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Of Nightingales and Night Ravens: Chapter 4 - Ramshackle Renovations

Chapter: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII

Read on AO3

Summary: In which the cult gets more screen time, debts are paid through cleaning services, Yuu is a Disney Princess for real this time, there are too many animals in one room, and a first meeting occurs in the woods behind Ramshackle, but not the one you're thinking of. (or, Whistle While You Work)

Yuura is referred to as They and He.

Despite however long the Headmage claimed the building to be abandoned, Ramshackle itself is still in fair condition.

Now that the dormitory houses more than three mischievous ghosts, the water and electricity have been turned back on. The hardwood floors are scuffed and carpeted in a thick layer of dust, but they seem to be properly treated and stained; jumping up and down on one of the upper landings didn’t result in Yuura crashing into the floor below. Where the wallpaper is peeling, it's at the corners of individual sheets that could be easily glued back down. The broken furniture could be shoved into an empty storage room to be tended to at a later date.

And in spite of Ramshackle’s rundown appearance, the foundation is solid, the walls could repel the wind, and the roof could keep out the rain and sun. It's nothing more than a large clean up job.

Stains in the wallpaper? Nothing some warm, soapy water can’t fix. The staggering number of cobwebs dangling from the ceilings and sticking to the hard-to-reach corners? There was a broom conveniently abandoned in the entry hall, and a ladder in the back shed. The copious amounts of dust everywhere? In the attic, Yuura found a box of old but clean rags alongside a feather duster that still had all its plumes and a sturdy racket that was perfect for beating carpets and mattresses. The laundry room they stumbled upon was still stocked with cartons and boxes of powdered soap and cleaning detergents. There's even a full set of mops and buckets, and a large metal tub with its own old-fashioned steel washboard.

This, Yuura cataloged with a notepad and pencil, spending the free hours of their day exploring the building. There was no map they could find, so they drew up their own crude copy, counting the rooms and learning of their old designations from the resident ghosts (kitchen, supply closet, parlor, bedroom, study, bedroom, bedroom, bedroom…). Counting windows and determining which ones got top priority (bottom floor to top, front-facing, kitchen and master bedroom). Stacking scattered books and fallen paintings. Remembering which carpet belonged to which room after cleaning. Fixing the clocks and frames they found askew on the walls.

"What do you think, Mr. Giddens?” Yuura asks, hopping off the last step of the stairs connecting the first and second floors. They’d been testing the boards for levels of squeakiness rather than overall sturdiness (a little creaky towards the middle, but muffled by the carpet, and silent if you used the edges instead).

The Chubby Ghost of Ramshackle Dorm floats lazily to their side, taking a peek at the notes in their hand. It was a scribbled mix of Barren script, Common, and neat sketches of the building’s layout littered with numbers, arrows, and doodles of dancing mops and brooms.

"I think this seems like a tall order for one person to handle,” Mr. Giddens drawls.

"Especially for someone as small as you!” pipes in Mr. Weylin, dropping in from the ceiling alongside Mr. Melrose.

The Tiny Ghost nods in agreement. "Your arms will fall off before you finish sweeping the lounge." He shakes one of Yuura’s arms for emphasis.

"I’m sturdier than I look," Yuura insists, already making their way to the supply closet, pencil tucked behind their ear. "I helped my Uncle Sandro clean all the time, and our house was a little bigger than this.

"Besides, I won’t be alone." They turn on their heel, their smile rather cheery for someone who was about to spend the next several hours walking into spider webs. "I’ve got Grim with me, haven’t I?"

----

Among the Heartslabyul students who were present during the Housewarden’s Overblot and witnessed the aftermath, having fled into the Rose Maze before the destruction and missed the Headmaster’s call for evacuation, there was a vote—who to send as pseudo-emissaries to the Prefect who may or may not be a long-lost god of healing.

That’s how one freshman, two sophomores, and one junior find themselves standing on the creaky front porch of Ramshackle Dorm one Saturday morning, two weeks after the first Incident, less than a week after the second Incident when the Prefect was found singing All in the Golden Afternoon in the maze. As if that song isn’t highly restricted in use by the Queendom’s Royal Botanic Society.

"...so who’s gonna knock?"

"Not me! Make Quentin do it."

"What? What did I do?"

"Are you that much of a coward that you can’t even knock a door?"

"You wanna say that to my face, Poncy?"

"Bring it on, Angie."

"Oh, for fuck’s sake—look, there’s a doorbell. Let’s just ring the doorbell, and get this over with."

The doorbell does not work—properly. Rather than a chime or a tinkling tune, their ears are assaulted by a grating screech that lasts long enough for someone to answer the door.

"Hohoho, what do we have here?"

"Visitors? Visitors here?"

"Visitors, or intruders? What do you think, Mr. Giddens?"

"Heartslabyul, I think. And I see nary a red heart or a black spade among them."

"Intruders, then. Heheheh, do you know what that means, Mr. Giddens?"

"I think I do, Mr. Weylin."

Well, we don’t! the four hapless Heartslabyul students cry, huddling together despite their earlier animosity. Is this how it ended, joining the ranks of the ghosts who haunted Ramshackle? There's a reason why everyone avoided the building for decades!

"Oy! What did Yuu say about harassing visitors?”

The quartet would have sighed in relief, were it not for the fact that their savior came in the form of that fiery cat-monster that nearly burned down the Mirror Chamber during the Entrance Ceremony. It’s a little hard not to gawk when the creature comes waddling in with tiny rubber gloves over its front paws and its fiery ears tucked under a checkered kerchief.

(Huh. You’d think that’d be a safety hazard or something).

Bright blue eyes narrow on sight. "Hey, you ain’t Ace or Deuce. What’s a buncha Heartslabyul prisses doin’ here?"

One of the sophomores—the one referred to as Poncy—leans through the open door to shake his fist. “What’s that supposed to mean, ya cúl tóna beag?”

Someone hisses, "Pontius!" and tries to drag him back inside when the ghosts start leering again.

The monster bristles, nose scrunched up and forked tail flicking in agitation. "You wanna fight? I'll show you what the Great Lord Grim can do!"

"Gri—i—im!" Students, ghosts, and cat-monster alike all jump at the call. The voice comes closer, from the slightly ajar doors at the end of the entry hall. "Grim, are you alright? I heard the doorbell ringing. Oh! visitors."

Peeking into the hallway, a great pair of owlish, hazel-brown eyes, framed between an off-white kerchief around the mouth and over the nose, and a blue plaid kerchief around the head, pushing back a tousled mass of dark curls.

"Welcome to Ramshackle!" The Prefect steps into full view, revealing a full-length apron atop faded gym clothes that look several years out of date, bright yellow rubber gloves, and a broom in hand that looks like it's been through the wringer. "Pardon the mess, but today's a cleaning day and we weren't expecting visitors." Once he's close enough, the Prefect extends his free hand, retracts it upon realizing how grimy it is, and settles for a polite yet welcoming nod. Even with the mask in the way, his smile is visible in the corners of his eyes and the lift of his cheeks.

He doesn’t look much like an immortal in hiding or—as some of the guys suggested—a forgotten god of healing. Not with the secondhand clothes, or the messy hair, or the broom.

But they had seen the Prefect fend off that Blot monster’s attack when it came straight for Trappola; if it had been any of them, it would have been every man for himself and Trappola would be mulch. They’d seen him sing a Lost Song that made Diamond lose some of his composure and brought Rosehearts back from the brink of death. Those who were close enough to the spectacle had felt the lingering effects of the Prefect’s spell—warmth like a kind touch, like a sunbeam in the darkness, soothing their aches and pains. And then there were others who were convinced that he was the god of something more, because when they found him singing to those flowers, they not only moved in response, they sang back, unfurling their petals and leaves to reveal uncanny faces, singing with the Prefect in perfect harmony as they swayed like they were dancing in the breeze.

Which brings us back to why they were here in the first place.

Any persisting pride the four Heartslabyul students might have had is dwarfed in comparison to the awe and gratitude that they have towards the Prefect.

“Prefect!” The junior steps up first and bows almost parallel to the floor. The Prefect lets out an inelegant squeak. “My name is Octavian Kendrick, third-year, and on behalf of the other guys in Heartslabyul, we wanted to thank you for what you did for us.”

The Prefect blinks, lowers his mask, opens his mouth, closes it, then blinks some more. “Thank me for what, exactly?”

The other students look at each other incredulously while Octavian shoots up straight in disbelief. “For what?”

“For taking the ruler out of Rosehearts’ ass and making him chill out, obviously—ow!”

“Angus!”

