nasar and how he will find her dead body.

But then. Then. The voice without a voice, the presence. Greedy, with its grudges. The magic. Hers.

did you forget that you were born in blood

did you forget that you were born in war

did you forget that you must live

Her threads. They feel alive and she forgot about them like one forget about one’s body. It’s here, always, but. One only remembers when it hurts.

And so, they lunge, too. Wrap themselves around the toxic ones and yank, too. They slither around a hand and two. They slither up, up, up an arm and two. And they crush. They crush and she thinks she can hear the bones breaking. They crush and she thinks she can hear the screams. They crush hard, unforgiving and she feels the how dare you. There’s a bundle of them crawling up a leg, a torso and then a neck. The snake-like threads yank and the crack echoes through her bones. She wants to throw up and she wants to black out but there’s another one.

did you forget that you were born for blood

did you forget that you were born for war

did you forget that you must live

They weave their way to a foot, they yank at an ankle, at a knee, they yank at a whole damn pelvis and for good measure, they wrap themselves around a neck and crushcrushcrush until there’s nothing left to crush but blood and bones.

She throws up. She throws up and she’s shaking and crying and she can’t hear anything but the headache pounding in her ears. Her body hurts. Everything smells like blood. Her threads smell— feel like blood as they wrap around her with nothing of the vicious killing intent from before. From a moment ago. They wrap around her limbs gently, like a caress. They wrap around her body and she throws up again. They wrap, wrap, wrap until they’re a mockery of the cocoon she likes to make with Nasar’s.

She doesn’t know how long she stays like that. She doesn’t know. But something touches her and she lashes out like an animal with no escape route. She trashes and trashes and trashes until she notices everything still hurts. She trashes because she can’t hear and she can’t see and she doesn’t— Hands take a hold of her own and bring them to a face.

There’s a long nose and lots of eyebrows. There’s a beard and some wrinkles. She realizes there’s threads, too. Sharp but somehow soft. She sobs and goes limp in Nasar’s arms. Her own threads are still wrapped around her and she knows they’re healing her. She wishes they wouldn’t. Because she doesn’t like them. She doesn’t. She doesn’t. She doesn’t. She doesn’t. She— She shudders as she remembers what they did (what she did?).

She doesn’t know how long she stays like that. Wrapped in her threads and his arms. She’s being spoon fed and drinks greedily from a flask. She sleeps a lot but does not dream. She moves only if she’s moved and can’t think much. When she wakes, however briefly, she hears voices like they’re behind a wall or in a bottle. There’s two. One familiar and one unknown. Sometimes she thinks she can feel something wet but warm nuzzling at her cheek. She wants to reach out. She wants. She wants. She— she sleeps.

When she wakes up for good and her threads go back to hide in her body, there’s voices. Nasar’s and someone else’s. Her head is pillowed on something warm and. And there’s fur in her mouth and in her nose. She sneezes. And the nuzzling is back. She wants to reach out, so she does. It’s a snout. A tongue licks at her wrist. There’s pointy ears and she’s sure there’s a tail around her middle. It feels like a dog but she can’t be sure.

There's a hand in her hair and she flinches. She flinches so hard and ugly that the creature yelps. "Hey, hey," it's Ringo Nasar, her friend—protector—bounty-huntermurderer— her friend and his voice is soft when he says it's me. It shakes a little when he says you're fine. She grabs his arm and clings so hard and ugly that the man yelps. He yelps and she laughs. It's a small sound full of tears and relief and something like love. It sounds like a thank you and she hopes he hears it. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, soft, gentle, kind— kinder than most things, kinder than she deserves maybe.

At once, she remembers what she did, what her threads— what they did. She shudders. Hard and uglyuglyugly— Two lives. She took two lives and she's not sure she can ever forget the sound of breaking bones and the feel of someone else's blood on her threads. She took two lives and Nasar will not have to find her dead body. She took two lives and she lives.

She feels like throwing up but has almost nothing in her belly and knows it would be a really bad idea to puke on Nasar's cloak. She prepares for a word vomit instead but— "You don't have to talk about it now," he says and she remembers the dog-creature-familiar and the unknown voice. She reaches for sharp silver threads and it soothes raw wounds. "The dog is Remus," he says, "the kid is Valko."

There's some angry sputtering and a he's a wolf and she remembers the two lives she took and the three lives she saved. It’s not very much but it’s hers and the boy’s and his familiar— his familiar. It hurts to even think about and she buries deeper in her friend—protec— her friend’s chest. Her threads are somewhere she can’t see, chastise in a blind spot as she clutches harder at the silver ones. She can see the wolf’s and almost reaches out when she remembers the warm and fuzzy feelings his nuzzling brought but. She’s good where she is and the warm and fuzzy feelings are there, too.

