#girumiwrites

[deepseacolors]

Branching Line

@spr-ingo April, Day 3 (ft. The Parent Trap AU Nobody Asked For)

... There's no sense belaboring the point. I'm the epitome of the Slowpoke meme.

ANYway! I came up with this concept a... year? two years ago? And this felt like a good excuse to play with it.

I actually got it mostly done on time, but got too embarrassed to post it because it felt like an odd AU... but then I posted that OTHER AU for May 3rd's prompt, which is a way way weirder premise, so now I don't feel quite as silly! It's still not completely finished, but it's close enough and I'm tired of looking at it!

Anyway! Onwards!

----

Though it is early summer, Bertha and Ingo arrive at the Canalave docks early enough in the day that they beat the worst of both the heat and the crowd.

Nonetheless, she grips his hand and keeps him close as they move towards the boat that will take him to Johto. At nine years old, he’s still small enough that he could easily be swept away in the clamor, and the last thing either of them want is for him to miss his ride and lose his spot at summer camp.

Ingo himself is absolutely buzzing with excitement and nerves alike, clutching her hand like a lifeline. They had done all they could to prepare for today, for his first big trip alone; but all the preparation in the world likely means little compared to the wide open world before him now.

It certainly means little to Bertha.

But this trip will be good for him, she tells herself. And for her as well. He’s almost at the right age to leave on his own Gym run, and a few weeks away from home in a structured environment will help him adjust to the idea of a longer journey when the time comes.

And it likely doesn’t hurt that he’ll get to spend those weeks next to one of the world’s most advanced railway systems.

The only times he’s ever been up close and personal with his beloved locomotives were during vacations to other regions, which are sadly few and far between when a single mother must budget for not only a growing boy, but also the seven Pokemon between them.

So when she caught wind of a summer camp in Johto taking place near the Magnet Train’s railyard which touted it’s own railway program… Well, what else could she do but start saving up?

The look on Ingo’s face when she showed him the brochure made it worth every penny and then some.

At the moment, he is tapping an uneven rhythm on the handle of his rolling luggage, eyes taking in all the hustle and bustle of the growing crowd. He’s already on edge, and it’s only going to get busier. If he gets wound up now, she’ll never get him grounded.

Best to get him talking, then.

“What do you think, Ingo? Are you excited?”

Ingo is pulled from his thoughts at the sound of her voice, and beams up at her (not so far up as he used to, though—it won’t be long now until he surpasses her height. A bittersweet thought).

“Yes, I am!” He exclaims. The volume is enough to net them a few stares and annoyed glances, but Bertha pays them no mind.

Ingo, however, flushes when he notices the looks. He hunches his shoulders a bit and looks down, suddenly seeming to find his shoes very interesting.

Bertha squeezes his hand. When he looks back at her, she gives him a warm smile. “It seems that they have a lot of fun things planned. I’ll want to hear all about it when you get home!”

Ingo relaxes a little, and squeezes her hand in turn. “Of course, Mother!” He says, at a more even volume this time. He stops, letting go of his suitcase and reaching into his pocket for the brochure, now soft and wrinkled despite his best efforts.

He points at the bulleted list on the back. “There are many fascinating activities planned for us! Such as…”

Bertha is already very familiar with the camp’s itinerary; even if Ingo hadn’t chattered excitedly about it every night at dinner, she herself had done plenty of research before ever bringing it up.

But as Ingo regales her with all that information and more, she finds that his enthusiasm is as infectious as ever.

--

Reviewing the itinerary does the trick. Now much calmer, Ingo carefully replaces the brochure in his pocket. But when he goes back to pick up his bag, he seems taken aback by an unexpected weight. “What? It feels heaver now than it did a few minutes ago...”

Something inside the bag shifts.

Ah, so that’s it.

Bertha covers her grin with one hand. “Whatever could be the matter, Ingo?” She asks, not able to fully hide the laughter in her voice.

Ingo sighs, heavy and dramatic, kneeling down and unzipping his bag. Neither of them are surprised when a pair of pointed purple ears immediately poke out.

“Gligar,” Ingo scolds, crossing his arms and giving his best stern look at the little bat. “We have already discussed this.”

Gligar pins his ears back and tries to dig further into Ingo’s bag. He must have gotten impatient when he felt them pause and tried to pop out of his smuggled Poke Ball to get a better idea of what was happening.