“What Angus means,” the junior continues, blocking his bickering underclassmen from the Prefect’s line of sight, “is that ever since the Housewarden’s, er, Incident, he’s been… mellower. Less… severe when it comes to enforcing the Queen of Hearts’ rules.”

“Less anal retentive, you mean—ow!”

“Angus!”

Octavian sighs.

The Prefect rolls his broom between his hands, humming. "I don’t understand why you would be offering me thanks. Senior Riddle has been doing remarkably well improving himself with Senior Trey and Senior Cater’s guidance, and I didn’t help during his... Predicament as much as Ace and Deuce did. If anything, you should be thanking them."

How is this guy a student at Night Raven?

The sophomore with a club over his left eye and rubbing his ribs—Angus—snorts. "Didn’t help? All of us saw the way you threw yourself in front of Trappola—"

"Like some sort of self-sacrificing idiot—"

"Pontius!"

"And then there’s the part where you used a Lost Song to bring the Housewarden back from the dead!" the freshman with a blue heart on his face exclaims, stars in his eyes. "In Black Tongue, too. I’m from the Shaftlands, and even I don’t know any of the words besides the first line in Pyroxisch. And you need to be really, really good at magic to use a spell that powerful, and you used it to bring the Housewarden back from the dead."

"Quentin," the sophomore with a diamond—Pontius—cuts in sharply, while the Prefect corrects, "He wasn’t dead."

"But he was dying," Angus says, "Like, on Death’s doorstep, and then you started singing in a dead language, and it was like nothing happened to him! We all thought you were supposed to be Magicless."

"Basically Magicless," Pontius clarifies.

"You saw all of that?" is what the Prefect takes away from All of That.

Octavian nods. "About a dozen of us or so. We were in the Rose Maze when it happened."

"A bunch of guys ran in there after the whole Egg Thing and the Housewarden started going on a rampage," Quentin helpfully explains. "We saw everything."

"Ah," the Prefect says thoughtfully, as if he hadn’t been witnessed performing something akin to a miracle; something that would definitely make global news if word ever got out. "To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t entirely certain if that would work."

"What."

"Mm-hm." The Prefect starts sweeping idly at the dirt the boys had tracked in. "Let’s just say… It’s been a long time since I last sang, and I couldn’t be sure if the Song would work or not. But I needed to try, for Senior Riddle’s sake. You understand, of course?"

No, they did not understand. Where did this kid come from? Why is he even here? Everyone in the area had fled or hidden during Rosehearts’ Overblot, besides the Suits and the Prefect (who all appear to be of the same breed of freaking crazy). And then when the tiny, red tyrant was only a pint away from bleeding to death, the Prefect whipped out a Lost Song like it was nothing! Like the ones with surviving lyrics or melodies aren’t guarded as national secrets. Like the only people who remember all the words in their original Barren Tongue aren’t all dead.

…except for one, it seems.

Octavian bows to the Prefect again, and this time, his underclassmen follow suit. "You saved the Housewarden’s life, and because of whatever else you did to make him calm down and not decapitate people left and right, Heartslabyul Dorm is in your debt."

At the word debt, the Prefect’s eyes widen. "Debt?" he echoes. "Oh no, oh no, oh no! You don’t owe me anything, least of all the entirety of your dorm. I only wanted to help—Senior Riddle, and my friends, and..." He trails off, sheepish. "I suppose the rest of you as well."

"And that’s why we’re indebted to you, id—" Pontius falters at the several pairs of glaring eyes that lock onto him—from his senior, his junior, the cat-monster standing at the Prefect’s side, and the trio of ghosts still lingering nearby. "Ahem—Prefect. You helped us all out, so now we have to pay you back."

"That’s the rules here," Angus shrugs, leaning onto a protesting Pontius’ shoulder. "Trust us, no one here wants to remain indebted to anyone. Have seen Octavinelle? Have you seen their Dorm Leader?"

"Actually, I am familiar with Senior Ashengro—"

"Anyway," Octavian interrupts, because he did not like where that sentence was going, "you get what we’re saying. You helped us deal with Rosehearts; we help you out in any way we can."

"Within reason," Quentin adds. "That’s what the others back at the dorm said."

Again, the Prefect appears lost in contemplation, rolling the handle of his broom back and forth.

"Myah, Yuura." They all look down to see the weasel-cat—Grim—yanking on the Prefect’s pant leg. "It’s cleaning day, 'member?"

The big ghost starts chuckling, deep and booming. "Hohoho, I see!"

"It would be nice to have a spare set of human hands helping you out," says the skinny ghost, floating over the Prefect’s shoulder. "Or four, or twelve."

The Prefect glances back at the open door at the end of the hall, and for the first time since they arrived, the Heartslabyul students finally notice the sounds of shuffling and… clacking? coming from that direction.

The Prefect offers them a shy, hopeful smile when he turns back. "You wouldn’t happen to be free later today, would you?"

----

"What, exactly, is going on here?"

"Hou—Housewarden Rosehearts, sir!"

"Nothing’s going on, sir!"

"Nothing? Then enlighten me—why would nothing require a dozen students disappearing together on a Friday afternoon?"

"Uh, well, you see, clubs—and other such after-school activities—"

"Oh, for the love of—"

"Ramshackle, sir! Everyone’s leaving for Ramshackle Dorm!"

"Finnian!"

"I’m sorry! I panic under pressure."

"...Ramshackle?"

----

"Senior Ruggie! Horrible news!"

"So you know how the Housewarden’s tryna to—"

"—heard it from the Hearts guys in my club—"

"I didn’t know the Prefect was accepting offerings—"

"—going on for weeks, apparently—"

"—they don’t even have a washing machine—"

"EH? What d'ya mean Heartslabyul’s—!"

----

Anyone passing by Ramshackle Dorm one Saturday morning in early November would have doubletake'd at the assembly of characters standing at the dilapidated building’s front porch. Certainly, the poor Heartslabyul freshman who volunteered to answer the door swears his heart seized in that moment as he struggles to not immediately slam the door in their faces.

"Housewarden Rosehearts!" he salutes, forgetting the feather duster in hand that sends a cloud of dust flying. "Er, and Housewarden Kingscholar!"

(Nearby, a Savanaclaw student almost drops the wall sconce he was screwing back into place. Turning the corner from the larger storage room, a Heartslabyul pair stumbles and knocks the newly repaired sideboard they were carrying into a wall.)

"...and entourage," the freshman tacks on, rather pathetically.

("Why are we ‘entourage’?" mutters Ace from where he stands by Deuce, narrowed eyes trained on the Savanaclaw trio beside them.)

The Heartslabyul Housewarden studies his dorm member with a critical eye, noting the feather duster, the lack of his uniform blazer, the kerchief in his hair. With the door open, the hubbub of many people moving around inside is obvious. So is the distant sound of singing. "...Quentin Herzfeld, I believe."

"Yes, sir!"

Even out of dorm uniform and carrying what looks to be a covered basket with a bright red bow, Riddle Rosehearts cuts an imposing figure. "Well?" he snaps. "Are you not going to invite us in?"

"Yes, sir! Right this way, sir! Please excuse the mess!"

Someone further back has already run ahead into the lounge, shouting something that sounds like, "—ner Circ—!"

Those still present in the entry hall watch Rosehearts and Kingscholar try to enter the building at the same time, only to knock shoulders and start glaring at each other.

And they just finished gluing down the wallpaper after the last scuffle, too…

----

"So, friends, even though you’re vermin, we’re a happy working throng—oh! Senior Riddle, Senior Leona. I didn’t expect to see you two here. Welcome!"

"Prefect." Riddle sounds close to having a conniption. "There’s vermin in your dormitory."

"Senior Riddle, they’re not vermin," the Prefect chides the Heartslabyul Housewarden, stepping around the line of rats scurrying across the floor. "They're friends." They set their heavy tray down on the coffee table, already crowded with similar trays laden with stacks of painted glasses, old metal pitchers and crystal jugs, and porcelain plates of finger foods. Almost immediately, several students scattered around the lounge drop whatever’s in hand and swarm the Prefect, laughing their thanks and sighing in relief.

The Prefect laughs with them before turning to address their visitors. It’s quite a sight for them, seeing the young men they consider their friends standing together (even if Riddle is steadily turning red; and Leona is looking distinctly vexed; and Jack bewildered; and Ruggie and Trey plainly amused; and Ace and Deuce particularly annoyed; Cater is just taking pictures again). "It’s been a while since I’ve seen some of you together. How are you?"

"Prefect, the rats."

"Yuurachen, love what you’ve done with the place! Smile for the camera!"