Later, when she lets go of her friend but never of his threads, and everyone is settled around a fire, she notices the boy’s. They look like brimming, boiling water made of anger, desperation and sadness. She’s sure they taste like it, too. But they also look drooping and mopping and something like a pout. It’s both funny and miserable to look at them and she wonders if the boy knows they’re green. Instead, she asks, “What is the Institute?”

The threads quiver. “It’s a school for people like us,” he says and she knows he’s not looking at her, “there’s two in the land alone. A dozen in the country.”

“Do they— do you—”

“Thank you,” he says quickly, quietly, like it burns him, like it frees him, “thank you. I— we wouldn’t… There’s things far worse than death out there and— and we would be it if you didn’t— if you hadn’t…” The threads flutter, quaver. The threads say everything he cannot. Then, he huffs a little laugh and his threads say just how fake it is. “Soft magic is a real pain. Not very useful against— against anything.”

She waits for a bit or two because these are words she ever only heard in passing. “Soft magic?”

“Yeah,” he pauses, “have you never— I mean. Ah,” he sighs when Nasar’s threads sharpen in her hands, “they categorize magic. At the Institute. More like, umbrella terms or— whatever. Soft and hard magic at both ends of the spectrum. Intermediate’s in the middle.”

She doesn’t ask him to demonstrate. She wants to but she doesn’t because it feels like he’s embarrassed or ashamed or both and she doesn’t like it. His threads seem flighty at best and she doesn’t want to scare them— him— away. “What did… what happened? What did it look like?” she asks because there’s no way she can ever know but she wants to so desperately it hurts her brain.

He explains. He explains how he saw everything, half-dazed, half-unconscious. He explains the threads (“They were orange.”) and the deaths (“They crushed until— until they didn’t.”). He explains how they came from right in the middle of your chest and how they wrapped themselves around her after. He explains the magic in the air (“I think I still got some stuck in my lungs.”) and how it was so potent it froze him in place. How it was so potent he could do nothing but watch you (kill-destroy-annihi—). Nasar says it was so potent he knew from a mile away how much trouble she was in.

When they go to sleep that night, all she can think about are her orange threads and the silver ones and the greens and the familiar’s. Before she falls asleep, she wonders if Paprika’s threads would have felt as kind as her and as brave, too. She wonders if Miss Cyn’s are warm and soft and like a smile. She wonders where the dead threads go.

Nasar takes it upon himself to see the boy and his familiar home safely. He surprises her every day and she likes him more each time. They travel far, far away from the forest and the stinky towns and the boy grabs her arm when she trips over roots. He grabs her arm when there’s a tree ahead and he grabs her arm when she stumbles over thin air. His familiar hovers behind and nudges her in the right direction when she wanders off the path. Nasar doesn’t say anything but he guffaws when it ends in flailing limbs and a three bodies pile on the ground.

When they stop to rest and Nasar helps her work on her braille, the green threads are curious and they watch over her shoulder as her fingers work the letters. When they stop to rest and Nasar lands her Little Death, the green threads are interested and they watch as she tries and fails to juggle the heavy weapon around. When they stop to rest and Nasar tells her about the smell of ships and seas and ropes, the green threads are thoughtful and they watch as she asks questions she didn’t know she had. The green threads are curious and interested and thoughtful but the boy is distant and aloof and stiff.

So she asks him if he knows braille and when he answers with a I don’t need to she hands him her book and gives him directions. She asks him if he knows anything about swords and when he answers with a some she demands he teaches her. She asks him if he ever saw the sea and when he answers with a no she tells him what she thinks it looks like. The green threads are content and the boy slumps a little.

They become friends and he tells her about his familiar. He tells how he awakened early and how the wolf didn’t find him for a long while after that. He tells her about the day he did and how it was the best of them all (“Like all the wrongs were righted. Like it made sense.”) and how they never parted from each other since. He tells her how much he loves him (“He’s like a limb. Or— a soul, yeah. Like my soul.”) and how he thinks he would die without him ("If anything were to happen to him…I don't want to think about it.").

She listens carefully and wants to tell him how he would live instead. She wants to tell him how he would feel cut in half and how his thoughts would feel lonely sometimes. Instead, she tells him about Ringo. She tells him how much of a good teacher he was to Nasar ("Because he protects.") and how he gave him Little Death even though it was his. She tells him how she thinks he's dead and how much she's sad about it ("Why?", "I would like to thank him.", "...Why?", "Because he gave me Nasar."). She tells him I miss someone I never met and how she will have a sword named after him someday.