“Ah, no--!” Ingo dives in to fish out his errant Pokemon. “Do not move things around! I already packed them just right!”

After a struggle, Ingo stands, holding Gligar aloft. Very seriously, he tells him, “You know I am only allowed one Pokemon on this trip. I understand that you are unhappy,” he yields, when Gligar starts to pout, “and I am truly sorry. But those are the rules we must abide by. You have to stay home with Mother and everyone else.”

Gligar scowls, and points a claw at Ingo’s belt, where a lone Poke Ball rests. It wiggles a little, but it’s occupant wisely decides to stay out of the discussion.

Ingo sighs. “This is also something we have discussed.” He sets Gligar down on the ground, and kneels in front of him. “We drew straws, remember? And since Litwick emerged victorious, she is the one who will accompany me on this trip.”

Gligar hisses softly, turning away. Bertha has to cover her mouth again to suppress a laugh at the little bat’s petulant expression.

For now, she opts to simply stands back and watch. If Ingo intends to become a successful Pokemon Trainer—and she knows with all her heart that he will—then managing a Pokemon’s difficult temperament is one of the challenges he will have to overcome.

Still, though. She’s watching the time, in case she and her own Gliscor need to cut the negotiation short with some motherly intervention.

Ingo’s own expression is not quite as amusing as his little Gligar’s. His lips turn downward even more than usual, and his brows knit together.

“Gligar,” he says, and his solemn tone is enough to catch his Pokemon’s attention again, “I promise that I am not playing favorites.” Ingo leans down a little, to be on a more even level with his Pokemon. “How about this? The next time I go on a trip and I only am allowed to take one Pokemon, you can be the one who accompanies me. Okay?”

Pinning his ears back again, Gligar seems to consider this. After a long few moments, he sulkily nods his assent.

Ingo’s shoulders slump in relief. “Thank you for your understanding, Gligar.” He reaches a hand out, and when Gligar doesn’t pull away, rubs the smooth chitin between his ears. “I promise, I will only be gone for a few weeks. You will hardly notice!”

Privately, Bertha doubts that. She herself is already dreading returning to the apartment, certain it will be too large and too quiet without her precious child.

(One of her precious children. The other--)

(--She can’t think of that now. Not when she’s about to see Ingo off, bound for another region, headed so far from home. Even if it’s only for a little while.)

For now, Bertha says, “he’s right, Gligar. I promise, we’ll have a lot of fun together at home!”

Gligar regards her and Ingo with open doubt, huffing.

Well, it was worth a shot.

Ingo glances up at her for just a moment, before waving Gligar over. “Actually, Gligar, there is something else I want to tell you.” He looks up at Bertha seriously. “But I am afraid it must be a secret between the two of us. May we have a moment of privacy, Mother?”

With a soft laugh and an “oh, of course! Excuse me, you two,” Bertha steps a few feet away, keeping her back turned to the young trainer and his even younger Pokemon. She is the very picture of minding her own business, don’t mind her.

Ingo nods, satisfied with her distance, and waves Gligar closer.

Gligar, ever curious, forgets his bitterness for the moment and approaches.

“Now, Gligar, I have a very important job for you to perform while I am away from home,” Ingo whispers, solemn, leaning down once again to his level. “It is incredibly vital, and you are the only one I can trust with this task.”

Interest piqued, Gligar’s ears perk up, and he leans up into Ingo’s space.

“While Litwick and I are away, I need you to look after Mother, okay?” Ingo’s already-serious expression is downright grave now. “I am concerned about leaving her alone while I am in Johto, so I hope that I will be able to count on you and the others to watch out for her in my stead until our return. Can you do that?”

Gligar’s eyes widen at the gravity of this request, before he nods enthusiastically and salutes as best he can.

Ingo straightens up and returns his salute, crisp and practiced. “Thank you, Gligar! I will be counting on you, so please do your best!”

(Several feet away, Bertha is covering her face with both hands. It’s taking everything in her power not to melt on the spot.

Despite his best efforts, her darling son’s volume control still leaves much to be desired.)

[BOAT CALLS FOR BOARDING; Ingo kisses Gligar goodbye, hands him to Bertha, and kisses her goodbye before rushing to board.