"Hey, Yuu-kun, are those sandwiches for everyone?"

"I’m just here to make sure the guys I sent were actually doing their jobs and not slacking off."

"As if you’re one to talk about slacking off…"

"Oy, Yuura! Since when were you inviting other guys into Ramshackle?"

"What about the rats! Yuu, did you replace us with rats?"

"Have you just been cleaning your dorm in your free time for the past two months? Prefect, no."

"We brought you a goodie basket."

Unbelievably, that's what the Prefect zeroes in on, extracting themself from Diamond’s hold to retrieve the covered basket from Clover. "Really? Oh, you didn't have to, thank you!" Removing the gingham cloth fills the air with the yeasty, spicy, sweet aromas of fresh baked breads and pastries. "You wouldn’t mind if I shared these, would you?"

"Well, actually—"

"Hey, don’t ignore us!" Ace whirls them around by the shoulders. "Why's this the first we’ve heard of you bringing a buncha Savanaclaw meatheads and our own dorm-mates into Ramshackle—hrmph!"

Yuura withdraws another cinnamon palmier from the basket and holds it out to the hyena beastman. "Of course, help yourself. I'm making more sandwiches in the kitchen, and there are brownies in the oven, if you want any."

"Score!" Ruggie knocks Ace aside, the redhead's yells muffled by the arlette in his mouth. Half of the pastry in their hand disappears in one bite. "You're the bes', kidege."

"Ati, Ruggie—who're you calling kidege?" Ace is further knocked aside—this time into Deuce, nearly choking on flaky crumbs—as Leona inserts himself between the pair. Somehow, he looks even more irritated than usual, though that could easily be attributed to the presence of not only the Heartslabyul prigs, but also their damn Dorm Leader and his Suits. If he’d known the Little Red Queen had the same plans as him, he wouldn’t have bothered stopping by Ramshackle in the first place.

("You didn’t have to stay, y’know," Ruggie will later point out about an hour later, when Yuura bids everyone goodbye and sends Savanaclaw off with leftover boxes and promises to visit on Sunday.

(To which Leona will answer with a "Tsk," and proceed to avoid the question.)

"Shishishi! Why, jealous?" Ruggie slings an arm over the Prefect’s shoulders, already reaching into the basket for a square of caramel shortbread. "Maybe you shoulda been nicer to Yuu-kun here if you wanted them to love you as much as they love me. Jaza ya ihsani ni ihsani. Anipendaye, nami nampenda."

Several Savana residents choke on their drinks as their Housewarden scowls and retorts, "Ihsani iandame imani." He sweeps his arm around the lounge, more polished and spruced up compared to the beginning of the school term. A few of his dorm members are still hard at work caulking squeaky floorboards in the upper landing, reinstalling fallen light fixtures, and replacing heavy curtain rods over the windows. "What do you call this, then?"

"Compensation, I should think, for the injuries the Prefect incurred trying to clean up your messes." Riddle appears to have recovered from his rat-induced shock, because now he’s stepping in between Leona and the Prefect, eyeing both beastmen with obvious displeasure. "Uninspired, as well, seeing as Heartslabyul already had renovations well underway by the time Savanaclaw decided to stick their muzzles where they don’t belong."

"Eh?" Leona stalks forward, towering over his fellow Dorm Leader. "Word travels fast, Riddle. We all know what happened between you and the Prefect in September. Your hands are as red as mine."

Everyone in the room (and in the adjacent kitchen, entry hall, and dining room, because all the doors are open and sound travels far in Ramshackle) stiffens, the tension palpable between two powerful Housewardens who are still recovering from the aftermath of Overblotting and nearly dying.

Everyone except for the Prefect, of course.

"Excuse me, please." The Savanaclaw trio and Heartslabyul quintet jump back as the Prefect draw circles in the air with their broom handle. "Mostro Lounge rules apply here, gentlemen—no fighting between dorms. And no soliciting, as well, I suppose." They lower their broom and plant a hand on their hip, their mild disappointment evident and more devastating than any anger or upset.

("Why bring up the Mostro Lounge rules, anyway?"

("Dude, they work at the Mostro Lounge."

("They what?")

"Really, Senior Riddle, Senior Leona—your students are present. As their Housewardens, shouldn’t you set better precedents for them when it comes to fostering interdorm relations?" It took many promises and placations to calm everyone down that first day, when both Savanaclaw and Heartslabyul appeared on Ramshackle’s doorstep the previous week and immediately clashed. Yuura would not tolerate all their hard work being undone, not even by Riddle or Leona.

To the astonishment of all those watching, both Housewardens actually look ashamed—they look away from the Prefect and each other, Riddle flushed with embarrassment, Leona clicking his tongue, contrite.

Riddle coughs into his fist and smooths down the front of his waistcoat. "I… apologize, Prefect. You’re absolutely correct. It would be disrespectful of us to engage in altercations while we are guests under your care."

There are too many people in the room for Leona to properly avoid any eye contact. Eventually, he closes his eyes, sighs, and says, "Fine. Whatever. As long as you don’t insist I act all buddy-buddy with Mister Queen over there."

"It never hurts to dream." Disregarding Rosehearts' indignant sputtering, the smile the Prefect gives is like a reward in and of itself—kind, and lighthearted, and encouraging in its genuinity.

("By the Seven…" a Savanaclaw junior murmurs in awe. Like many of his dorm-mates, he's wearing his uniform bandana around his head and an old apron the Prefect found in a box filled with equally old aprons.

("I know, right?" his Heartslabyul year-mate whispers back excitedly, passing a plate full of tea sandwiches.

("Is this what they mean by beast-taming…?" another Heartslabyul student mumbles in a daze. His expression is reflected in several other faces.

(Someone else from Savanaclaw mimics a whip cracking, and is immediately shushed.)

The Prefect smacks the top of their head. "Oh, but where are my manners? Sit down, sit down, please!" They usher their guests around the lounge, mindful of the recently shampooed carpet and the various animal tails lying around, both beastfolk and rattus. "The Cards helped me clean the cushioned furniture a few weeks ago, and the Savana boys helped finish up the rest of the lounge." They turn to the dusty, grungy students delegated to sitting on the floors. "Again, thank you for the assistance. I don't know what I would have done without all of you."

They're answered by an overlapping chorus of "It's no problem," and "You can count on us!", and "Anything for you, Mx. Prefect!"

(On separate couches, Leona and Riddle share the same expression of vague betrayal—from their own dorm members, or from the Prefect, or perhaps both. Seated with Riddle, Trey and Cater share a meaningful, silent Look. On the third couch, Deuce cracks his knuckles and Ace throws a menacing glance at his fellow Card Soldiers. Leaning against the staircase banister, Jack is frowning even more so than usual. And Ruggie? Ruggie is snickering to himself where he's sat on the carpet, cradling the goodie basket the Prefect kindly entrusted to him like a treasure chest.)

Ace takes the glass of lemonade the Prefect pours out for him with a petulant air, grumbling rather loudly, "I don't see why you had to ask these cretini e scrocconi for help, anyway."

"You're one to talk, Trappola!" someone who sounds like one of his dorm-mates says. "Vai a vendere il culo!"

"Cazzo si, Campana! Bacha ma culo, tu brutto figlio di—mrph!" He yanks the sandwich triangle out of his mouth. "Yuu, I'm not Grim, stop doing that!" The Prefect tugs lightly at an unruly lock of red hair. "Yuu."

"Stop antagonizing my guests." They pass the plate in their other hand to their blue-haired friend. "Have a sandwich, Ducky; there's egg salad and tamago sando."

"O—Oh, thank you." That mollifies Deuce for the time being, if the slight fluster means anything. Yuura grants him a pleased smile and a pat on the head.

"Tsk. This is blatant favoritism."

"I don't play favorites so obviously, Pip, you know this." Just in case, they pat his head too. Ace groans some more, but doesn't move away from their hand.

(Blatant favoritism, is the thought on many people's minds as the Prefect fusses over their best friends. Then they move across the room to hand Howl a full glass and to pat his arm. He accepts both gestures with a neutral face, a nod, and a conspicuously hidden tail. Howl, you too?!)

"And your dorm-mates offered to help me, as well as Savanaclaw," they call over their shoulder as they bustle to the open kitchen door. "I couldn’t very well refuse them when they were so willing to help, and kind enough to offer it. What was I supposed to do, turn them away from my door?"

"Yes."

"Ace."