The familiar— Remus— is always near. His threads are fluffy and she wants to pet them but doesn't ask because threads are special and a familiar even more so. It doesn’t keep her from the cuddle fest and she's grateful. He lets her talk to him and even though he never answers, she knows he is listening. He lets her lay close at night and it keeps the frowns and the nightmares at bay. He lets her pet him and be clingy and laughs in his ears and she feels warm.

One day, Valko decides that you can't keep walking into trees every other minute and that he's going to do something about it. He decides she needs a stick or a cane or something and she tells him yes, I do but ends up with a branch instead. He asks why she doesn't have one yet and she says she never really thought about it until now (silver threads tremble with something like shame and she reaches out). She tells him how she doesn’t like crowds much and how towns are difficult to deal with (green threads shake with something like intrigue and she recoils a bit). He tells her oh, so that's why we're in the middle of fucking nowhere and she says mind your language.

The day before they reach the Institute, he tells her about his magic. He tells her it's soft and meek and his voice is small and dejected. He tells her about shifters and a dad who wasn't one. He tells her about a boy who was supposed to be a wolf. He tells her about genetics and she's a little confused. At the end of it, he tells her just how funny he thinks it is that his familiar is a wolf but he can never be. He shrugs against her shoulder and tells her he got the sense of smell and hearing and— everything, I have everything but the wolf.

"You have the wolf," she says.

His thread feels fond when she grabs one, but there's longing there, where she thumbs at its middle. It's a little bit rough but all kind of soft. "I know."

She tells him about his threads. She tells him they're green and how she thinks they're more like moss than leaf but can't be sure because she forgot the little things. She tells him she hopes he looks just like they feel, half-tree, half-child. He tells her I am fourteen, thank you very much and what the hell. She laughs and tells him about birds and nests and he says duh. She tells him how trees can be homes. She tells him how they can be red and gold but she likes them green best. She tells him trees can look old when they're young. She tells him they can be damaged or marked or cracked but can never be moved. He says holy shit, I am a tree and she smiles warm and soft.

When the Institute is in front of her, she's surprised. They went around cities on their way but she thought the school for people like her (child—murderer—magic-user) would be in one. She's wrong. She's terribly wrong and they find themselves in the middle of fucking nowhere ("Shut it!") and green threads are restless. There's a pair of them in front of what she thinks are gates. They look muted somehow. Blurry. A not-even-a-color white.

She realizes she never asked how Valko found himself in the hands of slavers and why he was so far from home. She realizes he never told her. She realizes she never asked if he was alone before her and why he fakes laugh so often. She realizes she doesn't know him very much and she's sad.

They leave him with the muted threads and snot on his jacket. The wolf gets a hug and a lot of thank yous and apologies and petting. They wait until he's let in. They wait until she sees his threads for the last time.

That night, when she's settled in Nasar's cocoon and thinking about a boy and a wolf, she says, "The Institute. Didn't it— didn't it feel odd to you?"

The silver threads tighten around her, "Wait, do you mean the part where they send children to war or was it more about the titanic fortress?"

"...but. We're not at war."

He sighs like it pains him, "There's always a war somewhere, kid."

"Is it— is it like a military? Because those were downtown all the time and Miss Cynn always said they were like leeches but I never understood what that means because I don't know what a leech looks like or what it is—"

"They’re like vampires, they suck blood and happiness out of you."

"—and they were not really nice to the children and women but they were always nice to the drunk men pissing on Madam K’s shoes. I think that one is fair because Madam K was kind of mean sometimes and if they hadn’t pissed on her shoes, I might have—"

"That’s very bold of you."

"—but. Valko was not like that. I mean… I don’t think he was."

"He was not like that. And yes, like a military," he sighs like it burns him, "Young magic-users are given the one-in-a-lifetime opportunity to learn how to harness, how to control, how to— how to optimize themselves, yeah," he chuckles lowly, "with the best teachers in the world."

"Do you— do you mean for them?"

"Bendis. This world will take every chance it gets— every last one of them— to walk all over you. And these kids… these kids are running out of luck."

"Do you mean luck or—"

"I mean luck. Those people... Bravery means death. Recklessness means death. And not in a Greater Good way but in a look-how-wrong-they-were way. The only way out is… deserting. Which is— it’s a terrible idea."

"Why?"

"Deserters are hunted down. Once you get in, you can’t get out. If you were to leave... ", he sighs like it haunts him, "I— he never asked."

"...We didn’t, either."

His threads buzz with confusion and regrets and protector-friend-protector-prote— They hum with a sort of disquiet she never felt from him before. "I know."

"...You know a lot about them."

"Mh. People seldom differ, kid. Give them power and they will abuse it. It's really that simple."