He hesitates, looking back to Bertha, suddenly overcome with nerves. Bertha knows what’s happening, and waves encouragingly.

Ingo gathers his courage and boards.]

[deepseacolors]

@spr-ingo, March, Day 2: Maintenance

March, Day 1: RXR [link]

Surprise!! I got possessed and knocked this out in one sitting a couple days ago. (That also is the reason for the abrupt ending; I ran out of time, haha. Perhaps I'll tweak at it a bit sometime)

This is full of self-indulgent projection. (Shoots Ingo with the beam that gives him my chronic migraines.) It's also SUPER sappy I think.

Onward!

--

By the time he makes it home, Ingo’s head is pounding in time with his pulse.

The lights of their living room, normally something he barely notices, sear through his eyes and stab into his temples. The smell of food causes his already roiling stomach to turn further.

“Ingo,” Emmet greets from the couch. “Dinner is--” He cuts himself off, and Ingo doesn’t have to look up to know that his brother is taking in the sorry sight that he is surely presenting right now.

“Are you sick?” Emmet asks, putting away his laptop and standing to get a closer look. The concern is touching, but unnecessary.

Migraine. Going to bed, Ingo signs, barely pausing to set down his belongings before retreating to the darkness of his room. He does not like being so brusque, especially when Emmet is obviously just concerned for his health, but he truly does not want to have any conversation right now.

He takes just a few moments to shut the blackout curtains and change into comfortable sleepwear before crawling into bed, pulling a pillow over his head and laying completely still.

After what feels like an hour but is likely just a few minutes, he hears a barely-there tap-tap-tap at his door. May I come in?

His fingers clench at the pillow for a moment, before he relaxes, reaching up to knock a tap-tap at his headboard in response. Come in.

The door opens slowly, just enough for Emmet to enter. Ingo peeks out from under his pillow, relaxing when no light comes flooding in from the open door, save for the gentle flicker of Chandelure's flames hovering just beyond the threshold. His brother must have dimmed the hallway lights before entering.

Carefully making his way across the room, Emmet comes to a halt at Ingo’s bedside, hands full of items Ingo can’t discern in the dark room.

With a soft clink on the bedside table, Emmet sets down a glass. “Water,” he says, his normally soft and even voice barely audible in the dark.

A tap. “Medicine,” Emmet continues.

And the sound of crinkling plastic. “Crackers.”

When his head is no longer imploding, Ingo will be sure to properly appreciate Emmet’s thoughtfulness.

As it stands now, there’s barely room in his brain for his own thoughts.

Thanks, he signs. It’s sloppy. He hopes it comes through clearly.

He feels Emmet’s hand grasp his own for a moment, squeezing Ingo’s fingers. Emmet understands.

Ingo squeezes Emmet’s hand in turn.

“Drink,” Emmet says, still quiet. “Eat, if you can. The medicine will help,” and Ingo doesn’t need to see his face to imagine the pointed look when he says, “if you take it.”

With that, Emmet lets go, and makes his way back to the door.

Before he can leave, Ingo manages a quiet, “G’night.” He knows that he’s unlikely to emerge for the rest of the evening.

(Even as soft as he tries to speak, the sound still reverberates in his skull.)

“Goodnight, Ingo,” Emmet says. And then, after quietly herding the lurking Pokemon back outside, the door clicks quietly behind him, and Ingo is alone.

Ingo doesn’t have to read the label on the bottle; just shaking it is enough to tell it’s contents. The only medication he’s tried that helps him through his migraines. To say they cure them would be an exaggeration; rather, they lessen the nausea and help him sleep through the worst of the pain.

But he’d be groggy for most of the next day if he took these now.

He exhales slowly through his nose. It’s only Wednesday. Emmet certainly means well with this unsubtle suggestion, but Ingo can’t take these this early in the week.

Reaching back to his bedside table, he attempts to set the bottle back down next to the glass of water his brother had brought for him. After a few misses, he succeeds in placing the bottle down.

...Too close to the edge. The bottle tumbles off the corner. By the sound of it, it lands in the space between his bed and the table.

The corner of Ingo’s lips turn further downward, his grimace turning into a full scowl.

(After three hours, Ingo glances at his clock and realizes that only twenty minutes have passed.

...Maybe he can take half a dose. He can probably manage light duty if he’s still groggy in the morning.)