"Wait, wait, hold on a minute." Jack waits for the Prefect to pull their head back in from the kitchen—"Could someone put a kettle on, please?"—"I’ve got it, Mx. Yuu!"—before nudging them back into the room’s focus. "If Ace and Deuce weren’t helping you, and you only started getting help at the end of September…" He shoots them his own disappointed stare. "Don’t tell me you were cleaning your dorm by yourself for a whole month."

"It wasn’t a whole month," the Prefect insists, reaching higher to pat his shoulder. His frown doesn't abate. "I swear it! I had Grim to help me, as well—"

"Grim can barely hold a pen."

"—and, well…" They fiddle with the chain of their necklace, actually hesitant for once. Hazel eyes flicker around the room between their latest guests. "I had a little help on the side, I suppose you could say."

"Oh! Oh, Prefect!" A Savanaclaw freshman with blond hair and the dark ears of a hyrax—the one who was shushed earlier—starts bouncing on his knees. "Prefect, you have to show them that Song you used!"

"Emmanuel!" someone hisses.

"Song?" the Prefect’s Heartslabyul friends echo, curious and intrigued.

"Song?" the Prefect’s Savanaclaw friends echo, ears pulling back almost flat against their hair.

(And who can blame them for being on guard? Everyone who witnessed Leona Kingscholar’s Overblot was also privy to the Prefect at their most destructive and ruthless. Heartslabyul had seen the Prefect protect their friend and heal their enemy; and saw a god of healing, forgiveness, compassion. Savanaclaw had seen the Prefect split the earth in two and summon columns of green flame and geysers of boiling steam; and saw a god of retribution and mercy that came in the form of a swift, humbling defeat.)

The Prefect flaps their hand in a vaguely reassuring manner. "Nothing so drastic or damaging, you needn't worry about that. But… it is a little overwhelming, in its own way."

"Overwhelming how?" Riddle asks with a scrutinizing gaze. By the way he's shifting his feet, he seems to have remembered the numerous rats dotting the lounge floor. Probably because one skirted a little too close to his shoe and nearly sent him flying off the couch.

...is that one wearing a bow?

"Well…"

"Oh, c'mon, Prefect—!" That sets off a clamoring from all directions of the lounge, over a dozen young men begging and pleading with the Prefect, with a comfortable informality and ease born from spending many hours working alongside the suspected immortal (possible god), who so far has displayed a greater preference for goodwill and charity than vengeance and retaliation.

(Which is all well and good for those who initially derided the Prefect for being so small, and weak, and supposedly Magicless, or close to it. Especially Savanaclaw; none of them will be forgetting anytime soon just how easily the Prefect could have ended their Housewarden right then and there. Instead, they healed him completely at the expense of their own health. Truly a merciful being.)

Riddle appears close to beheading people, and Leona to nursing a migraine, before the Prefect throws up their hands and laughs, "Alright, alright, settle down, please!" Then, with a tentatively eager grin, "Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt, just this once." And that’s enough reassurance for their friends to settle down. If there’s one thing they’ve learned about Yuura Miyajima, it’s that they hate harming others, necessarily or otherwise. Even being left bedridden in the infirmary didn’t prevent them from making sure both Riddle and Leona were fully recovered from their Episodes.

Whatever this Song is, it can’t be anymore dangerous than Der Zauberspruch or All in the Golden Afternoon.

Cheering, the lounge bursts into action as people leap off the floor and scatter around the room, tossing dirty rags, kerchiefs, and aprons, and tools and supplies onto the ground, throwing open the curtains and windows, and the back door in the kitchen—all under the Prefect’s direction.

"Could someone get the windows, please?"

"We got ‘em, Prefect!

"Everyone grab what’s left on the plates, if you will!"

"Way ahead of you!"

"Now where did I put my broom…? Oh! Thank you, Khari."

"’S nothing, Mx. Prefect."

Slipping away to find a good angle to film from, Cater finds one of his fellow Cards and asks, "Hey, so what’s this super mysterious song everyone’s so hyped about?"

The sophomore—his last name might’ve been Pfenning or Farthing, or something like that—flinches. "Oh, Senior Diamond, it’s just you. Uh… you’re from Pyroxene too, right? You remember that clean-up song kids used to sing? Wer bei der Arbeit pfeift?"

"Wer bei der Arbeit pfeift?" two voices exclaim. Cater startles and turns to the direction of the other voice. Little Jack Howl stares back at him, first with mild surprise that he had heard him from across the room, then with shared bafflement. Wait, you heard that? Wait, you know Pyroxisch? Wait, did you hear what I heard correctly?

In the center of the room, lit up by the midday sunlight pouring through the open windows, the Prefect readjusts the kerchief in their hair before crouching and knocking the floor, steadying themself with their broom. “Gustav, Yasha, Marusya, come here, everyone.”

Everyone not accustomed to the Prefect’s Little Friends—mostly Riddle, he still hasn’t moved out of that stiff stance—jumps back and retracts their feet as well over a dozen rats scamper across the floor to congregate around the Prefect, who smiles and pets them like one would a cat or a dog, and not a mischief of grubby, possibly diseased rodents (again, mostly Riddle’s words).

(Never mind that all of them have sleek, fluffy coats and seem to be wearing some sort of miniature clothing item or accessory. When did the Prefect have the time to knit that fat one a sweater?)

"I’ll have to ask for your help again today, but you’ll get to see your friends. Aren’t you excited?"

It feels like foreshadowing, how responsive the rats are to the Prefect speaking in Common as they bob their heads and chitter in agreement.

Then the Prefect stands up and whistles a painfully nostalgic tune that reminds the native Shaftlanders of clean-up time and overly enthusiastic kindergarten teachers—and something from the woods outside whistles back.

"Please don’t be alarmed," the Prefect says, before a fluttering, flocking shadow descends.

----

"So were you expecting a crap-ton of birds and forest animals?" Ace whispers, his voice a little weak even in his own ears. The rabbit on his lap continues to paw at his waistcoat.

Careful not to disturb the birds that decided his shoulders and head were adequate perches, Deuce leans over and replies, "I’m more surprised there were deer in the woods."

"Honestly, same."

Said deer—a doe—and its fawn seem to have taken a liking to their green-haired senior and Housewarden, with Trey struggling not to laugh in the face of Riddle’s bewilderment as the mother-child pair nudge their legs and the fawn attempts to clamber onto Riddle’s lap. "No, wait, don’t do that. No, stop—"

Leona isn’t faring any better—no matter how many times he growls or lashes out his hand, far too many chipmunks and squirrels return, circling the Savanaclaw Housewarden in hopes that he’ll let them climb on his person. "Herbivore," he says through gritted teeth. "What is this?"

The Prefect’s shoulders shake with stifled laughter, the birds resting on them undisturbed by the movement. "It means they like you, Senior Leona," they say, oddly calm for someone whose lounge is now crowded with an excess of squirrels, chipmunks, and rats, a herd of rabbits, a pair of large turtles, a family of deer, an entire nursery of raccoons, and too many birds to count.

"Totes adorable," Cater declares, taking pics of the rabbits gathering around him for Magicam.

"Hey. Hey, no, not there." Jack waves at the bird that’s made its nest in his hair. It jumps and flutters in the air for a moment before settling down again. "What did I just say? Not there."

"Shoo. Go away." Ruggie kicks a foot out towards the raccoons that keep approaching him. He’s still got the basket in his arms, plus a couple plates he managed to snatch from the coffee table. "These ain’t for you, now beat it!"

(Inner Circle, their dorm-mates think with envious sighs, their persons woefully bereft of any curious or cozy forest creature. Even the animals can tell who the Prefect favors over others. Lucky bastards.)

The Prefect claps their hands. It’s a little unnerving how that instantly catches the attention of every animal in the vicinity. "Alright, everyone," they start in a chipper voice, slightly more pitched than usual. They point to various parts of the room, and in the smoothest transition into Barren any of them have heard, says, "Now you wash the dishes. You tidy up the room. You clean the fireplace—"

They hold their broom aloft. "And I’ll use the broom!"

They whistle again, and then the birds whistle back, and then…

"Just whistle while you work!"

"Off the couch, off the couch, off the couch—" Their dorm-mates probably had the right idea, retreating to the stairs and the upper landing overlooking the lounge. The moment every bird takes off into the air and the animals start moving, Ace and Deuce bolt, ducking their heads and nearly tripping over various rabbits and rodents as they stumble up the stairs. Close behind them are Ruggie and Jack, the former expertly dodging every animal underfoot and the latter nearly getting his ears clipped by a pair of birds lifting a plate.

"How are they carrying those?"

"I dunno, freaky Prefect magic crap?! Where’s the music coming from!"