"What does seldom means and how—"

They stop in a quiet inn, and Nasar leaves in the morning. She decides she has things To Do Today. She takes the branch with her and only runs into thirty two people (to whom she asks directions every time) before she finds the library. The librarian is harder to find still but when she asks her if they have any books in braille, brown threads brighten considerably and she hears a smack and a woman's voice says it's your lucky day! before it leads her to an empty section of the room. There's three books and one of them she already has. She's almost certain another one is about pirates but the last one. The last one says universal spellbook and she reads until she can't. She doesn’t understand everything and when she does it's about rankings and soft-hard-intermediate and category and— she steals the book.

When Nasar comes back and his threads are clean but he smells like blood, he tells her good job and helps her decipher the book. He tells her what he knows about magic ("Everyone has it. There's a hereditary thing going on and awakenings rituals everywhere.") and she levels him with an unimpressed look. He tells her what he thinks he knows ("There's something like neutral magic— the one out there, you know? Not inside us. The magic of the trees and the seas. The one we don't incubate until it implodes, yeah?”) and she goes for his neck. He tells her the spellbook is what we can do with it and she gasps so loud because I didn't know that. Why didn't I kno— "The only way to learn this stuff is through institutes. Or whatever-council approved tutor. This is just a book of spells. Nowhere does it tell you how to— how to cast them. It tells you plenty about their nature but not the way you need to— to work the magic. Universal means for everyone. But everyone is too big a number."

"But people must have tried—"

"They do try. All the time. Sometimes they die trying and they're lucky. Sometimes they get caught and— It's ugly."

She reads the book still. She reads it until she knows the twenty six spells ranked between the letter F and the letter D. She reads it until she knows the difference between soft and intermediate and hard ones. She reads until she knows their categories and common uses and her brain itches. She reads. She reads. She reads. Until the day she doesn’t.

It's late and she's waiting for Nasar in another smelly inn room. When he comes, she has a pillowcase tied around her head and cotton in her ears. He takes her hands from the book and presents them with a cane. It's long and sturdy and nothing like the branch that broke after fifteen minutes a few days ago. She cries a lot. But mostly, she smiles until she can’t.

Walking becomes easier but she makes sure to be as good without the cane as she is with it. It's difficult and it takes time but she wants a sword named Ringo. It's difficult and it takes time until she remembers her threads (orange-murderer-magic) and decides they might be useful. It's difficult and it takes time because she remembers the bones and blood and death on them and how it stuck for days. It's difficult and it takes time but they're like eyes who can see everything she can't.

At night, she dreams about a boy who was supposed to be a wolf and the wolf who is like a limb. She dreams about a tree overrun by moss and a sword without a name. She dreams about a woman with a soft smile and calloused hands who is so kind she tells an orphan girl to run, run away before— and she never remembers how it ends. She dreams about silver threads and spellbooks and institutes and child-soldiers. She dreams about green .

They leave this town and the next, and she's got a book under an arm and a cane in her hand. She asks Ringo Nasar for more books about magic and his threads are not very happy but he asks when's your birthday? and she gets a book about bloodlines. She asks Ringo Nasar when's your birthday? and when he says I'm not sure she decides to give him one like Miss Cyn had for her. She realizes she doesn't know what to get him because Ringo Nasar does not like many things but Little Death and Bendis. But he gets a knife she found under a mattress and a stolen book about pirates. He gets hugs and kisses on the face and his laugh is so loud it echoes in her heart.

They lull themselves to sleep with whispered stories of a girl and her sword. She tells him how the sword saves the girl every single time and he tells her how the girl saves herself. He tells her how the girl becomes sword in the end and she tells him how the sword becomes him.

The fire crackles at the night and her threads reach out. Tentative. Hesitant. They reach out. And there's no violence in the way orange wraps around silver. And there's no wrath where it weaves its way up, up, up. But Nasar stiffens and she thinks she might have done something wrong even if she didn't mean— But then his threads answer. They answer. They— she doesn’t know how he's doing it, if he's doing it, but his threads intertwine with hers and she thinks. She thinks she might be feeling his soul.

It feels like his threads and his sword and his leg. It feels like rainy days in shitty inn rooms and cold nights in the woods. It feels like it's known too many ends and not nearly enough beginnings. It feels like both the wielder and the weapon and how sometimes they're the same. But it feels like cocoons and laughter and comfort. It feels like all the pieces that make Ringo Nasar and more.

“You feel like the sea,” he says quietly. And she thinks she understands.

She wakes with the sun and notices a new thread. It’s a little odd looking but she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t mind because it starts in her chest and ends in his. And it feels like chosen birthdays and hushed voices.

#dori writes #oc: bendis #oc: nasar #oc: valko #where stories go to die

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