[deepseacolors]

Spring of Ingo, March, Day 1: RXR

Ingo and video games!

Unexpectedly, I actually have something. Mostly complete! And on time, even!

This is actually something I wrote last May that I touched up for the event. It was the first thing I'd written in... gosh, at least ten years? And I wasn't a super active writer even back then. So it's pretty rough, even by my standards.

It was more an experiment with the twins' voices than anything else. I doubt that it'd come out the same if I wrote it today, but I remember having oodles of fun with it at the time. (Pokemonifying a Katamari level was unexpectedly interesting!)

So even if it's a little rough, a lot silly, and not exactly aligned with even my own headcanons, I'm still pretty fond of it.

Anyways! Onwards!

--

Emmet glanced up from his Xtrans once the tune for the new level began.

“What is the goal?” he asked.

“For this stage, I am tasked with creating an ‘elegant’ constellation,” Ingo informed him. “It seems that I am searching for Swanna and various other Flying-types, due to the natural grace and beauty that bird Pokemon posses.”

Emmet glanced over at Archeops, who was, at present, pouring all of her dexterity into jamming her head into an empty paper towel roll that she had dug out of the garbage. Then he turned to Ingo with a bland smile that said volumes.

Ingo returned the look with one of his own before turning back to the television to begin his mission in earnest. “Grace is in the eye of the beholder,” he said, beginning the stage by carefully maneuvering his Katamari to aim for the small eggs scattered throughout the level. “As such, it can take many forms.”

Emmet kept his gaze pointedly on Ingo as the sound of a beak tearing through cardboard, followed by a despairing squawk, echoed through their living room.

Ingo did not respond. He was doing important work, here.

And he most certainly did not smirk when Archeops dropped a soggy chunk of cardboard directly onto Emmet’s lap, causing him to jerk in mixed surprise and disgust.

She was looking at up him with wide, pleading eyes as she rested her chin on the couch. Clearly, Archeops had the utmost faith that Emmet would be able to fix her new toy.

Making a noise somewhere between a choke and a hiss, Emmet delicately plucked the mangled corpse of what was once a perfectly serviceable cardboard tube off his leg and brought it towards the kitchen—speeding up and holding his other hand under the trash to catch the droplets once he realized how thoroughly sopping the mess was.

Archeops cheerfully followed him, circling his legs and remaining wholly unaware of what a darling menace she was.

The Katamari on the screen brushed just a little too close to one of the Rattata too large for it to absorb, and several of his gathered items were knocked loose. Drat. Now he had to scramble to re-gather the eggs before they disappeared.

(Hah. Scrambled eggs.)

Ingo could hear Emmet lightly scolding Archeops in the next room as he disposed of the tube, likely making sure to secure the lid of the trash can to prevent future break-ins, before moving on to wash his hands and then heading down the hall towards his room.

After a few minutes, Emmet returned to the couch. Out of the corner of his eye, Ingo saw that his twin was now sporting a clean pair of sweatpants— which were quickly covered up by Archeops as she clambered up on to the couch and made herself at home on Emmet’s lap.

Emmet heaved a beleaguered sigh that was belied by way his expression softened and the gentle hands that began scratching at the spot along her side that she liked. Archeops chirped in pleasure as she rolled to lean into his hand, her eyes drifting shut.

“She still believes herself to be the size of an Archen,” Ingo observed fondly. His attention returned to the game just in time for him to avoid an obstacle in his intended path.

Huffing a laugh, Emmet brought his other hand up to lightly rub his fingers along Archeops’ head. She leaned into that attention too. “She is a big baby,” he agreed affectionately.

After a few moments of peaceful silence, Emmet asked, “...Why did a Swanna just hatch from that Chansey egg?”

“I believe it is a misdirection tactic,” Ingo says. “Swanna are the most important Pokemon to gather, but they are all hidden in Chansey eggs; there are also Pidgey among the lot, and quite a few soft-boiled eggs as well.”

Ingo misjudged the angle of descent and sent his Katamari tumbling off the roof of the building. No matter; there were plenty of items to gather in the yard section.

After watching for a few more moments, Emmet said, “You are gathering dandelions. Those are not Flying-type Pokemon.”

“I am simply gathering those to increase the size of my Katamari. The larger it is, the lower the odds that a valuable item will get knocked from it in the event of a collision. Additionally, a larger Katamari makes it easier to traverse throughout the level.”