Their seniors are not so quick in their escapes.

"And cheerfully together, we can tidy up the place." As they sweep around the carpet, the Prefect passes by Riddle and Trey. Riddle has given up all sense of decorum to kneel on the couch, very much dismayed by the number of animals dusting with their tails and carrying very delicate dishes and glassware.

"I—what? No, wait—" Riddle grips Trey’s arm, his expression somewhat (very) panicked. “Trey. Trey, there are squirrels dusting the mantle.”

"Let it go, Riddle." His face is somber and resigned. He only steps aside when a turtle waddles past carrying a stack of overturned glasses on its shell.

"But—"

"This is Ramshackle Dorm. Only the Prefect’s rules apply here."

"So hum a merry tune—hm-mm-mm-mm, hm-mm-mm..." When the Prefect passes by the other occupied couch in the room, they find a certain lion lying face-down, a decorative pillow thrown over his head. They’d worry more about his ability to breathe if it weren’t for the exposed tail snapping back and forth. Instead, they laugh again and kick a dirty rag on the floor up into the air. It’s swiftly caught by a diving sparrow. "It won’t take long when there’s a song to help you set the pace.

"And as you sweep the room…" They start twirling with the broom, moving with remarkable ease around the rats with dusters in their tails, and chipmunks with dishes in their paws, and raccoons with aprons and kerchiefs on their backs. "Imagine that the broom is someone that you love, and soon—"

"You'll find you’re dancing to the tune!" "Du fängst mit ihm zu tanzen an!"

"Oh!" Before their forehead can collide with someone else’s chin, someone’s there to catch them. And when they raise their head, they find green eyes glinting playfully down at them, one hand on their arm and the other still recording with his phone. "Senior Cater!" They beam, positively delighted that another person knows this song that was a part of their childhood.

(Unbeknownst to them, they share this trait with every Shaftlander in the room, and in fact, the entire school. It’s pervasiveness is on par with that Yahoo! nursery rhyme.)

"Drum sei gescheit—"

"—the time will fly—"

"So whistle while you work!" "Wer bei der Arbeit pfeift!"

Oh, you smooth bastard, is the bitter sentiment shared by those watching from up above as Diamond takes the Prefect’s hand and gives them a twirl, eliciting giddy laughter from the Prefect and disbelieving looks from even his Housewarden and the other Suits.

("What’s he doing?"

("Not on my watch—"

("Whoa, Deuce, chill! Get back here!")

The Prefect wasn’t exaggerating when they said the effects of the song would be… overwhelming. But there’s also something so fascinating, almost whimsical about it, too.

For an army of forest creatures, they set about their given tasks with great efficiency. Squirrels swipe their bushy tails over railings, the mantle, and the blackened bricks before beating the dust out of them on the window sills. Rats and turtles carry abandoned tools and empty plates into the kitchen. Dirty rags and aprons are draped over a buck that bumbles after them on its way to the backyard. A few of the braver students make their way downstairs and follow the deer, only to find more squirrels and rabbits washing dishes in the overflowing sinks with startling dexterity.

("They shouldn’t have the motor skills to do this!")

Back in the lounge, a succession of songbirds fly in and out with yellow and white autumn flowers in their beaks, dropping them one by one into a water pitcher that had been left on the table (did they coordinate that?). From the back door in the kitchen and through the open windows in the lounge, there’s a clear view of the laundry set up in the backyard, where the buck sheds its load and the raccoons and chipmunks take over, half-submerged in white suds as they scrub dust cloths and kerchiefs. More little birds fly by, depositing more laundry into the water before plucking clean pieces from the wash tubs. Those are sprawled across the grass and hung on the nearby clothesline to dry.

All the while, the Prefect continues their Song, humming along with the disembodied music and vocalizing in a register many didn’t believe they could reach until now.

("This shouldn’t be possible. At least Der Zauberspruch is an established spell. This is supposed to be a children’s song."

("Wait, so you’re saying…?"

("Whatever’s going on right now, it’s the Prefect affecting the Song, not the other way around."

("The Prefect’s manipulating a children’s song like a Lost Song?"

(What a terrifying thought.)

"So, whistle while you work!"

But perhaps not so terrifying, when the Prefect pauses in their sweeping to offer their finger as a perch to an approaching passerine.

It lands and warbles back, and the Prefect sings, and it’s like something from a fairy tale.

----

"Bye! Bye, Mx. Prefect!"

"Drop by Savana tomorrow! You promised!"

"Hey, come by Heartslabyul later!"

"See ya later, Mx. Prefect!"

"We’ll talk on Monday!"

"Goodbye, everyone! Take care!"

----

"What a bother. Should’ve just stayed in and slept."

"You didn’t have to stay, y’know."

"Tsk. Gotta make sure the herbivore doesn’t do something incredibly stupid. Kid’s too naïve for their own good."

"Ridiculously trusting and naïve, maybe, Senior, but not defenseless."

"Ch. No, not defenseless."

----

"What did we say about trusting people so easily, eh? Don’t play innocent with us, Yuura Miyajima."

"I don’t think they’re playing; they're always this foolish, remember?"

"Aww, Deuce, not you as well."

"Hey, we’re not done with this conversation!"

"Of course not. Will you two be stopping by Ramshackle after class next week? With Senior Riddle’s permission, we could have a sleepover. It’ll be like old times."

"Pfft. I know your tricks, Yuu. Don’t think you can avoid the topic that easily."

"I’m not! I swear it on my mother’s ashes. If Riddle agrees, I’ll even make breakfast for you both. I just went grocery shopping. Those omelets I made before? The fluffy ones with milk and sautéed vegetables? I even got a tin of hot cocoa."

"Hot cocoa? What do you think we are, little kids?"

"Ace, c’mon…"

"I’ll make cherry turnovers."

"...Fine."

At the very least, they could say they got to Yuura first and had them the longest.

(Unless you asked Grim, of course. That's a whole 'nother story.)

----

"I think it goes without saying, that no footage of the Prefect Singing should be released, especially considering what happened the last time it happened."

"What do you take me for, ay? Hey, we all learned a lesson last time! See? No video, I just uploaded some of the pics I took."

@OkayCayCay: @iseeyuu hard at work making the rest of us look bad #CayToday #NRC #RamshackleRenovations #shabbychic #broomdancing #mädchenfromamärchen

@SuziQChuChu: is that the new nrc prefect? cute! <3

@enamel_eclipse: That's the brown eyed kid from last time, right?

@mamamiya: hey, its the person from the nightingale video

@cecilily: what's the nightingale video?

"...Cater—what is the nightingale video?"

"...You're gonna find this hilarious."

"Cater."

----

It’s a little blue songbird that leads them away, alighting on Yuura’s offered hand as they clean up the tubs and washboards outside. "Hello there, ptichka,” they giggle, recalling one of the many endearments their uncles used to address them by. “What are you doing here, all on your lonesome?"

The bluebird chirps, shaking its head and ruffling its feathers. It hops up and down on their finger before flying off and landing in the grass some distance away. It turns around and hops some more. Well? What are you waiting for?

Now, having been partially raised on the many, many tomes and texts that made up their family’s library, Yuura is well-read enough to know that even following a tiny bird into the woods could spell trouble. Why, it could just as easily lead Yuura to imminent peril or their disastrous doom as it could be guiding them to some great treasure, or perhaps even the love of their life! Wouldn't that be a tale to tell? Still, what harm could there be in following? They didn’t get to where they are now without taking a few (read: several) risks here and there. "Lead the way."

The woods behind campus have become quite familiar to Yuura. There are always apples and berries and flowers to be found there, the strong boughs and knotted bark of the trees are perfect for climbing, and it's where their animal friends reside. There’s always a lovely atmosphere, even at night, but especially now in the late afternoon—golden-amber sunlight dappling the soft green grass underfoot, filtered by the lush, fruit-laden branches above. The mildest of autumn breezes that whispers through the leaves and stirs the mess of curls about their face. It’s a gentle, sleepy atmosphere, dreamy and suspended in time.

The little bird flits about up ahead and Yuura obediently follows. In the hazy afternoon light, the figure cradled in the twisted roots of a tree becomes apparent. The birds and squirrels surrounding the figure turn to look at Yuura, but do not flee as they approach, slowing their steps with barely a rustle in the grass.

A standard NRC uniform with a striped tie and the vibrant green waistcoat of Diasomnia House—maybe he knows Yuura’s midnight visitor? A peculiar baton of green and black hanging from the belt. From the relaxed position he’s in, his gloved hands folded atop his stomach and the steady rise and fall of his chest, this person must’ve fallen asleep here, rather than having passed out. How odd. How curious.

"Oh!" Yuura gasps, moving to kneel by his side, "I remember him!"

It's the boy from the Spelldrive Tournament, the quiet, aloof one who had accompanied Sebek Zigvolt and Senior Lilia.

Yuura recalls his hair being gray, but up close, it shines like spun silver in the shaded light, distinct from Jack's grayish-white, or Senior Kalim's pearly white. Up close, Yuura discovers a lovely, well-shaped face; it reminds them of Tsunotaro's unearthly allure and noble mien—charming and enchanting, something straight from a storybook. He’s beautiful.

"Like Sleeping Beauty in the Woods," Yuura whispers. "Do you think he's a prince? Or maybe a knight?" The little bird only chirps in response.

As loathed as they are to disturb such a peaceful slumber (speaking from experience), the hour is growing late, and they'd rather not abandon this man in the woods.

"Hello?" He's sturdier than he looks, barely budging when Yuura shakes his shoulder.

"...Hmm?"

They shake him some more. "Hello—o—o. I'm sorry to disturb you, but it's getting late, and it'll be dark soon—ah!" He lurches upright, nearly knocking foreheads with Yuura.

"Oh! my goodness, are you alright?" Yuura leans away, resting a hand on his shoulder as he sways. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Blue-violet eyes stare at them, cloudy with sleep, blinking with a syrupy slowness. "...This is strange," he murmurs, "You seem... familiar. Have we met somewhere before?"

What a mysterious thing to say. Yuura grins, unable to help themself. "Once upon a dream, perhaps," they say with a wave of their hand.

(They do not notice the sudden alertness in those lethargic eyes. Why would they?)

"I suppose you know where you are? I'm the the Prefect of Ramshackle Dorm, Yuura Miyajima. Class A, freshman year." Shifting into a proper seiza, they bow their head to him. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"...I have heard of you. Silver. Diasomnia, Class A, sophomore year. Likewise."

----

Translations Central Rosen (Irish Gaelic) - cúl tóna beag = "little asshole" Lugha ya Machweo (Kiswahili) - ati = "hey" - kidege = "little bird" - Jaza ya ihsani ni ihsani = "The reward of kindness is kindness" - Anipendaye, nami nampenda = "The person who loves me, I love too" - Ihsani iandame imani = "A loving relationship should follow acts of kindness" Coastal Rosen (Italian) - cretini e scrocconi = "jerks and freeloaders" - Vai a vendere il culo! = "Fuck off!" lit. "Go and sell your ass!" - Cazzo si, Campana! Bacha ma culo, tu brutto figlio di...! = "Fuck you, Campana! Kiss my ass, you ugly son of...!" Pyroxisch (German) - Yuurachen = approx. "Little Yuura" - Wer bei der Arbeit pfeift = "(He) who whistles at work"

#my writing #twisted wonderland #twst #of nightingales and night ravens #onanr #twisted wonderland yuu #twst yuu #twisted wonderland fanfic

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twists-and-things-betwixt · 1 year

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hello!! Welcome back !!

Hi, hi! Just wanted to assure people that I wasn't gone for good. It's great to be back. 💖

#ask and ye shall receive #what a lovely message to be greeted with

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twists-and-things-betwixt · 1 year

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Of Nightingales and Night Ravens: Chapter 3 - The Rose-Red Tyrant & the Sundrop Song

Chapter: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII

Read on AO3

Summary: Before the Nightingale, before the Watch, before everything...

In which Yuu tries to do something good. (or, Aftermath I, the first appearance of Healing Incantation)

Yuura is referred to as They.

"You STUPID brats! I am in the right! I am right! ME! Stop getting in my way!"

"I summon thee—!"

"Sleight of Hand!"

“I CAN'T BE WRONG! If I am, then wha—why?—this whole time... what have I been living for?"

"Riddle…"

"Senior Cater, look out!"

"Doodle Suit!"

"Why are you doing this? WHY? Just go away—leave me alone, LEAVE ME ALONE!"

"Take this, you bastard!"

"Ace, NO!"

"Yuu—!"

"Wait!"

"RIDDLE, STOP—!"

----

More time must have passed than any of them realized. There's a beautiful sunset just over the horizon, once the warped skies clear and the air is no longer thick with the stifling, sickly-sweet stench of Blot. Watercolor streaks of coral and honey and rose wash over the blue-violet clouds. The ruined shambles of the garden are set ablaze in crimson light.

There's nothing left of the Blot monster—no trace of sluggish tar or shattered glass, once Ace and Deuce dealt the final blow. The only indication that a battle for life-or-death even occurred is the wreckage of the Rose Maze—uprooted rose bushes, mangled hedges, gouges in the earth. That, and—

"Riddle!"

There was so much black, just a few moments ago. Blot like ink—like oil, like tar—thick, and congealed, and glossy dark. Streaming down pallid skin, blooming like old bruises beneath the surface. The fathomless black of slate eyes constricted with fury and madness. A queenly abomination that dripped and gurgled and continued to squirm and writhe even when it was reduced to a disgusting, gelatinous mass on the ground. The darkness of a twisted sky.

It's all red now. Too much red, there's too much red. Where there was once black, it's now just red.

The red sun striking red hair. Growing patches of red on white cloth. Rivulets of red streaming down the young man's temples, pouring from his nose, bubbling from the corners of his gray, parted lips. It's even trickling from the corners of his eyes.

Is blood supposed to be such a bright red?

Trey gets to him first, making a mad dash across the broken ground, skidding on his knees with a painful thud. He clutches Riddle's shoulders with trembling hands. "He's bleeding, why is he still bleeding?" Why is he still dying?

"Trey. Trey, don't shake him," Cater snaps, covering a white-knuckled hand with his own. That eerily serious set to his face is still there. "You're gonna hurt him even more."

Deuce is almost as pale as Riddle when he stumbles over, falling to one knee then the other. "Did—did we kill him?" Even back in high school, he'd never seen so much blood before.

"He's not dead, idiot." Ace stomps over with the Prefect and Grim in tow, having finished chewing the former out for the little stunt they pulled during the fight.

(Were the two seniors not preoccupied by their bleeding Housewarden, they might have demanded to know what was that about? One moment, Ace was in the path of the Blot Queen's rose bush, nothing left but skeletal branches covered in thorns and engulfed in flames. The next, the Prefect was standing in front of him, head ducked and hands clasped to their chest, and then there was a flash of light as the bush was deflected off something, bursting in a shower of charred branches and embers.

(Isn't the Prefect supposed to be practically Magicless?)

Ace releases the Prefect's sleeve, dragging a hand roughly through his hair. Like the other active participants in the fight, he's lightly dusted in gray ash and looking a little worse for wear. His uniform is sooty and rumpled, and when he lowers his left arm, he winces. "We didn't go through all that trouble risking our necks, keeping him alive, just for him to fucking die anyway."

"He's not going to die." Trey shakes Cater's hand off. "We need to get him to the infirmary, now."

"He's bleeding all over the place, how're we supposed to get him through the mirror?" Deuce's eyes are still blown wide, still shaken by everything. The fact that Riddle has already grown paler than him is alarming.

Cater grimaces. "He's in no condition to be moved, and none of us are in any condition to move him without messing him up even more."

"Aren't you two supposed to be our seniors? Can't you do something about it here?"

"I can—"

"Nothing as delicate as internal bleeding or hemorrhaging, excuse you."

"Guys, he's still bleeding!"

"Now's not the time! Riddle's losing too much blood, we need to—"

"Let me—"

"Trey, how are we supposed to—"

"Hey! My henchman's tryin' ta—"

"Where the fuck is the Headmage?"

"Please, just let me—"

"Is he even breathing? Did anyone check his pulse!"

"He's not dead—"

"Please!"

Honestly, they'd forgotten about the Prefect, still standing off to the side. Even with every little way they stood out—too many, almost—it was a little too easy for them to slip away and slip from everyone's minds at times, whether they meant to or not.

It just happens, sometimes. A hard habit to break, after 13, 14 years.

There's an indignant flush to their face—

(—not anger, never anger; not even Ace or Deuce have seen them angry, and if they ever were angry, the two doubt they'd ever be so "selfish" as to be angry for themself—)

—but just as quickly as the group's attention is turned to them, they deflate, shoulders slumping with a heavy sigh. Grim looks offended enough for the both of them, claws caught in the fabric of their pant leg.

"Senior Clover…" They move to kneel by Riddle's head, fiddling with the messy ends of their short hair, then with one of the pendants dangling from their neck. Trey only caught a glimpse of them in the kitchens, that day they made that damn tart that helped kickstart this whole mess. This one is a silver hourglass, filled to the brim with a fine, gray-white powder.