Emmet hummed as Ingo wedged the Katamari underneath the porch. “Really.”

“...Generally, that is the case,” Ingo admitted.

“Your task is to gather Flying types. You are gathering plants. You are going to get scolded.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. We shall see what station I reach once the time limit is up.”

Emmet turned to give him a faux-serious look, the effect enhanced by the flatness of his voice when he says, “Father is going be be upset.”

Ingo choked, sputtering on laughter so loud and sudden that Archeops was startled out of her doze.

[deepseacolors]

@spr-ingo May, Day... 3??: Alternator/X-ING

...I'm not great at, uh. Time management. Whoops!

Even though it's late, I still wanted to get this out before the last event day of the last event month. I have a couple other incomplete pieces from earlier days that I might like to polish up and post sometime, but this one is the MOST complete of the batch. (And, at over 3,000 words, it is without contest the longest thing I have EVER written at this point. Fun fact!)

This one is, um. A little strange. After playing the Alone inthe Dark remake, I just got a hankering for a survival/psychological/cosmic horror AU. Emmet was originally going to be the protag of this AU, but isn't it this Ingo's event? He should get the dubious honor of survival horror protag status. I think he wears it pretty well, personally.

Warnings: Some unreliable narrator, memory issues, something approaching a panic attack toward the end. Things lurking in the dark.

While nothing bad really happens in this one, it does very vaguely reference bad things (parental death, familial estrangement) happening in the past. Additionally, it takes a pretty sharp tonal shift about halfway through.

I personally don't think it's all that bad, but if you're not good with spooky stuff, best be cautious.

--

The river sparkles cheerfully in the bright midday sun, and Ingo has half a mind to curse it.

There’s no way he can cross this unaided. Even if Ingo were able to swim, and even if he didn’t already know for certain that some of the—creatures residing in this place could swim like Sharpedo, the river is much too wide. Ingo would exhaust himself before making it halfway.

And he is already much too familiar with the sensation of drowning.

When he gets his brother out of this place and brings him home, Ingo vows that he’ll never step foot near another body of water deeper than a bathtub for as long as he lives.

But for now… Ingo eyes that incongruent tower looming over the trees past the river.

Specifically, he examines the great emblem carved on it’s wall, glittering like gold against bright marble finish.

Digging through his coat pocket, Ingo pulls his brother’s notebook from the leather satchel he procured to try and protect it from the elements. Despite his best efforts, however, the pages are already becoming warped and filthy from the damp conditions and constant handling.

As delicately as he can, Ingo flips through the pages, searching for something he had seen during a previous examination, and… ah, there.

It’s not a perfect replica—Emmet, for all his attention to detail, has apparently never seen fit to hone the delicate hand needed for artistry—but it is close enough that Ingo can tell that this is a sketch of the selfsame sigil that stares at him from atop that bizarre, lopsided structure.

Has Emmet been there? Or has he simply seen this mark elsewhere, and recorded it for future reference?

...Is he there now?

Ingo scans the rest of the page in case there are further clues, but he knows better by now than to get his hopes up. Indeed, the only writing that seems to pertain specifically to that mark is a single word in Emmet’s even writing:

‘Pale’

He stoppers the groan before it can leave his chest, and instead pinches the bridge of his nose.

Inscrutable as always, brother.

(“I took these notes for myself,” Emmet had said once upon a time, years and forever ago. “They do not need more detail. I know what they mean.”

Ingo had draped himself partway over the edge of his bed, putting his head level with his brother’s. Emmet himself had his back propped against the foot of the bed, and leaned back enough to meet his eyes.

They had been nothing more than schoolchildren discussing their studies, not aware of the tragedies looming in their near future, and Ingo had taken flipping through Emmet’s school notes while Emmet played with Litwick.

“I know, Emmet,” Ingo had sighed, allowing Tynamo to gently press against his cheek. The offered comfort was appreciated, even if the uncontrolled static would wind up making his hair stand on end again. “I was simply hoping that your notes might elucidate the subject better than our instructor, is all.”

Emmet took the book from his brother, but didn’t put it away. Instead, he opened it to his notes from the lesson earlier that day and holds it up so they both could see.

“So show me what you do not know,” he said, grinning. “I will help you understand. Because we are--”)

“--a two-car train,” Ingo murmurs.

In the present, Ingo blinks away the memory and shakes his head. Disorienting as they are, he’s starting to get used to these flashbacks. He’s still on the fence as to whether that’s a good thing or not.

(It’s normal to forget portions of your childhood as you age. The way the human brain develops makes it inevitable. This world, bordering dreams and reality, just seem to draw those forgotten things out.

...So why does it still feel like he’s missing too much?)

Exhaling slowly from his nose, he takes a moment to recenter himself. Inscrutable or not, the emblem on that tower is the closest thing he has to a clue at this juncture, and he means to pursue it.

Which means he must reroute until he finds the line that will take him there.

--

The stairs groan and creak ominously with every step downward.

There are no lights in the stairwell; no candles, no lamps, and certainly no light bulbs (though the small boathouse is so old and unmaintained that Ingo doubts any of the wiring would have survived anyhow). The gloom is suffocating; the darkness almost a solid thing, boring down on him.

Ingo is grateful, then, for the lantern he found earlier today. Rusted and damaged it may be, the lilac flame flickering inside the faded bulb remind him that he is not alone here. Even if his trusted Lampent can’t physically follow him through the doorways leading to this world, the pale light she granted still continues to guide him.

Water suddenly trickles down from the ceiling, and he jerks the lantern away from it.

...Still, strong as she is, Lampent can’t keep a damp wick lit. Even in this odd dreamworld, that law of physics remains intact.

They’ve learned that the hard way already.

Bringing the lantern closer to himself, he continues his trek down.

In any other circumstance, Ingo is sure that would not be here. He would have taken one look at the rickety, broken-down stone-and-wood boathouse, with it’s unserviced motorboat and the crooked, oddly-placed basement door, and he surely would have turned around and gone home. It spits in the face of every safety standard he’s ever held himself to.

Nothing in this world is safe. Hostile creatures—neither human nor Pokemon, but something altogether alien—stalk him at every turn. The architecture is incomprehensible and prone to unexpected failure. Every time Ingo feels he can relax, something terrible springs from the shadows, claws aimed for his throat.

But Emmet is here, somewhere. His notes, otherwise sparse or filled with shorthand Ingo cannot understand, are meticulously dated. And they indicate that he has been coming to and from this world for nearly a year.

(Ingo never knew. Emmet never mentioned it. There was never even a hint in the letters he sent, until the one that incited Ingo’s sudden visit.

Did he think Ingo wouldn’t have believed him?)

(Would Ingo have believed him?)

A stair creaks sharply in protest, and he startles so badly that he almost loses balance.

Focus. This is no place to get lost in thoughts.

Any questions he has can be saved for if—for when he finds Emmet and convinces him to leave this wretched place.

And to do that, he needs to get the boat operational.

And for that, he needs gasoline.

Or an oar, at least.

The basement should hold something of use.

--

After five minutes of descent, Ingo decides it might be better to simply try and steer the boat with a large branch or something. He turns around and begins to climb up the way he came.

--

After ten minutes of ascent, Ingo’s lungs start to burn. The stale air here is near-suffocating.

He is not going to reach the top, it seems. Not yet, at any rate.

He tamps down the anxiety bubbling in his chest, turns around, and descends again.

The stairs creak and groan.

--

After an unknown amount of time descending, Ingo’s mind starts to wander.

Whatever could Emmet want in this wretched place? Ingo knows better than to assume that his brother is able to move easily through this world; though he had fewer scrapes and bruises than Ingo surely sports, there were plenty enough the last time they’d met to indicate that Emmet hasn’t exactly been waltzing through unhindered.

But every time Ingo tried reason with him, it was the same:

“Go home, Ingo.”

“Everything will be fine, Ingo.”

“Hurry and go home.”

“I have to do something first. And then I will write you. Okay? So you can leave. I will see you later.”

But even if his memories have faded, rusted away, Ingo can still tell when his brother is lying to him.

Ingo had begged, demanded, pleaded for Emmet to just speak to him. Let him help, if nothing else, so they can go home together.

And Emmet had hesitated, long enough that Ingo started to think that he had finally talked sense into his wayward twin.

But instead he had turned away. “It is better that you do not know,” he had said, so softly that Ingo could barely hear him.

He had looked exhausted, bone-weary. Like he’d lived a thousand lives in the decade they’d been apart.