"Senior Trey," they amend, meeting pained gold eyes with an awfully sympathetic gaze. "Housewarden Rosehearts—Riddle is your friend. I can help him. There's something I could do, I can try."

He hesitates, of course. Cater's eyes flicker uneasily between Riddle's still form and the Prefect, and even Ace and Deuce are exchanging wary glances. The Prefect is only a freshman, and a nearly Magicless one at that. They couldn't do anything during the fight against the Overblot. They chose to stand back instead. What can they do about Riddle dying that he can't?

(But they didn't stay out of the fight entirely. No, the moment Ace was in imminent danger, they threw themself in front of him. And then there was that flash of light. What was that?)

"Please," they ask again, their voice barely a whisper. Despite the conviction in them, something old and hurt lurks behind those hazel eyes. Remorse. Regret. Why would their eyes be so guilty when Trey is the reason this entire situation even escalated this badly?

—couldn't let it happen again. Not after

Not another one. Not again.

"Let me help him." They rest a steadying hand atop Grim's head. The proud monster doesn't even bother to give them a half-hearted reprimand. "I can do something."

...at least the Prefect seems to have a plan beyond whatever the four of them were arguing about.

Trey relents, nod firm and lips pursed. "Hurry," he says, squeezing Riddle's right hand between his own. It's limp and ice cold. "He doesn't have much time."

The Prefect murmurs to themself, "Time...," fingers hovering over their pendant, then further up to their throat. Another precious second passes before they strip off their gloves, a delicate hand smoothing the hair back from Riddle's brow, the other resting lightly on his chest.

"Mama, day mne sily..." A deep breath, and then—

"Flower, gleam and glow. Let your power shine…"

This isn't the first time Trey or Cater have heard the Prefect speak in Barren. No, that surprise caught them off guard the day Cater first introduced the trio of freshmen to Trey, when the Prefect started conversing with the Vice Housewarden of Diasomnia, so lively and eager for a dead language. It's extremely rare to hear it outside of high academia, magical incantations, and those fussy, old choral songs they sing in church. The same could be said for Deuce, who was as stunned as they were that day. As for Ace, the first time he heard the Prefect sing, he barely registered that the words were in Barren, too distracted by the fact that the kid and the cat-monster from the Entrance Ceremony were sweeping Main Street after that whole debacle.

None of them have ever heard Barren Tongue sung so warmly or kindly before. Like a wish—a plea. A plea for Riddle’s life.

The Prefect—Yuura closes their eyes and bows their head as if in prayer. Grim leans into their side, a solid, stable weight to focus on. Warmth and heat in stark contrast to Riddle's claminess and chill. "Make the clock reverse. Bring back what once was mine…"

Beneath their fingertips, golden light glows like sunbeams on a summer afternoon, as gentle and warm as their song. It seems to sink into Riddle's skin just as the warmth of Yuura's voice sinks into the tired, weary bones of those listening. Dry and sticky trails of blood flake away into red dust. A flush of color slowly returns to his cheeks, his lips, the lids of his eyes, overtaking the sickly gray pallor. His hand grows warm in Trey’s desperate grasp.

Cater barely smothers a gasp in the cuff of his sleeve. "No way, it, it can't… Der Zauberspruch?"

Trey can only spare him a quick side-glance—that was Pyroxisch; what could have shocked him enough to make Cater slip into his Native tongue?—before Riddle starts to bloom.

"Heal what has been hurt…" Wispy tendrils of light spiral from the part of his lips, the space above his heart.

"Change the Fates' design." They dance above their heads, twirling and winding and entwining, brushing against their hair and faces in tender caresses. Ace can already feel the ache in his shoulder fading. Deuce, the nicks and scratches from close calls with the Overblot's rose bush. Cater, the bruises from when Riddle seized him. Trey, the sting in his throat from when he screamed.

"Save what has been lost…" From Riddle's mouth and heart, gorgeous lilies of pure sunlight unfurl, ethereal and ephemeral, dissipating just as quickly as they appeared. They cast his face and Yuura's own in brilliant gold.

"Bring back what once was mine..."

Yuura inhales sharply, a soft gasp. Their stuttering heart echoes in the shudder in their voice, the faint tremors in their hands. Trembling on a precipice, on the edge of something miraculous...

They only just refrain from jerking away from the hand that touches their own, only just.

"...was einst war mein," Cater offers, low and soft. And then there's Trey's broad hand covering Yuura's own, and the shuffle of feet as two more hands rest firmly on their shoulders. Ace and Deuce.

Grim nudges their side as Yuura breathes deep again, and sighs.

"...what once was mine."

----

"Mm...? Tr—Trey? What in the world...?"

"Riddle!"

----

"Hey, Prefect, get up. Prefect? Yuu. Yuu!"

----

"Der Zauberspruch. Literally just the Magic Spell. Gotta be the nicest Song to come out of Pyroxene... and even the original words for that were lost."

"Then how did the Prefect—how did Yuu...?"

"I don't know. I really don't know."

----

The bands still sting, a bit. Was difficult to talk, right after waking up. I don't think I care much. RR in the infirmary. HM and Maddox said he's made a full recovery.

I'm glad.

#my writing #twisted wonderland #twst #of nightingales and night ravens #onanr #twisted wonderland yuu #twst yuu #twisted wonderland fanfic

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twists-and-things-betwixt · 1 year

Text

Of Nightingales and Night Ravens: Chapter 2 - Music Night at the Mostro Lounge

Chapter: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII

Read on AO3

Summary: In which Yuu makes her debut as a cabaret singer at the Mostro Lounge. (or, Poor Unfortunate Souls)

Yuura is referred to as They and She.

"Everyone, please, keep him distracted! I'm going to try something!""What? Yuu, no, last time—!"

"Please, just trust me!"

"Hurry up! The glass isn't gonna hold up much longer!"

"Finally! The oceans belong to me!"

"What are they doing?!"

"And—now—you—poor unfortunate soul! Time's up! You're through!"

"The Sea Witch's song? But how—!"

"Now the power of Poseidon has been once again made whole! All the magic of the trident and the shell in my control! And now dark shall reign forever—over ocean, sea, and shoal…!"

The golden trident that materializes in their hands crackles like condensed lightning, harsh and wicked sharp and blindingly bright.

"Now see for yourself how banishment feels!"

"Shit, the dome's caving in!"

"YOU POOR—UN—FORTUNATE—SOUL!"

----

The moment the Prefect steps foot inside the Mostro Lounge, the Heartslabyul and Savanaclaw customers in attendance—as well as a number of the servers—stand to attention, abandoning their conversations in favor of glancing warily over at the Ramshackle student, though the gazes of the Octavinelle students who now know are a tad more awestruck, a bit more fearful.

(A significant upgrade from the looks of disbelief the Prefect’s co-workers used to give them when it became clear that they somehow managed to capture the attentions of both Leech twins without severe bodily harm to their person. When demanded how, the Prefect shrugged, looked back at them with an incredulous face, and said, "Senior Jade and Senior Floyd aren’t so bad, once you get to know them. They remind me of my uncles, a bit."

(Again—insane.)

The Prefect does not pay them any mind, occupied with the excitable Leech twin who comes barreling towards them from across the room with a cheerful "He—e—y, Shrimpy!" Neither do they notice the punched out gasps and sympathetic winces given when Floyd Leech sweeps them up into a bone-crushing squeeze that leaves their legs dangling. "Ya here for Azul's thing?"

"Ah! Mind the ribs, please," the Prefect wheezes, wriggling in his grasp as they adjust their breathing. Hands freed, they wrap one arm around his shoulders and use the other hand to start pinching his cheek (cue more gaping and gasping from their audience). "It's good to see you. Could you take me to Senior Ashengrotto's office, please?"

"Ehhh? Are your skinny shrimp legs too weak to walk there by yourself, Lil' Shrimpy?" Floyd drawls. His words are a little distorted by the cheek-pulling.

"Would you put me down and let me walk there, then?"

"Nope~." Multiple onlookers collectively suffer a stroke as the Leech proceeds to toss the Prefect up into the air long enough to catch them with an arm under their knees and around the back.

To the Prefect's credit, they only let out a startled "Oop," before folding their hands behind his neck. ''Lead the way,'' they say, quite cheerful.

(Somewhere in the background, too many Heartslabyul and Savanaclaw students almost jump out of their seats, torn between running after the Leech walking away with their Singer and staying put because it's the Scarier Leech walking away with their Singer.)