And that…

(“Sometimes,” Mother’s voice sounds tired, heavy, “not knowing is better.”

He remembers, suddenly, sitting one the large old couch in the drawing room with Mother and Emmet; Ingo cuddled up to her left side, Emmet leaning against her right.

It had been a stormy summer day, the rain splattering loudly against the windows and the wind howling like a thing bereaved, but Ingo paid it little mind. He was simply thrilled that his mother was not only in high enough spirits to entertain them, but had sought them out for play multiple times that week.

Perhaps, he thought, this meant that Mother’s health was improving! She had promised ages ago that she would take him and Emmet on a train to see the countryside someday, but her weak heart kept her housebound anymore. The only time she left the house these days was to see some doctor or another. It must have been very dull for her, but she never complained. At least, never in earshot of the twins.

Looking back on it in the present, Ingo will also recall the way she would furtively glance at the doors and windows and sometimes speak in hushed voices, as if she feared being caught doing something bad and getting reprimanded.

By who, Ingo could not guess. Father had been away on business for much of the month, and was not due to return for another week. Though there was a nurse who stopped by to help Mother with her medicine, it was only for a half-hour during the morning. For much of the day, the three of them and their were alone in the house.

Certainly, it was only the three of them.

There were creaking floorboards and doors that opened by themselves, inexplicable chills and strange whispering noises from just outside the door; but it was just the old house settling. Father said It had been in his family for generations, and thus wear and tear is only natural.

And when one feels eyes watching unseen, or an ice-cold hand gripping one’s shoulder when there was no one else around, well, it was only childish imagination running wild. One must be mature about these things, Ingo.

Certainly.

At Mother’s words, both Ingo and Emmet had frowned.

“… I do not understand, Mother,” Ingo had said. “In what situation would having less knowledge be beneficial? That sounds counterproductive.”

Across Mother’s lap, Emmet nodded emphatically.

From what little he remembers of their childhood, Ingo knows that both he and Emmet had been what one might describe as precocious. No problem can remain unsolved if one used proper application of strategy, and the twins excelled at sussing out and utilizing all knowledge at their disposal for creative problem solving. Though there had been times where Father or their instructors became irritated with where their wits took them, their intelligence had always been highly praised.

It seemed odd for an adult to advocate for less education.

Mother herself seemed to tense for a moment, before plastering on her practiced smile.

“Well…” she said slowly, “sometimes things are—scary. Or sad.” She hesitates, as if struggling to articulate her thoughts. “Or… perhaps, too much. Too—big.”

Her hand combed through Ingo’s hair, working out the tangles, and Ingo almost wanted to stop discussing this. To just quietly agree and move on to talk about better things, like the books he and Emmet got for their birthday, or the Cottonee they had found in the garden earlier that week.

But it sat wrong with Ingo. A look over at Emmet, with his furrowed brow, told him that his twin felt the same.

Mother seemed to realize this. With a sigh, she leaned backward, bringing the twins with her.

“You’re right, Deerling,” she said slowly. “Most of the time, it’s good to study up and be smart about things. But…”

She started scratching lightly at Emmet’s head as she thought, and he relaxed further in her hold.

“… Sometimes, things just aren’t our business,” she settles on. “Sometimes… looking too hard at something will—will make it know you’re there. Looking at it.” She failed to suppress a shudder. “And then it will…” her voice becomes a haunted whisper, “it will start looking at you. And then it won’t ever stop.”

Ingo’s voice wavered in his attempt to match her low tone, “Do you mean… something bad?”

She tightens her hold on the twins. “Something dangerous,” she hissed.

And he didn’t understand. Father had said that Mother sometimes got dreams and reality confused, but she sounded so certain of what she ways saying. More certain than anyone had ever been of anything.

Ingo glanced again over at Emmet. His brother seemed to be thinking very hard.

After another heavy silence, Mother spoke again. “That’s why you need to be careful, okay? Our family… It’s easier for us to—to see dangerous things. And to be seen by them.”

She sat up, tapping her boys cheeks to make sure they are looking at her. Her face was like stone.

“So promise Mama, okay? Promise me that if you—if you see something that feels dangerous and scary,” her hands start to tremble, “promise me that you’ll close your eyes. Don’t look.” She grips their shoulders. “Whatever happens, just walk away and don’t think about it. Okay?”

And her gaze was heavy, and it felt like this was the most important promise he’d ever make to her, so he nodded. “I promise, Mother,” he said, voice barely audible for once.

She nods in approval, and turns her stony gaze to her youngest. “Emmet?”

Emmet hesitated.

She shook his shoulder. “Emmet,” she said, her voice low; and in that moment she was almost scarier than their Uncle’s dragons.

After a few long, tense moments, Emmet looked up at mother.

He said: “But why?”)

----

Ingo misses the next step.

Falls.

He curls up, trying to protect his head and neck with his unoccupied arm. Tries to get his legs under him, tries to break his fall—this stairwell has already gone on endlessly, the longer he falls the more at risk he is of further injury, he can’t—

He hits the water at the bottom with a splash.

For a split second, he panics, only barely able to keep himself from gasping in the stale, stagnant water covering his head. He holds the lantern above him, can’t let her go out, he can’t function in the pitch-black nothing of this pit alone without a light--

And then he pushes himself up, sitting in a soaked heap in a pool of water less than two feet deep.

But why, but why, but why? What could be worse than this? Than not knowing?

Floundering in the dark, with a light that struggles to shine more than a few feet ahead, violence and cruelty biting his heels at all times.

His heart is pounding, beating at his eardrums as he trembles and shakes with force from the ice still rushing through his veins. His arm still stiffly holds the lantern above his head because he cannot risk losing her light to the dirty water surrounding him.

It’s better not to know, they say, but all Ingo wants is to know, why? What did mother see? What does Emmet know?

The still silence of the room he landed in is broken by small splashes of water and ragged gasps that Ingo cannot control.

What makes Emmet so afraid that he cannot bear to even imagine sharing his burden with his own twin? The one who was once his closest friend, his most trusted confidant? What could be so terrible?

What is he missing--?

A dozen steps up the stairway behind him, the stairs groan and creak.

Ingo freezes. Holds his breath. Listens.

Footsteps, so delicate and light that they are almost drowned out by the protesting wood, are getting closer. A fluttering buzz, like an insect’s wings, drift down from the dark.

Those are not the even, measured steps of his brother. They are not the calculated, cautious steps of the detective that accompanied him here.

Ingo stands, slowly, holding his lantern toward the stairs. It rattles with the force of his shaking.

He knows those steps.

He does not know those steps.

But he knows them. He knows them, and he needs to go, to go, to go, before--

Just outside the range of the lantern, a shadow flickers in the stairwell.

And Ingo suddenly believes that, if he stays, if he waits for that entity reach the landing, he can know.

He can know what it was that crushed his mother under it’s weight until she could live with it no longer. He can know what it is that changed his brother so drastically after her death, that wore him down to the thin specter that greeted him in that dismal study just this morning.

But what would it cost?

A small polished shoe breaches the light. The buzzing vibrates against his eardrums.

(He needs to find Emmet. Nothing else matters.)

Ingo stumbles backwards, the water hindering his movement, before turning and running the opposite direction.

He has no way of quantifying the amount of time he spends running other than the burning of his lungs and the weakness of his legs, but some indeterminable time later, he bursts through a door and is immediately blinded by a searing light.

It catches him off guard, and he trips, scraping his hand and knees against wet stones and sand. The lantern clatters against the ground.

He has the presence of mind, still, to reach behind him and slam the door closed. Scooting back until his back is pressed against it, holding it shut, he tries utilize his hearing while his eyes adjust.

Running water. Wind blowing and rustling… leaves?

Ingo blinks his eyes open.

Though he has no memory climbing any stairs in his mad escape, he has somehow made it back to surface level. He is sitting next to the river that started this whole mess.

Across the river from where he sits stands a rickety stone-and-wood boathouse, an unmaintained motor boat tied to it’s dock.

Behind the small shack he rests against, there is a thick and uninviting forest.

And, less than a mile deep into those woods… a marble and gold tower looms over the treeline, bearing a familiar emblem.

… One small blessing, at least: he won’t have to put his faith in that rotted little boat.

Still breathing heavy, Ingo slumps against the door and covers his eyes.

A brief layover. That’s all he needs. Just… a few moments.

Then it will be time to depart once again.

[deepseacolors]

Hey, wait a second. What did I mean by this.