----

When the Prefect steps back inside the Lounge—this time from the shadows of the low stage set up near the center of the room—silverware is dropped, drinks are spilled and choked on, and two or three people almost upturn their dishes slamming their elbows down on the edges of their plates.

(From the very beginning, the young men of NRC have defaulted to referring to the Prefect with the neutral They, their gender even harder to distinguish than the Pomefiore students with more androgynous features (like the diva Housewarden himself or that tiny freshman on the Spelldrive team). After all, Night Raven College is an all-boys academy. It’s safe to assume that everyone at the very least goes by He.

(Then the Prefect shuffled into the Mirror Chamber with a smaller-than-average stature and waifish figure, with thin hands and delicate wrists, and large hazel-brown eyes with soft edges set in a round face. And then the fat cat and Heartslabyul dunces who hung around the Prefect addressed them with They. And then one day, the Prefect tied their hair back into a sprout of a tail and Spade started using He. And then the next day, the Prefect walked into History of Magic in a handmade skirt and cardigan and Trappola started using She. At that point, everyone who interacted with the Prefect just went with their gut instinct. And even when the Prefect was wearing the ponytail and called She, or the skirt and called He, they never frowned or corrected anyone, so the Prefect’s gender was chalked up as another oddity about them that, at best, only caused mild confusion, with people fumbling over whether to roughhouse with them like they do with their classmates, or treat them as they would a lady, with respect and due regard.)

But in the dim, intimate lighting of the Mostro Lounge, the Prefect blended in with the shadows in their—her black sheath dress, skirts whispering silently against the carpet and collar reaching high to conceal the column of her neck. Exposed arms were clad in long gloves of fine black lace. The sheer scarf draped over her shoulders flows down her arms and spills over her wrists like a stream of violet water. Her hair is even darker in this lighting, making the pearls studded throughout almost as bright as diamonds.

''I won’t even question how you got my measurements, I’m sure you have your ways. It’s very kind of you to lend me this.''

''But of course. You are providing me with an invaluable service; I’m merely returning the favor… And the dress is yours to keep.''

''Now you’re being too generous, Senior—I mean, Azul-san. Ah, do you think my hair looks alright? My father always said pearls suited me, but I’m sure it’s just paternal sentiment speaking, you know?''

“...I’m inclined to agree with your father, Miss Yuura.''

''And now, here with us all tonight, making her debut performance—''

That’s the voice of the proprietor himself, distracting the audience long enough for several to realize that the Prefect isn’t holding a microphone, nor is the usual band onstage to accompany them—her.

''—everyone, please welcome the Prefect of Ramshackle, Yuura Miyajima, with what she describes as ‘a tribute to the Sea Witch.’''

‘A tribute to the Sea Witch’? What could that even mean?''

I admit that in the past, I’ve been a nasty. They weren’t kidding when they called me, well, a witch.''

…was that Barren Tongue? Where was that smoke coming from? Where was that music coming from?

The Prefect steps forward, wisps of grayish-lavender smoke rolling off her skirt to slither across the floor, up half-steps, over the feet of tables and spectators alike, like tentacles reaching out, seeking, searching. "And I fortunately know a little magic." She trails her hand in front of her, and the room grows cavernous—the shadows deepen and lengthen, the lights outside the aquarium darken as mauve and violet cast ominously across the room. "It's a talent that I always have possessed.

"What magic?! several audience members outside of the Know internally scream, frozen in their seats. What talent?! You're supposed to be the Magicless Prefect! What kind of sorcery is this?

"And here lately—please don't laugh—"No one is laughing, Miss Ramshackle Prefect!"—I use it on behalf of the miserable, lonely, and depressed…"

…pathetic…

…hahahaha!...

…where did those echoes come from? That laughter?

"Poor unfortunate souls… In pain. In need."

There's no way the Prefect could know this song. Not even those native to the Coral Sea know all the words anymore—not in their native okeánios Olympikós—poneménis psychís, that's almost all they can remember, hurt, aching soul—let alone in Barren Tongue. No one outside the waters of Atlantica should even know the melody. Yet here the Prefect stands, clad in black and violet like a shade of the Sea Witch herself, singing her Lost Song with haunting familiarity.

The Prefect throws her arms out as if to beckon her audience. That wouldn't be far off. Though the words she sings are in Barren Tongue, it's almost as if the very meaning of the song is embedding itself into her audience's minds. They can't understand the words, but they can understand the intention behind them. A song meant to entice—to tempt and beguile and seduce. A shiny lure for the gullible fish, ignorant to the sharp hooks just waiting to sink into vulnerable flesh.

(In the privacy of her mind, Yuura Miyajima is caught between excitement, fear, and guilt. Fear, because she didn't expect Poor Unfortunate Souls to be so potent, only halfway through the song. Guilt, because she doesn't want anyone to be scared of her, not really. Excitement, because this is as much of a gift as it is a threat. A gift to Azul-san and the other Octavinelle students. A threat to them as well as everyone else listening. Perhaps a healthy dose of fear is needed, because if they are afraid, they'll leave her and hers alone, and if they're afraid, then maybe Yuu can use this to protect just as much as she can use it to hurt—)

"The men up there don't like a lot of blather." She lifts her skirts to climb the steps leading up to the tables and booths near the aquarium glass, an uncharacteristic, dismissive air to her. "They think a girl who gossips is a bore. Yes, on land it's much preferred for ladies not to say a word—"

(Her hand comes to rest on her throat, and the action does not go unnoticed by the Octavinelle Housewarden, whose eyes never strayed for even a moment since she started singing the song of their beloved Sea Witch. Not after he was informed of the events of his unfortunate Overblot and the trump card the Prefect finally played. After they were both knocked out, and he came to before she did. After he caught a glimpse of the black marks encircling her neck.)

"And after all, dear, what is idle prattle for?"

...COME ON...

"They're not all that impressed with conversation! True gentlemen avoid it when they can." The Prefect clasps her hands to her chest, an almost perfect picture of innocence were it not for the thick fog now crawling up the walls and trickling down from the shadowed ceiling. "But they dote and swoon and fawn on a lady who's withdrawn."

…it's she who holds her tongue who gets a man…

Those clasped hands move up to wrap around her throat, the Prefect's face twisting into an impatient sneer, so out of place and all too dreadful to behold. A few people whimper. Some of the Octavinelle students grow weaker around the knees. Near the bar, Floyd Leech looks about ready to snatch the Prefect up, performance be damned.

"Come on, you poor unfortunate souls!" Rose and cerulean lights explode in the darkness, shocking and blindingly bright. There's a thud here and there as bodies hit the floor. Those Octavinelle servers fall to their knees. Those in the Know—those in the Watch—hold their breaths and watch the Prefect cast her spell in terrified awe. "Go ahead! Make your choice!

"I'm a very busy woman and I haven't got all day. It won't cost much—"

…JUST YOUR VOICE…

Why would you want our voices when you already have one like that? more than one student cries.

"You poor unfortunate souls! It's sad, but true." Gold light outlines the Prefect's features as she turns to face the Octavinelle Housewarden himself, seated at the bar with his left and right-hands, unable to conceal the wonder clearly on display. She taps her temple, lips curling into a mischievous grin. "If you want to cross the bridge, my sweet, you've got to pay the toll. Take a gulp and take a breath and go ahead and sign the scroll."

Amusement dances in those dark eyes as she extends her hands to the Vice Housewarden behind the bar with an unreadable expression and his twin brother standing nearby with a greedy one. "Floyd and Jade Leech, now I've got 'im, boys! The boss is on a roll~!"

She spins away, smoke and fog surrounding her as she returns to the stage center of the room, taking in all of the eyes staring at her in awe. In dread. In fear.

It's too late to turn back now.

"This POOR—UN—FORTUNATE—SOUL!"

----

"Hey, join our club."

"You mean your cult?"

"So what if it is? You were there That Night at the Mostro Lounge, weren't you?"

"...so Heartslabyul and Savanaclaw already, huh?"

"Oh, man, you should've seen what they did to Leona-san back in October."

----

"Do you think she'll be amicable to private performances?"

"Azul, I can assure you, she'll be willing to do almost anything if it were you, me, Floyd, or any of those parasites she calls friends asking her to."

"Who knew Lil' Shrimpy could do scary~?"

----

Is it terrible that I enjoyed it so much? Maybe I should consider AA's contract to be a regular performer at the Lounge…

#my writing #twisted wonderland #twst #of nightingales and night ravens #onanr #twisted wonderland yuu #twst yuu #twisted wonderland fanfic

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